My friend N is a character like from a theater play. Smart, handsome, Swedish you could say or going a little bit more into detail, he's a student of medicine, German, an avid reader, plays the piano from a young age, likes vintage technology and clothes. In his apartment there are approximately 2 speakers, 1 piano, 1 cat and 365 different utensils to prepare the perfect cup of coffee. He does improv theater and every week returns from the city library with a haul of books and CD's to peruse. At one time we met in Prague, in winter, snow on the Hracany castle, dim yellow light diffused on a creamy gray etching of some mysterious scene to watch Puccini's Gianni Schicchi, staged by a friend of his mom. N was dressed like a mobster from the 1930s and when we were joking there, his smile that sometimes teeters to the demonic, was particularly effective. In fact, I wholeheartedly believe that this man who has mastered science and all the arts also secretely draws conjuring circles in his basement. Secretely not because he would be ashamed, but because he just hasn't figured out how to summon the demons that built Salomon's temple yet. *Gut Ding braucht Weile!* I am very grateful that we have met because before that reading a paragraph like this I would have thought the author is going to bore me with an artificial setting, unbeleivable characters and a weak plot right from the first page. But who can be a critic if life itself is writing? So the student N, who by the way came to medicine by way of chinese and a couple of other interests, was now to become a doctor. He had passed his final exams and invited me to a small party where he would invite family and friends to celebrate his ascension. And I was invited too! As always before traveling, I was nervous and reluctant, I want to have exciting new experiences and make memories but sitting on this couch is just so damn comfortable and it's sad to say goodbye and it takes so long to get to the airport... and then I wake up and enjoy myself. The trip to the airport is indeed long, I have to cross half of France. Not only that but after having got there and waiting for 45 minutes in the plane, the cabin crew announced that the flight is canceled. I am cranky, go to the information counter where they provide me with a replacement flight the next morning and a hotel to stay for the night, some light jokes with the smiling but visibly tired lady raise my mood, N telling me via chat that he's looking forward to us meeting again, the hotel is acceptable and they offer me dinner in what resembles a cantine dressed as a hotel restaurant. While eating a burger, I call my girlfriend and tell her the whole thing now more amused than anything and I notice an old American guy who is talking loudly over all the other 200 people eating and at one point, sneezing so loudly that we all look in his direction like if a car had just broken through the windows behind him. On the way back, my eyes meet those of a young girl at the table next to mine, also on the phone, telling someone that she's just come back from italy and what a fun time she had there as an exchange student and that she was now looking forward to do the same in Paris for a couple of months. I plop a joke over to her (really it makes the sound of a tennis ball being served!), something like "In case they issue a bomb warning let's hide under your table", she returns the ball: "OMG ikr?!?!", we finish our calls and decide to meet at the bar after dinner. Although I have no experience in these things and only see people's souls, never their outside at first, I notice that she has taken care to change clothes and a little bit more make up in the short time she has been up in her room. She tells me about her stay in Rome, where she participated in some exchange program between there and the university of Toronto. "I heard the Toronto subway is this amazing subterranean infrastructure. Is it really that cool? " my curiosity is on fire, "No of course not she says. Unless you like drugs, grime and chaos". She has colored nails that she brushes through her bright blonde hair every time she answers one of my questions. Italian is fantastic, she speaks it a bit now, french too but she's just getting started. As a canadian she ought to speak it a bit but never got to it and in general european culture is magical for her, being of a russian immigrant background, which I clearly see from her cheek bones. Her name is J, art history student and in love with the world. In that phase of life, the moment you step outside, you create a whirlwind of good vibes around you, attract everything in sight, want to see every bit of existence up close. "No wonder my plane has been grounded today", I think, and enjoy a conversation that flows like a springtime breeze, she shows me her master's thesis in preparation, I talk about my views of Italy and some great spots to know in Paris and then we say goodnight and never saw each other again because even with the occasional vortex, life flows on like a quiet river. The next day I have to get up early to get my flight to Stockholm. It's my second time and