The Swedish Sagas

Chapter 1

A cool wind sweeps over me as I cuddle into my hoodie. The early morning hours here are becoming darker and only now does the sun reveal a swirl of blue and orange over the high towers of Copenhagen Central. A few Danish men walk past me leaving me wondering what thoughts must be going through their head during the two-second glance they give me before returning to their comfortable conversation and world of everydayness.

Here I sit, leaned against my black Nike duffle bag that collapses beneath my weight. Here with the grey crocheted hat my grandmother made for me covering my head and blanketing it from the cold bricks it leans against. What could this young adult be doing here? The passersby must have thought as I adjust the blue headphones in my ears.

I realize that these passersby have no idea why my headphones are blue, why would they? Well, it’s not really a story I suppose. My mother hated the idea of headphones and thought my brothers and I would soon lose hearing if we kept them in our ears. Because of this, I never had headphones and that became something my girlfriend would tease me about. She’s the one who bought me my first pair of headphones. What a scandalous act! She slipped them to me without my mother ever noticing! They were a nice pair of blue headphones for my apple phone – the thrill of being Adam. I was really bothered when I lost that pair my first year of college but in my discomfort I purchased another that looked just like the pair she gave to me. Those are the ones I wear today. Early-day commuters don’t know that.

New onlookers replace the passersby as the streets fill up with black shoes and pale faces. I must look like a wash-up from a crazy Friday night to them. But, no. I’m just sitting here because I biked faster than I thought I would. I’m taking it in like a sip of warm tea – the rising sun and waking city, that is. At 7:20 my bus will be here and I will throw the bottom of this cup to the air and swallow the last gulps of the moment. But for now I sip calmly.

Its 7:20 and I’m looking for the bus. My bag is under my right arm and belted around my left shoulder. I packed it this morning and think I have all that I need in it. I hope I do, but I know I’ll survive with or without an extra pair of socks.

I run into my friend, Zack, while crossing the street. He is a philosophy major from Hong Kong but getting his bachelor’s in South Carolina. We met in our core course, mythos and logos, and spent a great deal of time together during the class’ study tour of Germany. It turns out we were at the same club the night before we left Hamburg, but that German rave on the roof of the old Nazi bunker is something the publishers wouldn’t want me writing about. I shake his hand and he points to where the bus is.

Three young ladies check off our names and we enter the mostly filled bus. I smile at the bus driver before making my way through the isles of nameless faces and finding one of the two remaining seats in he far back. Leaning my head against the window I follow the roads with my eyes, testing my geographical awareness. Before long I am taken off of the streets I’ve become familiar with and into the absurd. I close my eyes and fall asleep.

We are at the ferry now and the boy in front of me turns around to start a conversation. His name is Moe and he comes from some Asian island to studies international relations in Ohio. I don’t remember what college he said he goes to but I don’t get the impression that he enjoys it very much. He says his culture isn’t represented all that well there and he didn’t feel all that comfortable until he joined an Asian culture group.

The entire time he talks to me I am fascinated with his commitment to our conversation. He asks me about my major and the things I’m involved with at my college. Answering this second question isn’t something I do with fondness. I do a lot at my college and feel like I need to ramble off a string of unrelated activities whenever it’s asked. There is Club Disk, Peer Mentor, Bollywood, Intramural Volleyball, Spiritual Leader, TA, Service Leader, I work in Media Technology, and I am teaching a class next semester. I list these off as if they mean anything to anyone but Moe actually seems interested in all of them. I suppose I do all this because one day I would like to say that I’ve been a lot of places and seen a lot of things. One day I would like to sing “I Lived” by One Republic and really mean it. But right now I’m on a ferry observing Moe talk to me.

When I return to the bus I pick up my thoughts again. There’s something about a completed story that compels me. Maybe it’s the thought of saying, “I did this” and enjoying the memory. Maybe that’s why I’ve always loved goodbyes, especially teary ones. I love when something so good has ended because once it’s over its mine to have, to feel, to prescribe meaning and value. But I don’t know if anything I just said is true or not.

