Around the World in 80 Dates (9 page)

Anders, who was still busy with the food, and, I suspect, keeping a respectful distance in the kitchen, looked up when I walked back in. “Well?” he asked playfully. “Did you find the sauna?” I rolled my eyes at what seemed to me the insane opulence of it.

“Anders, that's just crazy,” I stated with incredulity.

“Why crazy?” he asked with a grin.

For a moment, I was worried I would appear a bit of a country bumpkin. “It just seems so extravagant,” I replied slowly, trying to put my culture shock into words. “In England, to go to a sauna is a real treat, to go sailing is a bit of an event. To go sailing on a sauna seems the equivalent of bobbing for Godiva chocolates in a barrel of Moët.”

He laughed at this, appearing as it must have to him like a scene out of
Pygmalion.
He reassured me by putting it into context: “Don't forget, in Sweden we think to take a sauna is very normal. And as for the floating part, this is a coastal city: Water is a big part of our lives.”

He seemed gently charmed by my reaction and I in turn felt more relaxed that we had subtly acknowledged our differences but not found them too much of an obstacle. When I had arrived, Anders had scared me. He was too
everything:
handsome, rich, powerful…He was still all those things, but I was less fazed by them now that I was starting to get a sense of his personality.

I did still feel apprehensive about one thing, though. “So, that was why I needed to bring the bikini, then?” I asked, trying to keep the I-would-sooner-throw-myself-over-the-side-than-let-you-see-me-in-a-bikini note from my voice.

Suddenly Anders looked awkward, too. “Yes,” he replied. “I thought it might be romantic, but…” My heart leaped at the “but.” “…maybe it is too much too soon? Perhaps it is good just to relax and enjoy each other's company?”

I could have kissed him.

And Anders, maybe sharing my performance anxiety, looked relieved, too. Picking up the final tray of food and flipping a cloth over his arm, he bowed mockingly. “If madam is ready, dinner is served,” he announced with a flourish.

 

Sitting across from me at the table on deck, Anders unveiled exquisite dish after dish: strawberries dusted with sugar and threaded onto skewers; hot, tender fish sandwiches dressed in a piquant sauce, each a single mouthful dripping warm olive oil down my forearm; baked cheese coated in crunchy herbs served with a tangy mustard dip. Crisp chunks of bread and brimming bowls of glossy salad acted to counterpoint the rich flavors and textures.

We ate with our fingers, after a while forgetting to wipe them clean on our napkins so that, unnoticed, our wineglasses became imprinted with buttery impressions of our lips and fingertips.

And all the while we talked. We talked about my journey, our friends, our lives, and what we thought might be our futures.

Anders was a local events organizer and had just finished his two big shows for the year: a huge arts and music festival and the Gothenburg Grand Prix. He admitted he was exhausted and was looking forward to catching up with friends, but mostly to spending time on his own in his very basic log cabin in a nearby forest.

“Really?” I asked in surprise. I must have said it with a little too much surprise, as Anders raised his eyebrows quizzically. “Sorry,” I said quickly. “I didn't mean that rudely, I just meant…” I groped for a tactful way to say he looked too urban and sophisticated to rough it. “You look like someone with a taste for city life. I can't quite picture you drawing water from a well and combing your hair with twigs.”

He smiled, looking vaguely flattered. “I need time in my cabin,” he explained. “It is my retreat, the place I go to recharge my batteries and switch off from everything that pulls and makes demands of me.”

I could understand that. “I get like that, too,” I agreed, “but I always feel guilty: I spend so much time traveling and away from my friends, I feel I have to put the time in with them when I get back or they get really irritable and difficult.” And, to be fair, I wanted to put the time in, too: Traveling for work might be wonderful, but it was also pretty lonely.

Anders looked a little sad. “Yes, it is hard with friends as they do not understand that, yes, my work is fun, but it is also very demanding and with long hours. As I have become older, I am less troubled by the demands of others and enjoy my own company more and more.” He explained that it had caused his most recent relationship to break up, as they were both traveling extensively for work and spending long periods of time apart. Although he looked hurt by this, I also sensed that Anders was someone happy to be on his own, reconciled to and actually enjoying his own company in a way I suspected I never could. He had a grown-up son from a marriage long over. When you're a guy and you've had children, maybe that particular need is sated and it's your own company you value for its peace and continuity.