I am also looking forward to seeing that city again. It's one of those places where things are sufficiently different to be exciting (I like the french *depaysant*!) and familiar enough to feel like home quickly. Also all the people there are olympic athletes and during the day or two of summer I am told they are also unusually happy. My hotel this time is in an old prison for female delinquents, like those who didn't like to work or perform marital duties, that was active until the 80s and is now a boutique hotel. I like the place although the room will eventually give me the chills, drop my stuff, take my presents for N and head out. I call my good friend F, with whom I share things like with a sister, to show her the marathon they are currently running here. I didn't know it back then but the concept of a marathon would become somewhat of a running gag, an ongoing concern, a familiar route our conversations would jog along multiple times that year. The atmosphere is amazing, a couple of people here and there, cheering on the sidelines, bringing water to the participants. Some would come with chairs and cooled beer to sit in the streets, others walk their dogs, school classes would be out and about. Navigating the streets is a bit difficult because Google Maps does not account for these deviations but I eventually find myself in a nice neighborhood with buildings in the *Swedish Grace* style that is restrained and elegant yet breaks out with surprising organic ornaments and has features like a public staircase going through the building to cover a 10 meter height difference. Meandering through and in between the buildings I arrive, a guy in colorful clothing asks me if I'm his date. I politely decline and go up the stairs where I arrive with a couple of women. They are the sisters of N's girlfriend K i learn later this evening in what will turn out to be, once again, a scene written by life on par with the master of psychological dramaturgy - Ingmar Bergman. The moment the door opens, I am transported into a theater of larger than life characters and improbable yet simply human story arcs. N's mom greets me heartily, she's a somewhat fairy like creature, her movement in both speech and the spatial dimension brownian, like a leaf in the wind or stockprices. She appears warm and scary at the same time and will later say: "I'm happy for my son, but will never understand how he could leave the arts!" The next person was N's mentor when he was working in the theater, director of photography or set designer of Bergman himself. An older artist, some family. One of his friends who impresses me with a shaved head and piercing blue eyes until his boy looks out from behind his leg to greet me. They are adorable together and we talk about languages, also a passion of his until the kid burps some liquid over his dad's shoulder and they go off stage. Across the room I see E, N's best friend whom I recognize and hug. She's talking with one of N's classmates, a nurse, who came into the job to help people despite also having artistic interests, calm and reserved. An older lady is sitting beside her and we start talking when the nurse goes to explore the buffet. "Pratar du svenska?" "No sorry" "Where are you from then? Austria!" My country means something to her and I am curious to hear more "My husbands and I are often there. He's an architect and just recently we showed a group of japanese colleagues around there" "What style did you show them? Jugendstil, Olbrich's Sezession, Loos, that kind of thing?" "Oh I don't even know, in Vienna everything is beautiful!" "I agree but we don't have access to the sea like you do" N comes over to refill our glasses of champagne. "So what's the connection? Why Vienna of all places?" "Oh part of my family is originally from there. Do you know Kreisky?" "The chancelor? He spent the war years in Sweden right?" They were among the people who helped him find a place to stay during his exile. I lean against the piano because my head is slightly spinning. Might be champagne or the fact that I haven't eaten all day. K keeps me company a bit, we talk about simple life, N and her are about to move into a new apartment, she's glad to have left life as a teacher. One of her sisters comes along, they are a huge family, she's an architect too but originally wanted to pursue an artistic career. Dancing. Choreography. Later I will see a youtube video, that will leave me without words. It's inventive, meditative, like her. I see sparks in her eyes but also fatigue, a little bit of "oh well, another time maybe" Suddenly, E calls me over, inviting me to a drink on the couch like a Valkyrie. I have never talked to so many people in such a short time frame so I gladly take up the offer. She's tipsy, sits about 2cm apart from me and very comfortable. She and N are best friends, although she finished medical school a bit earlier and now struggles to find her foothold. "It's the responsibility", she says, "I don't llllike it" "What are you going to do?" For now she's working in a morgue. Forensic stuff. "Nobody care's if you cut off the wrong thing off a dead person" "I