I confess. I couldn’t start writing about Stockholm. I just couldn’t. Not that there was anything wrong with him. It’s beautiful. In its cold, Scandinavian manner. Venice of the North.
When I think about Stockholm, I remember that it was a beautiful and cold day. That the sky was clear and pure. Nice little streets, warm and cozy cafes and restaurants. How I thought to myself how quiet Stockholm was. Trapped in the cold embrace of the winter, that was slowly moving away and making space for the spring. How everything was in its place. And that they say that the most handsome men live in Stockholm. Honestly, I really don’t know. Could be.
It wasn’t the right time for us. Stockholm and me. We didn’t leave a trace in one another. But there are memories, that always make me smile. Chasing giant soap bubbles on the streets of Stockholm. A warm scarf that comes handy in the north. Because the winters at home are too warm. The beautiful shapes of ice in the lake. A church that serves warm coffee. And a sudden thought that crossed my mind. How beautiful spring mornings and autumn afternoons must be. Here, in the Venice of the North.
Deep down I knew why I couldn’t write about him. Because he didn’t leave a trace. Because for me there is only one Venice. That I keep coming back to them. Maybe one day I will go back. To the city on the water. To check if this time, the timing will be right for us. Maybe one day. Up there, far in the North, there is something that keeps pulling me back. That still captivates my imagination. The magic of the northern lights. Aurora borealis. Maybe one day.