A week ago I met a girl at a bar in St. Pauli who told me she loved two things: St. Paul and getting fucked in the ass. But what she really loved about intercourse, she told me, wasn’t the hype of it or the pleasure in the moment. What she really loved was a job well done. She liked lying on her back knowing what happened and feeling the passing of the moment.

But that’s enough of these penetrating thoughts for now. Moe has pulled the curtain over the bus’ window and fallen asleep and Zack has too. I pull out the reading for my myth and logic class. It’s titled The Libation Bearers and I soon get lost in the tragedy of Orestes, son of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra. The boy’s father and king was murdered by the lover of his mother and he himself was banished from Mycenae. Orestes now struggles with his commitment to avenge his father because doing so would mean murdering the new king and his own mother. I’m drawn to the inner tension of Orestes predicament and I jump when a Swedish officer asks me for my passport.

Chapter 2

It’s midmorning when the bus drops us off at the bank of a wide river that bends around the farmland of Southern Sweden. The three leaders tell us to bring wind resistant and waterproof clothing with us but I have my hoodie and grandmother’s hat so I know I’ll be fine. I’m handed a life jacket and granola bar and pair off with Zack as my canoeing partner. Moe asks to join our group as well but ends up leaving us for a girl he likes talking to.

“Have you canoed before?”

“Yeah, only once, though,” and to be honest I don’t remember much of it. How old was I? It was a while back when my family spent a few nights in Uncle Tom’s log cabin somewhere in northwestern Mass. He isn’t really my uncle, a friend of my father and my mother too by association. I don’t remember much of that weekend; I remember the long driveway, the singing teddy bear above the mantel of his fireplace, and the desk that held photos and other documentations of the bear that tore off a good portion of his leg. I remember his German shepherd, the fire pit partly down his driveway, the wooden stairs to the upper lofting, and the smell of pine.

He lived deep in the forest where he enjoyed his hiking and hunting. I think he liked having visitors too. He was so happy to give my brothers and me a gummy candy in the shape of a pizza when we entered the cabin. He had just picked these candies up from a local store for us. Adults don’t typically do that stuff for kids.

During the few days we were with him he gave me three lessons: if you can do everything you can’t be that good at anything, when canoeing, don’t pull the paddle across the boat to often or you will get the inside wet, and be careful when peeing in a river because animals downstream will smell where you are.

I was in junior high the last time I saw Uncle Tom. He invited my family on a trip to Yellowstone National Park to spend a week. His leg was healed but nothing else had changed. I remember trying to impress him and make him laugh during the trip. If I saw him today I don’t think my affliction would be any different; he’s the type of person I would like to make proud. Maybe one day I’ll drive to his cabin and see if he remembers me. Maybe we would have a beer and maybe we would go skiing down one of his favorite mountains or go hiking up his stream once more. I like to say maybe, but I know I don’t love myself enough to make the drive. Do you?

Zack takes the back of the canoe and I the front. He starts trying to explain to himself the difference between a kayak and canoe and shows me the different paddle positions for each. Very good Zack.

My paddle folds under the water and turns it over before re-emerging at my side. Droplets fall from the far corner as it moves forward and grips the water ahead of us. It’s using my energy to do this, I slowly start to feel the paddle’s demand on my arms and back and yet, I marvel at it. What a creature, this paddle. Using me to pull itself along, the paddle is paddling. I can’t help but feel a sense of commitment to those nouns that, on occasion, transform themselves into their verbial counterparts. To be oneself, what an achievement of selflessness.

We are gliding past farmland and through small forests. Trees lean over the river like astronomers lean into a lustrous sky. But then there are some trees that have grown in their loneliness. They are my favorites.

There are other stories as well. Zack talks about the Jägermeister he wishes he had brought on the canoe with us and then puts one some acoustic music and becomes quiet. There are these two girls whose canoe we are always passing and then getting passed by. They crash their nose into the bank of the river and we laugh at them. Another canoe group is insistent on traversing through every alleyway presented by the river. Their little boat is bound to persist through every small passage or get caught in the attempt.

