Katrineholm to Stockholm, Sweden. August 9 to 10.
I left Katrineholm on August 9, the day before my planned arrival to Stockholm. The last two stages would be shorter than my usual 100 kilometres, and there was little reason to fear that anything would go wrong. I had made it this far, now it was just the last little stretch.
My path would run through the province of Södermanland, "Sörmland" said aloud, another beautiful section of Sweden with peaceful fields and old farms by small lakes. After an hour I stopped by one such homestead, just south of the town Sköldinge. I had gone to see my godmother.
Friends of my father since young days, my godparents didn't get any children of their own at first, but they were chosen as guardians over my sister and me. When they were eventually blessed with babies we saw them less often, but I recall the joy of visiting them much because my godfather Erik was such a jokingly joyful character. In my adult life I hardly ever saw them, only heard from my father that the life of Erik had turned into a sad story. Two years ago on Christmas Eve, divorced and alone, my godfather was found dead.
I was halfway around the world in Thailand and missed the funeral, something that had troubled me deeply so my visit now to godmother Helene felt all the more meaningful. By all accounts had Helene been most engaged, caring and respectful around the death of her ex-husband, making it even more impressive and heartwarming to see how full of life she was. With a house in the nature, a man who's an artist, a dog running over the green fields and grandkids aplenty among her three grown children, the sun was shining brightly in my godmother's life.
The last night of my tour would be spent outside Gnesta. Here lived my oldest friend in a literal sense, and it would be my first time visiting her. Vida is from Slovenia and now closer to 90 years of age. Her big passion in life is chess and she travels to Stockholm every day (again, literally) to play which is almost a two-hour journey single way when the commuting is smooth, of which there is no guarantee. We met during the pandemic when we were both frequent visitors to a certain hotel lounge. She never wore a face mask, but she did use hand sanitiser.
For your sake, not mine. I had a hard flu back in the 90s, ever since I seem to be immune to such things.
As old people tend to do, Vida often repeats what she said before. When I visited in her rustic cabin, I expected games of chess and mostly old conversation. All that was present, but then she surprised me with something new.
Chess saved my life. I was enrolled to a chess competition when my workplace was invited on a cruise. I could not go, but all my colleagues at Ericsson did. This was in 1994, and the cruise ship was Estonia. None of them survived.
She often tells me that the game of chess must have been created by divine intervention, for how else could such a beautiful, perfect game exist? In that moment when she told me of how chess saved her, her eyes were not bitter over the lost friends. Instead, they sparkled of awe and gratefulness at the mercy of the Almighty. To her, it was no mere coincidence that she did not sink with the ship. To her, the game of chess is a direct link to God.
On August 10, I made sure to leave early with a full hour of buffer time, just in case of a flat tire or any another complication. The weather looked stable enough, and I received confirmation that my parents had found a spot in the chosen park that would suit the occasion. The road was flat and I steamed ahead with a smile on my face, embracing the moment like a little boy on his birthday. This was my day. I had every reason to celebrate, and people would join me in doing so. Worries faded, and I let my guard down perhaps a little too much.
She, the woman whose face had haunted me for the past weeks, had finally decided not to come to the arrival party. I completely saw why as several of those coming knew of my state and that it was related to her. In my current rush of invincibility, closing in on Stockholm with an hour to spare, I saw it as a good idea to meet just the two of us before the gathering. No deep talk, no drama, just a simple catch-up. I was in a terrific mood, light as a feather, and was convinced that not even my own ghost could touch me that day. What could possibly go wrong?
A thousand times and more had I played the scene in my mind where I would meet her again. Every possible greeting and response had been viewed over and over in my lone hours on the bike. There was really nothing she could say, nothing she could do that I would not be prepared for. But once I sat down across from her, my mind went blank. It was not empty, but filled with a thick fog where no thoughts, no logic and no emotion was visible. Dumbstruck is the word. None of that I had seen came to be, for it was not her saying or doing that put me out of balance. It was just her, being there, sitting there, breathing there, in front of me. A thousand times and more had I spoken to her in my mind, but when I saw her for real, I was dead silent.
There was an awkward goodbye, and I did my best to shake off my suddenly blocked state of mind. "It will be alright, it will be alright", I told myself as I got back on the bike to meet my father. From Liljeholmen to Kungsholmen, in English the more epically sounding "Isle of Lilies" and "Isle of Kings", I cycled with him over the bridges above lake Mälaren in bright sunshine. We were joined by uncle Anders and cousin Joachim, and arrived in the park to my song of choice, Kenta's Just Idag Är Jag Stark - "This Day I Am Strong" whose lyrics are childishly simple, and equally powerful.
This day I am strong
This day I feel good
I'm carried forth by winds of power
This day I am strong
This day I feel good
I have the trust in myself on my side
I have waited so long for just this day
And I'm relieved that it's finally here
Waited so long for just this day
It brings lust as it comes
From there, all went like I had hoped it would. It was a simple laidback gathering for anybody who found it worth their Saturday afternoon to celebrate my cycling journey from Iraq to Sweden. Some were travel enthusiasts themselves, others purely there for my sake. Some go way back with me, others were from latter years. Some I expected to show up, others came by surprise. Even a few strangers stopped by when they saw the impressive banner that my mother hade made.
It was neither the most extravagant nor exclusive party, then again my character is none of those things. You could say that in many ways the homecoming festivity was much like my journey as a whole: low budget, makeshift with abundance of free homemade food, almost no rain and most importantly kind, caring and curious people. As a conclusion for my cycling pilgrimage, my journey of 7275 kilometres over 10 countries, my adventure from Babylon by bike, it was perfect.
I would like to thank everyone who came to celebrate my homecoming, especially my dear friend Celia and my extrordinary parents Annelie and Thomas who helped me with preparations and planning. I will also send a big thank you to all of those who contributed with financial aid, food and shelter throughout the journey - there really was no limit to the hospitality given to me. Lastly, I want to express my gratitude for all the little meetings, all the laughs and smiles, all the deep conversations and all the encouragement and support from all fantastic souls on the road and from afar.
This story, from the beginning, has been an iterative process, one that has changed along the way just like a journey does. Now that it is finished, if someone asks me what the story is all about, I think I have my answer. If you have read what I have written, perhaps you would agree that it's not really me and it's not really you that this story is about. It's about us, the connections between us, those we make and those we don't, the ones we seek out and the ones that come to us. Connections of empathy, of companionship, of aid, of attraction, of pain, of loyalty and of family. The struggles of disconnection, of loneliness and of homelessness. Connections between countries, cultures, languages, genders and generations.
I feel though that connection is not just the theme of this story. This, my writing out in the open, is in itself an attempt to connect. To reach out to the world with a message in a bottle floating in the ether, hoping that someone finds it, reads it and comes to share my lonely island. And so lastly, to you who see this... for opening the bottle, for reading my story and for making that connection between you and me... thank you. Thank you.
The End