reflection

"i watch the cars go by for a while on the highway. something lonely about them. not lonely--worse. nothing. like the attendant's expression when he filled the tank. nothing. a nothing curb, by some nothing gravel, at a nothing intersection, going nowhere. something about the car drivers too... they all look like they're in a funeral procession. once in a while one gives a quick glance and then looks away expressionlessly, as if minding his own business, as if embarrassed that we might have noticed he was looking at us... the driving is different too. the cars seem to be moving at a steady maximum speed for in-town driving, as though they want to get somewhere, as though what's here right now is just something to get through. the drivers seem to be thinking about where they want to be rather than where they are." --Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

it is so noisy on here. the mornings start quiet, silent. at four-thirty a.m., the sun sneaks around the berry-red curtains (though i have pulled them as tightly closed as i can). this incredibly warm feeling wakes me... i look at the clock, decide it is much to early to rise, and go back to sleep. but not now. now, i am trying to make elevator-music out of the sing-song conversation around me. i pull out my book and read. slowly, carefully, i devour every english word. my mind's tongue dances on every familiar, calming syllable. the words roll together, the sentences form and the brain realizes the meaning.

STOP!

my mysitcal world disappears. i re-read the paragraph, look up, and really see what is around me. an old man is sitting across from his wife. every once in a while they trade sections of the newspaper and exchange loving glances that tell the years and conversations they've shared. two girlfriends eat cheese-bagels and share an orange juice; the blonde one gives an european side-cheek kiss before she gets up at her stop. across the way a lady gets on with her bike and starts a conversation with a group of people standing near the door. perhaps they are all friends meeting on the train. "the drivers seem to be thinking about where they want to be rather than where they are." here, with these people, every moment is to be enjoyed.

i wonder if it is the weather. it sounds stupid, but i think about it. the weather is chaotic, unpredictable, uncontrollable. it affects everything: the way one feels, what activities one does, the traditions one has. it underlies the cultural vibe. swedes say that there is no bad weather, only bad clothing. if they can live through nightless-days and dayless-nights, through excruciatingly cold winters and wonderfully warm summers, there must be something to this swedish weather.

i visited many other cities. i even lived and worked in chicago for a summer, and i love the memories from that summer. but, i do remember the walking zombies that pirsig describes. the rushing--but never getting anywhere; the downturned heads--never looking, never seeing; the silent strangers--passing the same faces everyday, i became just another lost in this crowd. but, not here, not in stockholm. this city has a feeling-- a beat-- a fever, if you will.

for almost two weeks, i have remained in my safe little american bubble. i have carried on as if i had been transported into just another american city-- i have been avoiding this all-consuming swedish culture. i tell myself that my attitude needs re-adjustment. i came here for a life changing experience, not for a tour of sweden. who was that guy who said that being a traveler involves actively searching, while being a tourist is just passively viewing scenery? i put my book down. i choose to be a traveler.