Let's put it down, flip it and reverse it to this past Friday. I'm in Bussjö, a tiny village outside Ystad which is a tiny town outside Malmö which is an okay-sized city in the country of Sweden. My dad is born in Malmö and my grandpa is from this tiny village. And it's at my great grandparents old farm that we're staying when we're here and where I've spent my summers all my life. After having eaten Swedish crayfish for dinner I put on my grandpa's old Adidas jacket and go out in the windy evening.
With me I had these stars. My mom, dad and brother.
We walked along the fields and turn in on a narrow pathway dividing the oats from the barley.
This place is by far my most beautiful place in the world. Especially at this time of year and when the sun is on it's way down behind the hill. So pretty I could die. And then we have me, blending in with all that beauty.
We walk past houses that old relatives have lived in and my dad tell us stories of our grandpa's grandparents and cousins and what not. I imagine living here, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by fields and cows and tractors threshing the sugar beets and just the thought makes me restless.
And after about 40 minutes we're here, by our little farm that's hiding behind the trees like a tiny oasis.
We spend the rest of the night watching Bloodline (my new obsession, watch it on Netflix) and eating cookies upstairs.