Jesus, it's cold. Winter is on its way. My poor neanderthal bones are freezing. I finally understand the Swedish obsession with the weather. Last ''summer,'' with its week after week of 15-degree rainy days, was a blow and when November hit, everyone was demoralized and depressed. They were actually angry - depression is anger turned inwards, yes? - and bitter. Me, I thought it was a bit early to be so hostile, but I later realized it was anticipatory. If you are cheated out of summer, by February you will about be done in. And I enjoy winter, particularly snowy and cold winters - I grew up in Chicago after all. Still, I'm as weak as the next guy, and so when we had a glorious summer this year, I was ecstatic and I gloried in the sound of drunken girls on the street below at Bonden and La Cucaracha, laughing and falling and singing early in the morning when we were trying to sleep during the darkest hours of the night, those two hours of twilight that Stockholm is allotted each day at the height of the summer.
But, it's over now. Although we'll cheat it by going to the States next week, grabbing for ourselves an extra week of heat. And I hear it is hot in North America.
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The husband and I are soon off to dinner with the model, A., and her boyfriend the photographer and his two children. There's sure to be good food - probably something Italian, or maybe Thai. I'm ravenous.
The Swedish word for today is deprimerad. It means depressed. - by Francis S.