At five kilometers in, Zack and I have agreed to drop the pretense of masculinity and our conversations became more and more fixated on the strain in our arms. My hat and hoodie are on the floor beneath me and I’m sure a large sweat stain covers the back of my dark blue tee. We were relieved to find a boy offering Swedish ice cream off of a dock by the half way mark. A long break of quiet enjoyment was much needed before the next five kilometers. The paddle wasn’t paddling itself at this last stretch; I paddled us to the end. I didn’t look back, but I’m sure Zack helped too.

Chapter 3

It was over, the canoeing. It had happened and it, with all of its possibilities, no longer existed. Zack and I climb out of the boat, hoist it out of the water, and drag it onto the earth. I spoke for a bit with a young blond-haired boy who was cleaning the boats. He was in his off-year, which I think is around the time I was either approaching the tenth grade or leaving it. He was stressed because this was the year in which he needed to decide what he wanted to do with his life. He was considering studying economics but needed to test into it first. We didn’t talk long before he was called to assist with some other task in the boat yard so I make my way to the line to the outhouse. Here I am when one of the nameless faces approaches me.

“Hi, I’m Claire!” Says a young blond haired woman as she jets out her hand aggressively. I fulfill my part of the ritual by smiling back at her blue eyes and grasping her fair-skinned hand. I watch my body preform this sacred custom and am struck by its oddity. I want to stand still and think about this greeting. Two celestials encountering one another for the first time through bodily celebrations; how is that not worth pondering? But Claire’s tongue is faster than my mind and she has already brought us past the ritual and into a new world; one where she can now tell me about her major, her love for outdoors, and her dream of one day being a manager. She says this wasting no time for breath or other silences. Talking to people is so strange; you need to go through so many rituals to finally arrive at what you really have to say – which is usually nothing at all. I would be very happy standing next to Claire in this line to the only outhouse around while discussing the silence that is really at the heart of my soul. But she wants to be amused by the more approachable interests of my existence and I play along with the game of introductions.

She next finds me lying out at the dock watching the remaining canoes being pulled in. A small group of the faces join us and the ritualistic introduction begins all over again. Zack walks to the dock and looks at us. He then passes us and sits at the far end of the dock to gazes across the river. At this moment I decide to greatly appreciate Zack.

Moe’s canoe is the last to reach the dock. He is sitting in the back of it while a young woman in a small attractive body is at the helm. Two of the leaders are also with them – they seem to have needed some help.

With the last canoe pulled in we make for a half-hour bus ride of extending farmland and a sleeping Moe before arriving at our hostel. The graveled driveway is lined with apple trees that have already begun to drop their fruit on the cleanly mowed grass. To the left of the driveway is a shed and followed by a volleyball court that rests in the front corner. To the left is a gazebo covered in Christmas lights what will give it a white glow once the sun sets and behind that is a large open fire pit and some more trees. The hostel was an old large farmhouse converted into an inn. An old man and his wife greet us at the entrance and ask us to remove our shoes before coming inside.

I checked into my room with two other boys I had not met yet. They told me their names but I never converted them into memory. One of the boys was in the canoe that tried to make the most of every obstacle on the river. I realized he was sitting with his bushy-haired female canoeing partner on the bus and I asked him if they were a couple. “No,” he replied trying to smile off he awkwardness, “just friends from school.” That was not a believable story and I knew he could be having sex with her tonight but he didn’t know it. Innocent and ignorant, one in the same, Kierkegaard reminds me.

My other roommate gave me the key and told me to keep the door locked at all times. He was terrified that someone would steal his passport even though everyone staying in the inn was a student from The States. His anxiety was rather amusing and I agreed to play along.

A late lunch of a meet stew and bread is served in the lower dinning hall. I sit down at a table of random faces to enjoy the passive splendor of conversation and a warm meal. The stew itself is homemade and served by our caretakers. I let each spoonful tease me with satisfaction before emptying it into my yearning and tiered body. Meanwhile, Moe has sat down at the head of our table and has already scoffed down his third bowl along with at least half a baguette of bread. He doesn’t lift his eyes from the bottom of his bowl as I pass him on my way for seconds.

After lunch we get ready for the bus ride to our hiking site in Ladonia. Before boarding a few of us take fruit from the apple trees that line the driveway. “Is your apple gonna be good Matt?” Moe asks me.