We talked for hours. We talked through dinner; we talked through juicy spikes of chopped tropical fruit; we talked through rich, bitter chocolates; we talked through coffee; we talked through cognac. We talked through Frank Sinatra, U2, Bruce Springsteen, Matt Monro. And as we talked about Gothenburg and London, and relationships we'd loved and relationships that had broken our hearts, jobs we'd adored…I knew he was not my Soul Mate. I enjoyed being with Anders and found him very attractive, but ultimately we were looking for different relationships. He was an educated, passionate man with a true appreciation of fine things. But he was a loner. Being on my own scared me to death: I wanted to meet someone who was open to the possibility of falling in love, running the risk of getting hurt along the way, but still believing there was someone wonderful out there for him. I didn't want to experience life solo, I wanted a Soul Mate to share it with, and was willing to travel the world to find him.

By now it was 3 a.m. There was still light in the sky, but it had a silvery luminosity about it, like it was the moon shining rather than the sun. We both had early starts the next day, Anders to help a friend move house, me to catch a train to Stockholm. He rang another of the ubiquitous captains to come and tow us back to land.

 

Back on dry land, a taxi was waiting. We sat very close on the backseat as we drove back to Gothenburg. I felt we had really shared something—I'm certain he did, too—but I was unsure exactly what.

When we arrived at my hotel, Anders got out and walked me to the door. We stood looking at each other without speaking, just as we had done all those hours ago on the deck of the boat. But so much seemed to have happened since then. He held my hands in his and studied me, smiling enigmatically. He then took me in his arms and pulled me tightly against him.

“You are a very special woman, Jennifer, it has been an extraordinary evening,” he said in a low voice, tense with emotion. I felt the same way and got quite teary. “Will you be okay to catch your train?” he asked softly. “It's early, isn't it?”

I made a face. “Eight thirty,” I told him. Loosening his hold on me a fraction, he looked at his watch. It was 4 a.m. “It's fine, though, there are a ton of trains to Stockholm,” I said. “I can easily get a later one if I'm too tired.” I sensed he knew that nothing was going to happen tonight and he wasn't going to make a move. I'd started thinking that breakfast together would be nice but didn't want to suggest it myself.

“Maybe you'd like breakfast, then?” he suggested.

I beamed. “That would be lovely,” I replied. “But I know you have to help your friend move.”

A cloud flitted across his face and he frowned for a moment. “Ah yes, my friends. I will have to call them and see what can be done. In the meantime, though,” and again he held me close, this time brushing his lips across my ear, “I want to thank you for this evening. It has touched me greatly.”

And then, taking my face in his hands and tilting it up toward his, he looked into my eyes and kissed me very lightly on the lips, touching my mouth gently with his fingers. Complicated emotions played across his face: sadness, indecision, desire? I was unsure, but he held my gaze intensely. Mesmerized, I held my breath. Tracing his fingers up my face and stroking my hair, he kissed me lightly once more, then turned and got back into the taxi. The door closed and it pulled away.

I have to admit, I was so tired by now that I was almost relieved to see him go. I desperately needed some sleep. But watching him gaze at me through the window of the taxi, I felt thrilled and tantalized. The whole exchange had been romantic, electric, complicated, and unresolved. Would I hear from him tomorrow? Did I want to? Too tired to search for answers, I went up to my room, lay down fully clothed on the bed, and fell into a deep sleep until the alarm went off three hours later.

 

By 9:30 the next morning, the train had already carried me an hour east of Gothenburg.

When the alarm had gone off, I'd taken a quick shower and packed, listening for the phone the whole time. It hadn't rung. Neither had it when I'd queued to buy the ticket to Stockholm. I'd boarded the train in a dream: It would make a mess of my schedule if he did call and I had to take a later train. But if I couldn't deal with a change in my plans, there was no point in me being on this journey in the first place.

But seriously, were we even compatible? He looked like someone used to women with drawers full of sheer lingerie, who wouldn't need to sit at weird angles to attain the illusion of a perfect fit. My underwear drawers were full of “favorite” (i.e., unattractive but comfortable) bras, mismatched socks, and bars of soap I kept meaning to use but constantly forgot I owned. Was I too old to change? Was I an old dog that could be taught new tricks? It was hard to know. I suspected that in order to meet my Soul Mate, I needed to embrace new ideas, but if those ideas were too much of a stretch (or squeeze), I'd never really be happy.

Had Anders known all this? Or had I been putting out
not interested
vibes? Or was it all part of him being a loner, that he didn't feel the need to follow up? Or maybe he had a whole basket of issues I knew nothing about?

It felt unresolved, but, curiously, I was fine with that. Although I wanted the satisfaction and closure of him calling, I wasn't troubled by the fact that he hadn't. My self-confidence wasn't free-falling and I didn't feel rejected.

Then my phone rang and I nearly fell off the seat. Was Anders opening it all back up, just as I was going through the rationalizing ritual of closing it all down? No, it was Ann-Charlotte, incandescent with curiosity about how the evening had gone. She oohed and ahhhed and ohmigoded through my account before exploding: “And so, has he rung?”

