The train runs through this kingdom of trees. For hours, only pines. Small, clear lakes reflecting the pink, sunset sky. It gets dark pretty early now, we’re in the middle of August and fall is soon upon us. But not yet. The small clusters of birch trees among the pines still carry their leaves in bright green.

I’ve been reading articles about lichenometry. Maybe I’ll tell you what that is, another time. I ate dinner, mackerel in tomato sauce on Finnish rye bread. Real trekking food. The last time I ate that, I was at the Arvika music festival. That was seven years ago. Bittersweet memories.

But now I’m lying in the top bed in the compartment, thinking of the horror stories people told me about night trains in Poland, Hungary, Serbia. How they were locked into their compartments from the outside, robbed in the middle of the night, passports stolen by false police officers. That feels very foreign here. There are even complementary bottles of water on the compartment table, because the restroom tap water isn’t completely safe. I haven’t used mine, I brought my own water in my thermos – but still. It is nice, that they think about that. It is a very friendly world we live in, here in Sweden. Things are taken care of. After more than a month backpacking through Europe by myself, constantly having to be on my guard, make sure things work out they’re supposed to, it’s nice not having to think about everything all the time.

Last time in a sleeping compartment like this must be many years ago with dad. Back then, I could never sleep in places that weren’t a comfortable bed, preferably my my own. Since then, I’ve slept on busses driving through the Andes, on strange people’s couches, in tents and even on a tire once (even though, I must admit, I didn’t sleep very well that particular night). It’s going to be interesting to see, if I’ve become any better at sleeping in sleeping compartments in trains too.

I’ve barely had time to settle back down in Stockholm, and it’s already time for me to leave again. I’m on the tube, with my big green backpack between my legs, on my way to Stockholm central station. There, I’ll catch the train to Kiruna. I’m going north. The glaciers await.

I’ve been going through my notes, calculating with the figures from my trip – you know I like numbers. My results were as follows:

Number of days on the rails: 38

Countries visited: 11

Distance traveled, from Edinburgh to Stockholm: about 7200 kilometers

Botanic gardens visited: 7, of which the Royal Botanic Garden of Edinburgh made the most lasting impression

Museums visited: 11, of which my favorite was the Museum of Broken Relationships in Zagreb

Number of UNESCO World Heritage Sites seen: 7

Churches seen: uncountable, but my favorites were King’s Collage Chapel in Cambridge, St. Magnus Cathedral in Kirkwall and Basilica of St. Peter and St. Paul in Prague

Photographs taken: 4708

Number of posts on the blog: 160, adding up to 46505 words

Books read: 3

Earrings purchased: 6 (the only shopping I did)

Phones stolen: 1

Finally, I’ve caught up with the blog. All the travel photos and posts have been published. I’m here, now, today.

I got back from the summer house three days ago. I think. It’s Saturday night. I think. One thirty in  the morning, so I guess it’s Sunday already. I haven’t eaten since lunch. I haven’t showered since I came home. I haven’t washed my hair since before I left the city to go to the summer house. I haven’t left the apartment for the last two days. I think I spoke with dad on the phone yesterday afternoon about some insurance related stuff, but I’m not sure. Was it earlier today? Or the day before yesterday? Lina is visiting her family, so I’m by my lonesome in the apartment.

I’ve been real efficient. I’m almost done with the topical essay about periglacial landforms that I have to finish before going north to the glacier research station on Wednesday. I’ve caught up with the blog. I’ve washed my entire travel wardrobe and my bed linen, including pillows and blankets. I’ve filled in and sent the insurance claim form for the phone that got stolen. And when I’ve needed a break, I’ve designed and almost finished a new knitted case for my new Xperia Arc, the phone I bought, unused, from Kirke.

My desk is a mess of books, notes, pens, cords, needles and yarn.

I’ve listened to Tom Odell. A young pianist who my dad introduced to me while I was at the summer house. Dad has an ability to become so over-enthusiastic about new music, in a way that almost spoils the enjoyment of it. Because he is my dad, and he sometimes annoys me, I feel I want to burst his bubble and tell him it isn’t that good. Even if it is. A piece of the teenager left in me. But with Tom Odell, I can’t. Piano and a certain kind desperation. For three days, I’ve been listening to him. Almost non-stop. He’s only got one album. I probably know all his songs by heart now. It’s been ages since I listened to music like this. Like a need. 

It’s been raining a lot. I don’t feel like I’ve missed anything outside. Tomorrow I’m going to finish that essay. Take a bath. Write nice long e-mails to Abbie and Hannes. They’ve been waiting for too long for replies already. Call Natalia, Kirke and Hanna.

But first, I’m going to sleep.