“Yeah,” I replied, “cuz I know how to pick them. Yours is gonna be sour as fuck.”

“How do you know?” Moe asks biting into his apple. He scrunches his face with disgust and disappointment, “Matt, I don’t know how to pick apples Matt!” I feel bad for my language, but at least I warned him.

We arrive at a mountain at the cusp transforming from the greens of life to the vibrant colors of serenity. We make our way up a dirt trail to a huddle of old farmhouses that hold each other’s hands while looking down the untamed slope of the mountain. A fenced in horse watches us from her stable as we cross her farmland and return to the woods.

These woods aren’t that unlike the woods of the New England. Not every year, but several times in my life my family has spent a weekend excursion in the mountains of Vermont. We usually go in October, when the leaves are at their brightest and my birthday is around the corner. “We are going to the mountains for your birthday, Matt,” I remember my mother telling me. But I don’t want to talk about that anymore. I wish leaves could fall without bringing other things up.

We climb over the mountain and descended on the far side that levels itself into the sea. But between the two of them, the mountain and the sea, lays Nimis, a labyrinth of driftwood nailed together that form secret passageways and castle towers that shake in the wind. If there were a gateway to Narnia, Nimis would be it.

I follow the nameless faces into the mouth of the labyrinth and descend down the uneven terrain of oddly placed sticks and narrow passageways. Once we have survived the decline, the maze takes us over a rocky beach where the towers begin to grow. “Hey there little guy,” I say to my child self as unclip his leash, “go play!” And there he goes, satisfying his childish erg to climb the most dangerous towers and venture into the narrowest passageways of Nimis. He shimmies himself to the greatest heights where he can look over the jagged cliffs and into the unending sea. Those cliffs, I must climb them next, he says to himself while swinging down from the shaky tower. With his child’s confidence he grabs onto the rough rocks and hoists himself higher and higher into the sky. There he is, above the towers and above the nameless faces who are now trying to scale the walls of his fortress. He is sighing, he must be taking it all in, that view with the smell of the sea and the wild plants around him. What is he doing now? “I don’t think that’s a blueberry!” I yell to him but he ignores me. His face scrunches up from the bitter taste of whatever he just ate.

He is down now and tells me about the friends he made up there and how they told him the fruit was edible. He wants to explore the ruins at that look like a sandcastle that’s been fighting the valiant fight against an incoming tide for years. As he’s exploring our chaperones begin to gather everyone for the hike back up the mountain and I call him in. He isn’t ready to leave but I put his leash back on and hold him close to me for the climb.

Chapter 4

It begins just me, a nameless girl, my ignorant lover of a roommate, and the girl he spends all of his time with. We take turns setting a deflated soccer ball for our partner to spike over the volleyball net. Soon two verses two became four on four, six against six, and then eight playing against eight. For a group of random college students from the U.S., we are playing some damn good volleyball. Kim especially, she is diving for every ball that comes her way. I keep my child self a bit more tamed than that.

As we are playing, an audience develops of uncoordinated spectators who are kind enough not to ruin our game. They bring message that are lady leaders are having trouble grilling, which I interpret to mean that they have no idea how to grill, and are currently on their phones with their fathers. This spectator asks if any of us can help. Obviously I know I can help, but I also know I’m no hero so I let the grey bearded bus driver have a go with the young ladies and the uncooked meat.

Dinner consisted of chicken, pork, sausage, beer, and wine. The nameless faces are now intermingling and letting their guard down a bit more every time they raise their cup. It’s nice to be a part of this. It’s warm and we forget that these close friends are really distant strangers. None of that matters as long as we remain on the eastern side of the canal. This girl is telling me the story of her crazy mother while her friend laughs with an open mouth at the story. I finish another glass as the friend finds the mother on Facebook and laughs some more.

After a drawn-out dinner of enjoyment we take our dishes to the kitchen and I treat myself to another cup. “There is more in the red,” I tell Tim as he watches the last few drops of white fall to the bottom of the glass.

He looks at the box and shakes it a bit. “I think the right thing to do here would be to finish this?” he asks me hopefully.