bet! Are you doing that for fun or do you make talismans too, charms...?" She laughs, and gains one more centimeter. I actually enjoy her banter a lot, toast with her a couple of times even though she's way ahead of me but then something beautiful happens. Our conversation in a comfy spot on the couch starts to attract. They are getting tired from standing around, N's mom is holding her famous speech. I ask E to translate for me: "Don't worry, it doesn't make much sense", and then the crowd is beginning to thin. People join our conversation and we're like this couple of journalists inquiring everyone about their dreams and aspirations. There's K's older brother T who cared for the family like their dad, from which he also got the passion for sailing. He would take his wife and kids to a quiet spot in the bay of Stockholm and just relax to his great joy and certain boredom for the others. He laughs like a content, introverted man, confident in what he likes and aware what others don't. T had recently taken a big career leap, leaving a big established pharma company to join a startup which is creating a new medical imaging machine. E is providing me with medical terminology and know how, I add some emotional flavor and T is happy to talk. At the end he hopes that I can one day experience the calm serenity of a boat floating out in the bay. His wife, a general practitioner is practical and decisive. She's thinking about raising the children and managing their careers. Together, they start to reminisce about childhood. T was like 20 years older than the youngest, their birthdates span basically the whole adult lifespan of their parents. Finally N comes over, exhausted, and starts opening the presents everybody brought despite him telling them not do. A board game, books, coffee from my part. A latecomer arrives in the form of a very attractive woman with a broken leg, which is the reason for her late arrival. I introduce myself to her, her name is M, working for the world economic forum and having interesting ideas about introducing different value systems into our understanding of economy. Not just different currencies but things like contentment, happiness, intangible things and my mind races on to virtual economies, games, hobbies that could all be valued among passionates and practitioners and the value exchanged to other currencies with modern technology, so that no matter what you do, it could benefit your social standing, thereby eliminating the bias towards unpopular and increasingly useless safe careers. M is a lifelong fan of Hermann Hesse, who was one of her reasons to move to switzerland to whose retreat Montagnola she has been many times. Immensely literate we all chat about the feelings old books like the Steppenwolf gave us at first reading even though we don't remember them hardly at all today. Finally, the evening is drawing to a close, my head is brimming as I go back to my prison cell unshackled. In the past, chatting people seemed to me like chattering geese but now I want to fly with them like Niels Holgerson. The next morning I take breakfast at the hotel. I bring my try out on the terrace, go back in to get my coffee and when I come back people tell me: "That bird has stolen your eggs!", pointing to a giant sea gull who triumphantly looked down on me from the roof. I am not a morning person and so postpone any further ornithological revenge to when my brain climbs back to office. N, K and E have invited me to see Drottingholm Palace with them. The palace has been a long term residence of the swedish king since the 16th century, and surrounded by a beautiful, flat park as well as water on 3 sides a beautiful place to be. We pass a rune stone that someone erected for his brother who fell during some foreign battle, which makes the tourist in me rejoice and then enter the castle. I have seeen my fair shares of castles from the inside and so this one is not that different to me. First of all, the picture gallery amuses us because some of the royal portraits are stunningly off mark. Imagine an archer aiming at a red apple, carefully, regulating their breath and then the bow snaps and their nose starts bleeding. There is a room dedicated to a folk festival to ward off bad spirits with a funny looking imitation of a lion, a section dedicated to illustruous swedes from recent times and of course the theater which N takes great care explaining to us. It is a wooden structure, built like an amphitheater, the stage having multiple planes where props can be slid in. In was one of the most mechanically advanced theaters of it's time, the mechanism below the stage are immense and impressive. I have no notion of theater, for me it is a form of magic in the sense of Ted Chiang. The universe is somewhat aware of me and what I see on stage is there to make me think. And moreso my friend whom I see passionate and visibly moved by this world which is somewhat out of touch and timeless, it's own "little world" that you enter through a dimensional gateway and in which you can chose to stay, because what is reality anyway than a place where we can realize our dreams?