A sense of place

by Emily Carter (Sweden)

I didn't expect to find Sweden

Over several hundred thousand kilometers, I’ve come to conclude that there are two types of travel stories. Firstly, there are moments which stand out poignantly in time – intense experiences encapsulated in moments of surprise, learning, tragedy or discovery. These stories brand themselves into your memory, begging to be retold almost immediately after the event is concluded. The second type are tales which weave themselves into the very fabric of your life until trying to pick them apart from your identity becomes as futile as trying to change the colour of your eyes. This story is of the second variety, and it begins at what I thought, at the time, was the end of the journey. I arrived in Sweden during peak summer, when the days seem to stretch out endlessly, even in the south. I had decided to torture myself with a 16-hour overnight bus ride from Hamburg to Stockholm. I’d been cocky, after surviving an earlier 9-hour trip, that sleeping overnight couldn’t be much worse. But there was no comfortable position to sleep, and by halfway through the trip the little toilet was overflowing, and I tried to ignore an increasingly desperate desire to stop somewhere. I woke groggy, bleary-eyed and stiff at around 3 in the morning - and couldn’t help but laugh. We’d crossed the border and there, almost as far from where I'd started as I could possibly have travelled, I peered from the window of the redeye bus only to behold the golden arches of a McDonalds glowing brightly in the soft dawn. I’d journeyed halfway around the world searching for something ‘other’ and this was my welcome to my final destination? It felt like a bad punchline. Nevertheless, despite its sameness the offensively familiar red and yellow stood out against an unfamiliar backdrop of looming grey pine trees in a light morning mist. We entered Stockholm a few hours later. What a strange city, with its blend of modern and classical architecture parading along clifftops above the glittering water, while patches of forest punched through between buildings as if nature was battling civilisation. Bridges arched from one island to the next, bringing cohesion to a disjointed cityscape. I looked at the archipelago on the map and vividly imagined Thor, enraged, swinging his hammer down to the earth and shattering the very land into a thousand pieces. The Viking lore lived on in the very bones of this place. It was love at first sight, and somehow, something which had been calling me from across the world settled into place with an immense feeling of calm. I often think back on the arc of the journey that led me here. I set out seeking adventure, and I found it. Like many travellers I was also searching for myself. I found pieces of me in unexpected places, like a crowded back bar in Madrid – unremarkable in its décor, hostile with its harsh white tiles, cheap lighting and ineffective paper napkins thrown to the floor by the hundreds; but welcoming with its jostling crowds, hearty ‘Zapatos’ (a dripping grilled ham and cheese sandwich named after a shoe due to its size) and the bartender who somehow memorised every person’s cumulative order until it was time to pay. I remember standing in the little bedroom where I’d attempted to create a sense of belonging, and how when I looked in the mirror, for the first time instead of fat I saw strength in the legs which had carried me across Europe. I once read an article proposing that, with over 7 billion people in the world the chances of being born in exactly the right place, at exactly the right time to find your soulmate or purpose was miniscule. Perhaps the people you are meant to be with live in an unknown town across the world, doomed never to cross paths, or some people are just born where they don’t belong. Today when I look in the mirror, the arc that I see is that of my now rounded belly, the imminence of this next big adventure firmly reinforcing the fact that I found one thing I never expected on the other side of the world – home.