The leaders have started a fire in the large fire pit for us to make s’mores and talk by. I grab my jacket and a beer for the cold and my cheep pair of glasses that I bought from Tiger for the view. The nameless faces are cuddling around the fire while a few friends and I are bubbling our way up to the stars. “There are so many of them, the stars,” I say while falling on my back to look at them all. The closer ones shine on me with a polar-white gleam while behind them lies a brushstroke of purple luminescence curving its way across the night sky. It’s like a giant sea slug, that trail of purple. It moves and bends as a current of stars that slowly tampers into a dark blue and then the nothingness of darkness that is home to us all. I watch that giant sea slug slither its way through sky as I slowly sip my beer. I’ve never seen anything like this, no matter where I tilt my head or move my eyes there they are, an infinite number of possibilities raining onto the earth; I don’t ever want it to stop.

“I’ve got the Jägermeister!” Zack exclaims with excitement. Choosing to appreciate this one was a good choice. He offers me a hand and pulls me to my feet. And we lead a small band of nameless faces to one of the fields by the hostel away from the chatter of the campfire. There the six of us laydown together, passing the bottle and stories from one mouth to the next. We stay there for hours, talking, joking, and sometimes getting very serious. The company and the spirits keep us warm, as the night gets colder. When the bottle empties we remain together for some time, occasionally get up to find a place to piss. It is about 3:00 and we made our way back to the fire.

The nameless faces are talking about religion while I find a seat next to Claire. “I feel like not having religion makes this place so much more inclusive,” says the boy who pretends to be chief among them.

“Yeah,” peeps a girl. The chief looks towards her, is eyes ready to support anything she might say as long as what she says is anything he supports, “Like, I guess I’m just glad that religion is becoming a thing of the past.”

“That’s so true,” says the pretend chief, “people are becoming a lot less ignorant, that’s a really good thing.”

“Religion has done so much harm,” says another girl, “but, yeah, its definitely ending.”

Under normal circumstances I don’t share my opinions with strangers, especially when they disagree. But I am drunk and already upset with the way the conversation is going. “Yeah, like you I thank God every day for the end of religion,” I blurt out, emphasizing the irony in my statement. I have made some of them uncomfortable and I shouldn’t say anymore.

How many groups sit down to affirm how wonderful they are for believing in God? They gather together to pray for those unconverted souls who just don’t get it. Those damned individuals who haven’t accepted Christ. If only everyone could be as devoted as we are, they tell themselves. Well, here I am in a group seeking validation for not believing in God. How wonderful they are for their superior views and intellect. If only everyone could be like them and kill religion, what a better world that would be. I try to be quiet as I wonder about these two groups; I don’t see what the difference is.

The conversation has changed from religion to politics and the pretend chief is giving a speech about the pain it causes him that people support Donald Trump. He closes by thanking the gathering here for their inclusive and enlightened perspective on the campaign.

Thinking back, I have already made one girl cry because of my perspectives on the current state of U.S. politics. Basically, I told her that I would decide whom to vote for after the debate and that I was open to voting third party. Now, we were at a café with a lot of other people at the time and she started screaming about how she has no respect for those who vote third party because it is throwing away a vote (and obviously my vote holds so much weight to begin with). She went on to explain the terror of a split party while slowly separating herself from our group of friends. I just sat there very amused as she told me that I didn’t understand anything because her father was Mexican and Trump wouldn’t hurt my family. Considering I’ve told her nothing about my family, I found her argument very persuasive. And yes, after this attack she really did start crying. I’ve been trying to be less offensive ever since.

The conversation around the campfire continues and every one takes a turn giving a speech about how terrible Trump is and how wonderful all of them are for not supporting him. Every now and then someone will say how great it is to be liberal and how we all need to be liberal in these trying times. These comments are met with a great applause.

