6.5.2000
I've been thinking I should write
about my trip to Sweden. However, doing that is quite problematic.
First of all, I hate reading about other people's travels. They're
the dullest thing I know. Mostly they dont' have much content
other than maybe "I went to Vienna to sing in a choir and I
ate in MacDonalds for the whole week". The thing that's
wrong with that, along with that they actually ate MacDonalds (yuck),
is that there's nothing whatsoever about the place. And if there
was, there's nothing duller than reading about the churches in
Vienna unless there's pictures and you're really interested.
Anyway.
Most people use traveling somewhere as an excuse to write the
dullest entry ever. They don't include anything about themselves,
how they saw the town, did they like being there, how was it in
general. And nothing else either.
Also, I've been to Stockholm more times than I bother to count so I don't really know how to describe it to someone who hasn't been there. I'm so used to it. And if I tried to write about Stockholm in such a manner travel guides write, I might as well write about every place I've been to and that'd be both useless and time consuming.
However, I did ramble a lot along
that trip in my notebook. One of the things that caught my eye
was a bit about my grandmother. Because sometimes when I do
something, when I go somewhere, I start to wonder what my
grandmother thinks about it. "I can't do this, she doesn't
approve." "I can't go to her place, she might catch the
flu I have." Things like that. And it's only after thinking
those things that I remember that she's dead. She doesn't get ill
anymore, she doesn't disapprove. She doesn't do anything, she
doesn't even exist. She's probably well on her way in rotting
away.
It's surprising to realize it. I don't really miss her. I just
don't remember she's gone at all.
We emptied her place last Saturday, and sold it as well. Her flat
was two rooms and it took us two full days to empty it completely.
When I think I might have to empty this house when my parents die
(supposing I'm still alive then)... It'd take weeks, I think. It'd
be plain impossible. This isn't a big house but the amount of
stuff here in unbelievable. I sometimes wonder what they'd do
with my things if I died/killed myself. I should probably start
getting rid of everything.
However. Stockholm. Stockholm.
Stockholm. What to say about Stockholm? I watched MTV there.
Nothing else to do. I found the most awesome ankle-lenght leather
coat which I couldn't buy because it wouldn't close properly. I
saw the sexiest goff boy ever in Nynäshamn (but that's not
Stockholm, so... um). My parents didn't fight, surprisingly. I
ddn't do anything, except find out that I don't like spring rolls
but I adore snails. Snails are cool.
See? There's nothing to write about anything. Nothing interesting.
I don't understand why I feel like I should write about it.
It's quite surprising, actually,
that although my parents have dragged me and my sister all around
Europe ever since we've been wee, my sister's still quite
racistic. And so's my mother, btw. Their intention, they
explained one day, was to show us that there's more to life than
our little home country. In which they must've succeeded. It's
just... um. Well, I know how to pack my luggage in less than half
an hour. I guess that's good. And I know how to eat snails. And
stuff. But that's pretty much it.
Although when you think about it, it was pretty much up to me to
sort a lot of stuff out when we were in Germany, me, K and A.
Perhaps it did teach something. I don't know. At least not how to
write about traveling.