Malmö – Notes
A few random notes from a week away in Malmö.
As the plane approaches Copenhagen airport, the clouds clear just in time for views of the Baltic Sea. Tiny white dots on the waves, we call them "Schaumkronen" in German. White banks of sand, saturated blues, flat landscapes. I am excited to be back in Sweden soon.
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A train across Öresund bridge, I want to drink the colour of the sea.
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Coffee in the morning sun in an unfamiliar kitchen. It is still early. The fridge hums its melody, my water glass throws patterns on the table. Seagulls proclaim the proximity of the sea. I love those early hours. A day ahead, full of moments and memories to be made. My surroundings are calm, still in slumber. The thought of a beloved person – here today, my best friend – still peacefully asleep in the next room.
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Most places I travel to, I fall in love with. I like to think that I leave parts of myself there, pieces of my soul represented by stray hairs and dander that keep floating in the air, settling on benches, walls or the ground until the next gust of wind moves them forward or twirls them around. But in reality, the places are the ones leaving their traces inside of me.
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Plants stuck behind windows, the same varieties that thrive on balconies in Athens, their green leaves pressing against the window panes like prisoners soaking up all the daylight they can get.
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The Sunday uniform in Malmö: black leggings, white tennis socks, sneakers and coats that look like the cosiest blankets.
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The Baltic Sea smells briny, possibly from algae that gather on the shore and in the shallow waters – a ripe, musty smell that does not match the white, rippled sand and clear waters. The beach is still raw, not prepared for the summer crowds yet. We catch a glimpse of how crowded this thin strip of sand gets during a warm summer day as we look at the satellite images on Google Maps. Tiny figures on colourful blankets spread across the beach. I can almost hear the screaming of kids, the splashing of water, a murmur of conversations, maybe a radio playing music somewhere. We move further down the beach. I smell sunscreen as I wrap my winter coat tight around me.
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Monday. The seagulls seem to be even busier this morning than on the weekend. Are they flying to work, greeting each other along the way?
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Malmö is weirdly empty. L and I take turns in asking: "Where is everyone?". Maybe it is the Easter holidays that drove people out of town, to visit relatives or to stay at their little houses in the countryside. I imagine them tending to their gardens and having Princesskaka in the sun.
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The windows of others: some are perfectly curated with plants, objects, designer lamps. Others were decorated a long time ago, the colours of plastic flowers in vases faded by the sun. Some are just practical surfaces for overflowing ashtrays, old magazines, empty PET bottles. I read those displays like stories patiently waiting to be told. Individual chapters behind thin panes of glass.
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A geriatric man in checkered Vans Slip Ons in front of Malmö train station. I almost expect him to pull a skateboard from behind his back to swiftly skate away from us.
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The fried fish grows slightly cold as we sit in the rather dismal village of Lomma, looking out onto houses that look like boxes. They seem empty. On one balcony people have gathered in puffer jackets. Their champagne flutes reflect the sunlight as they clink their glasses. A seagull is perched on a street lantern and watches us greedily as we eat. It has been there since we ordered, on guard, lulling us into a fake state of security by not acting immediately as I pick up the food at the counter. We relax and eat, only disturbed by cold gusts of wind that rattle the little plastic cup of tartare sauce and blow stray hairs into my face. We find ourselves deep in conversation — about Easter, the life of Jesus, Atheism – as the seagulls get ready for attack.