As I sit here watching and listening to these educated individuals, I realize that no one here actually knows what he or she is talking about. No one has talked about policy or even made an attempt to compare the grievances of Trump supporters to their own. Why try to understand the view of the opposition when you can feel so much better about yourself by making fun of it with likeminded people? Personally, I know I’m ignorant. I know the candidates platforms but only in general terms and I don’t understand politics enough to make an accurate prediction as to where each candidate will lead the country. All I know is that when someone approaches me and asks me what I think of the election, “fuck Trump” is always the right answer. Apparently everyone else here knows that too.

It is my turn to give a speech and I know it’s not going to go well before I start. I look around and try to remember if anyone here actually said anything intellectually sound on the subject but can’t recall of any trace of a legitimate point or argument. Screw it – I’m drunk.

“It’s an odd situation, to be so far from The States when all of this is going on,” I say trying to draw everyone in with something to relate to. “Here we are in a country that is so advanced they have no need for God!” I get a few smiles from that one, “Don’t we all love Denmark? It’s so inclusive and they are all so liberal! It is so easy for us to find peace here; we say how much we care for others and how much we hate those voting Republican and we are instantly met with approval. We fancy ourselves intellectually and morally superior to the opposition but do we recognize that we are all hypocrites?” I continue, I don’t think this crowed really knows what I’m saying, “We say that we care so much for the Democratic Party, how easy is it to say that when we know we will be applauded for such arbitrariness? It makes me wonder, do we really know what’s going on? Or do we just cling onto what will make us feel most validated and supported in each other’s company? We end up voting for, not who is best for our country, because we have no idea who this would be, but for who is best for us. We vote for whatever puts us in the in-group, the group we are told is right, because we are to afraid to acknowledge the terrifying freedom of thinking for ourselves and being wrong. Or maybe, we repeat what we are trained to say because we refuse to believe that not one of us has any clue as to what’s actually happening. This is what it means to have the superior perspective.” My voice trails softly, “we are hypocrites.”

Before I can cast my eyes to the ambers Claire asks me, “What do you mean by "we.’”

I have no idea how she missed who I was addressing as we but I realize she has given me the perfect opportunity to be dramatic. I look her in the eyes, “all of us,” I say with a chill before gazing into the nameless faces that sit around the fire.

There is some shifting around the campfire and Claire starts to talk to me about how she still thinks it’s important to help others and vote in support of the oppressed. She is really a humanist but doesn’t realize it. And yes, there are people, but I don’t want to argue the humanist out of her. I leave the campfire. I don’t have the political answers and neither does this group of 20-year-olds. I just wished they realized it. Claire probably thinks I’m corrupting all the young people I have political discourse with but I don’t care, they can put me on trial tomorrow if they want; it’s four in the morning and I’m going to bed.

Chapter 5

It’s 7:20 and I resent the fact that my body is expected for movement today. I force myself up, punishing the urge to collapse for another hour, and undress for a shower. By 7:40 a Swedish breakfast of yogurt, granola, bread, cheese, ham, tomatoes, and cucumbers has begun and by 8:30 we are all packed up and filling the bus.

Today we are orienteering and rappelling and I still have no idea what either of those things are. As we gather around the picnic tables on top our mountain of adventure, Claire begins to tell us how great she is at orienteering. “I’m part of this nature club at my school,” begins the businesswoman, “we go hiking and kayaking and orienteering all the time. Only when we go orienteering, we just use a compass and need to use triangulation instead of a map.” I have no idea what a triangulation is but I’m glad there is someone here who knows how to get around a mountain.

The nameless faces are split into two groups, one to begin with rappelling and the other with orienteering. I am in the orienteering section where one of the mountain directors asks us to divide into groups of seven. “Matt I want you to be in my group!” exclaims Moe before anyone else has gotten up, “Sarah, you need to be with us too, and Zack!” I look over at the pretty girl Moe indirectly introduced me to and realize she is the one he canoed with yesterday. Sarah is small in statue but holds a well-toned body and long straight black hair. I can see why Moe fancies her. One of the group leaders also joins our group along with two nameless girls.

We start out in search for the first of five places of interest marked on our map. Trailing through the woods we joke around with leisure and take time to appreciate the day. Today and yesterday have both been beautiful: clear skies, fresh air – jackets for the sessile and tea shirts for the mobile. Above everything it was nice to be out of the city. I love Copenhagen and although there are more than enough parks for rural escapism, being in the mountains of Sweden was something completely different. The lighting, the sounds, the feelings, this is a worthy place of being.