I feel frustrated, about many things, the blog, university, time. I want it to rain, heavily, as if the sound of the drops against the roof of the summer cottage would make the inner tensions feel less acute.

The sun went down hours ago but still it’s warm outside. Not Budapest warm, no, maybe not even Sarajevo warm – but still. The air doesn’t bite my cheeks. It is a light caress.

I decide this frustration needs to come out. So, I simply undress, put my fleece bathrobe on and walk down to the lake, my head torch lighting my way. I quietly glide into the water, stark naked and somewhere up in the sky, the stars of Big Dipper are looking down on me. The water is almost completely still, the world a quiet place. A lonely car drives by on the road across the lake, I see the lights far away in the distance but can’t hear the engine.

A midnight swim is a good thing when frustration is what’s bothering the mind. It washes it out, clean away, floating off on the small ripples of the black water.

Sleeping after that is as easy as breathing.

My feet start protesting, loudly, when I put on my shoes before driving to pick up Natalia and her friend Niki, visiting from Bolivia, from the train station. I’ve been walking barefoot for almost a week, only occasionally wearing flip-flops. My feet resent the confinement in the shoes, they want the open air and the texture of grass against my toes.

I’ve developed summer feet.

Natalia trying to climb an oak.

Dinner on the hill. Nat, Niki, Anna, Aron, dad. Dad outshining himself with the barbecued salmon. Another glimmering pearl to thread onto my necklace of summer memories.

Natalia taking a sunset swim in Sillen.

On Saturday afternoon, we packed ourselves into the car and drove out to the ocean. Those wonderful smooth cliffs, so unique for the Scandinavian archipelagos. In some ways, home is always best.

Dad and Anna in the water, while Aron plays on his phone. The perfect summer idyll.

I’m reading ”The Lover’s Dictionary”, and Levithan uses the phrase geographies of wandering, how he took the ‘you’ in the novel to Seattle, San Francisco, taught her to appreciate it. And it got me thinking. Why do I do it? This traveling. Why?

Is it just about the list? Sometimes, that’s what it feels like. I’ve been to 35 countries in my life now. There are a couple among the people that I know that would probably beat me, like dad and Hannes, but not many. In that sense, this eurotrip of mine was an big success. Seven new countries in 38 days.

But there are other things that I like about traveling too. I like parks. Libraries and narrow streets. Food. Getting lost, but with the safety of a map in my back pocket. Finding new things about myself in places where I’ve never been before. Perfect moments. Meeting new people to share those perfect moments with.

This past trip has had all of that, but there has also been the list. Maybe too much of the list. I didn’t plan it like that, it just turned out that way. There was so much I wanted to do, and, in the end, too little time. Some of the places I visited, I did not at all feel done with. Münich, Budapest, Zagreb. Sarajevo.

Next trip, I’ll have to plan for more planlessness. Time to get lost. Exploring the geographies of wandering.

From ”The Lover’s Dictionary”:

candid, adj.

”Most times, when I’m having sex, I’d rather be reading.”

This was, I admit, a strange thing to say on a second date. I guess I was just giving you warning.

”Most times when I’m reading,” you said, ”I’d rather be having sex.”

What does it say about me, that I agree? About the rather reading. Hopefully more about my passion for books than anything else. Sex is supposed to be so incredibly good for your health.

I’m reading a book called ”The Lover’s Dictionary” by David Levithan. It uses a concept, the dictionary, that I’ve been thinking of using for years – but I’ll probably never write that first novel of mine anyway, so it’s OK that he took it. It is a nice book. Exactly the kind of book I would have fallen head over heels for, say, five years ago. It says:

autonomy, n.

”I want my books to have their own shelves,” you said, and that’s how I knew it would be okay to live together.

And I realize, I haven’t actually been in love in a very long time. For real. I’ve been infatuated, and I’ve flirted, but to have felt something strong, like, this is going to consume me. It’s been ages. Not since Patrik, and that wasn’t even that serious. Not like I really cared, only I put a lot of effort into it just for the sake of doing something. And that was more than two years ago. Now, I mostly go into stuff when I’m traveling, cause it’s so much easier, I don’t have to do anything about it. I’ll be leaving soon anyway.

Maybe that’s what I need. (Not that I’m missing anything, that I definitely need something – my life is pretty busy as it is. But still.) To fall head over heels for something other than a book. And then be able to lie here in bed, reading ”The Lover’s Dictionary” and really FEEL the cryptic sentences. Rather than just being able to appreciate them on an intellectual level.

Or maybe this is just getting older. At some point, the adolescent, world overturning crushes have to stop attacking on all fronts, right? How would else this complex society of ours be able to keep on functioning.