Sarah is walking close to me, Moe hanging beside her. She is very easy to talk to and laughs at all of my jokes. I can tell she likes my company because she keeps calling me an asshole – always a good sign.

We meander through the Swedish forest, the leader of the group ambitious to complete the orienteering tasks and the rest of us lackadaisically admiring the way the sunlight drips from leaf to leaf as it falls from the sky. “Uh, a wasp, I hate those!” Sarah says in disarray, “wasps are the worst, bees pollinate and make honey but wasps don’t have any purpose at all!”

I smile at Zack and know he’s going to appreciate this comment, “I like your argument Sarah,” I say chauvinistically, “ but it makes me wonder if I have a purpose. And then I think I’m more of a wasp than a bee.”

“So existential, Matt,” Zack says laughing. It’s nice to have another philosopher in the group.

The thick woods opens up at a cliff overlooking the coast. A rugged trail is carved into the mountain and the nameless faces begin their decent. Sarah and I lag behind, each trying to get a picture of the rocky giveaway to the sea, but Moe doesn’t get out of the shot. Sarah seems happily pissed-off and I’m amused by it; Moe’s added a lot to the trip.

When I put my phone down a feeling possesses me. I wobble and grip the safety rope for support while looking over the cliff-framed sea. “I wish you were here,” says a voice inside of me whose origin is as foreign to me as my own soul. I’m confused, but I recognize the truth in the voice. Someone from my past is playing with the voodoo doll of my emotions. Rationally thinking, if anyone from that life were here right now I would not be having the same experiences I’ve been having. I don’t know if I would give those experiences up. At the same time, this feeling of I wish you were here is a new prescription that covers my eyes as I sit alone upon the highest and the farthest rock from the shore and stare out over the sea.

Chapter 6

The group climbs back up the cliff, through the woods, across a golf course, past some more woods, and into a pasture. Here we follow a trail blanketed with small black pelts that stick to our shoes. Yes, that’s sheep shit. Sheep shit everywhere. We try to step on the smallest piles as we make our way to the next viewpoint.

As my group appreciates the view of the pasture and the surrounding tree line I am tracking down the faint baas of sheep. Finally, the sheep are found and I follow them around trying to get a sense of sheepness.

When the group has appeased their desire to look over the pasture, we continue orienteering and explore woodland clearing a cave by the sea, and finally, the lighthouse on the top of the mountain. It’s been two hours of adventuring and we make our way back to the campsite for lunch and then rappelling. “Have you ever gone rappelling?” the leader asks me.

“Actually, I repel people all the time!” I joke, “but seriously what even is rappelling?” I ask this question openly but still no one in my group knows.

The older caretakers of the hostel bring us sandwiches and sparkling water for lunch and Swedish chocolate for dessert. After a relaxing hour we re-gather for unknown condition of rappelling.

A young man with dreadlocks, cargo pants, and a bright orange tee approaches us. He has a chastity belt around his waist or, as he calls it, a harness and tells us to follow him so we can get geared up.

I approach my harness and struggle to get the ropes around my legs and waist while the girl next to me pulls hers on like worn in pajamas. “Having some difficulty?” she asks me while I tighten the ropes around my crotch. I notice she asks without any interest in helping.

“I take it you get harnessed often?” I ask, ignoring her question.

“Yeah, I‘ve gone rock climbing a few times,” she smirks. I bite my lip and make a few final tugs on the ropes.

“How’d you get yours so tight?” Tim comes over to ask me.

“I went to a catholic high school,” I tell him, satisfying the inquiry. Meanwhile, Moe has fallen over laughing as he struggles to get his legs through the ropes and the instructor goes over to assist him.

We put on our helmets on and follow our dreadlocked friend to the edge of a cliff by the sea. He ties a rope to a rock and slips the other end through a loop in his harness. He then starts walking down the vertical drop, his back parallel to the ground. “Now, I will be holding a safety rope incase one of you falls. If you’re not to heavy I’ll hopefully catch you,” he tells us for assurance. “Thread the rope through this loop here,” he says pointing to the clip on his harness, “as your walking down, or try jumping,” he adds before leaping away from the cliff and landing back on it a few meters farther down. “So who wants to go first?” he asks once returning to the top of the cliff.

My dad would have hated this, I say to myself as I attach the rope to my harness and lean back over the empty air that separates my body from the rocks below. I take a few steps backwards, pause for a selfie, put my phone back in my pocket, and make a valiant leap, landing few meters down the cliff. I smile up at the applauding women above me, wink, and make a few more leaps before reaching the ground. I detach the rope and choose the steepest part of the next mountain to free climb. I end up dangling over gaping canyons before securing myself on an isolated patch of rock near the next rappelling point. Between where I am and where I need to be are a few deadly drops that I need to leap over and a family of prickling bushes I must fight through. In hindsight, that risky climb wasn’t such a good idea.

I’ve gathered a few cuts from the bushes but made it safely to the next drop-off. This is, maybe, a 25 or 30-meter fall and unlike the last one the cliff dips inward so those rappelling are invisible to the man holding the safety rope. “How will you know if someone falls?” I ask the man loosely holding the last lifeline to one of the nameless faces.

He leans over the edge than says, “I will probably start to feel this rope burning in my hands and will then try to grab it.” If he actually did grab it I’m sure he would be pulled over the cliff as well, but I don’t tell him this.

I hook the rope to my harness and begin my descent. The first fall was fun but this is romantic. I pause about a third of the way down and look at the shimmering reflection of the sun bouncing from the sea. I could easily jump into the sea from here. One large leap to my left and I could let go of the rope and be consumed by the waves. I don’t do that though, I just watch and appreciate.

The pause has caused the adrenalin to leave my body and expose the sore and exhausted individual hanging from the edge of a cliff. I start to get a bit scared now that I realize how hard I’ve pushed my body these last two days. Easy, I tell my tense muscles as I continue the decline.

I’ve made it safely to the bottom, release the rope, and make my way up the safer side of the mountain to sit with the nameless faces there. Moe has returned to the first cliff and is sitting by himself and on his phone. How the hell did he get reception? I haven’t had that for the last two days. I sit down beside three nameless girls who are waiting their turn to rappel this sea-shored fall. We discuss how strange it is, how no one in the world knows where we are. We ourselves don’t even know where we are. Some place of land that we were told is called Sweden, but who really knows. I know where the random faces are and they know where I am. The relation of knowledge ends there.

The last of the girls whose company I shared is tying the rope around her harness and I get up to walk around the top of the mountain. At the far side I see Zack looking out into the open and I dare not disturb the young philosopher. Instead I sit down on a tough patch of grassy dirt. I take in the rocks and grasses that lean over the deep blue. I feel the sailboat making small waves as it beats on into the horizon and soar with those exotic birds that I do not know by name; the small patches of white and brown that play in the blue sky. I layback and pull my hood over my eyes. The back of my hand falls on the dirt of the mountain and the palm opens up towards the sky. I let my bones become a part of all of this and I fall asleep.

Soon I will wake up and the sailboat will be gone. Soon Claire will lead the small band of laagering faces back to the camp but get us lost along the way. Soon I will be at a small café where older Swedish woman will serve cakes, cookies and tea. I will be so happy seeing those heart-shaped pastries and I will think of my grandparents and my close friend who fancies herself old. Soon I will be on a ferry at sunset and I will realize that all of the nameless faces are dying, once again returning to a place of nothingness as I carry on. I will pick up Sartra and follow a narrative he created for a while and in a few days a friend from home will visit me briefly before moving on to Thailand. She is not a nameless face and I will be so happy to see the flesh of someone I care about. She will leave and soon I will begin writing everything that happened as if pleading an old friend to never die. Soon I will be in another country, then another, then another. All of this too will die. And for all this death, beginning with the nameless faces, I alone will be responsible. Yet, one day, when I am older, I will remember that there was this place in Sweden I once went to, and I will be happy that it existed.

Claire wakes me up and tells me that we need to catch the rest of the group before they drive away.