“Of course not, you nit, or I wouldn't be on the train,” I retorted in exasperation.

“Well, for goodness' sake, Jennifer, call him. You must call him, what are you waiting for?”

But I wasn't going to call. I'd spent one magical evening with Anders and had enjoyed every moment of it. But I knew that that was it and—unlike in the past—I was going to trust my instincts. We'd had fun, but we weren't right for each other; more time together wouldn't change that.

Then it suddenly hit me with a jolt: Hey,
I don't get seasick on floating saunas.
Pleased with my newfound expensive tastes and certain it was only a matter of time before I'd be bobbing for Godivas, I curled up on my seat and fell into a deep sleep that lasted until the train pulled into Stockholm five hours later.

Date #7—The Viking Date
in Birka, Sweden

You've got to admire the nerve of the Swedes. At a time when the rest of the world was denying it had ever even owned a tank top, let alone worn a pair of beige slacks that fitted snugly around the (pre-thong) bottom, Sweden—in particular, Stockholm—was embracing and refining its entire 1970s back catalogue.

Man-made textiles were cherished, not vilified, and everything from couture to cutlery came in a variety of bold designs, resplendent in the entire rich spectrum of the color brown.

And then, as the rest of the world came back around to the idea that the seventies' look wasn't gauche after all but actually knowing and cutting edge, Stockholm was crowned the most knowing of them all. If cities were people, Stockholm, absorbed in its own fashionable introspectiveness, was Andy Warhol.

I've always wondered if the whole thing was just a double bluff. Was Stockholm really that hip, or was it more a case of not knowing any better than to have a soft spot for flares and flammable fabrics? Isn't it possible Stockholm just got lucky that the rest of the world was too insecure to call them out and folded first?

The reason I'd been contemplating design issues was also the reason I'd been reluctant to get a later train: I had a Designer Date in Stockholm.

Thomas Sandell was an über-award-winning Swedish designer whose interiors and furniture designs had earned him commissions ranging from the Swedish government to Eriksson technologies. He was even represented in the stores of what was arguably Sweden's most effective cultural ambassador: IKEA.

I say the date was with Thomas, but it was actually with one of his designs. Stay with me on this: I'll explain.

I was booked into the Hotel Birger Jarl, a hip, modern hotel in which all the rooms had been created by Sweden's top designers. I was staying in one of the two rooms created by Thomas.

I wanted to test my theory that if your job is your most important relationship, it will eventually start to resemble you. I mean, dogs famously take on the appearance of their owners, so is the same true of a job? How much of who you are can be seen in what you do?

Specifically, would I get a true sense of Thomas by staying in a room he'd designed? I'd check into his room, then meet up with him in a couple of days, tell him the impression I had of him from his work, and see if I was right.

Feeling groggy from my weird new sleep patterns, and arms aching from dragging my case over cobbled streets (“
God, it can't be much farther
” being the misguided mantra of travelers everywhere), I arrived at the minimalist lobby of the Birger Jarl. As I checked in, the desk clerk, chic and understated in his black suit and Bond-baddie wire glasses, handed me a number of messages.

I immediately wondered if one was from Anders. I didn't think he knew where I was staying, so I doubted it, but that didn't stop a flame of hope flaring up. So much for my
trusting my instincts
/
he's not the one for me
moral high ground.

Scooping up the messages and the key to room 705, I went up in the tiny lift, en route to the first stage of my Designer Date.

A plaque outside my door told me my room was called “Mr. Glad.”

Oh, at last, an upbeat boyfriend,
I thought as I slid my keycard into the lock and let myself in.

The first thing I did when I walked into the space was laugh. The room was long, bright, and silly. The windows that ran down the far wall were fringed with white window-boxes of bright green Astroturf. It didn't even look vaguely natural or pastoral; instead it seemed like someone was growing green plastic broom-heads.

In the middle of the room, a white gauze curtain acted as a gossamer screen between the room and a larger-than-life bed, like something out of
Goldilocks and the Three Bears.
The white wall behind the pillow-laden headboard was covered with black-painted dashes, reminiscent of a cow-print design. The chairs in front of the bed were equally
who's been sitting in my chair
–esque.

Putting my bags down on the floor, I clambered up onto the bed. The whole room felt friendly and funny, generous and openly welcoming.
Thank God,
I thought as I bedded down in a nest of pillows and fished the messages out of my coat pocket; I could so easily have ended up in the scary room with the black bed and claustrophobic black-and-white-checked walls.

Hotel rooms are like relationships: intimate and powerful. The good ones nurture, making you feel relaxed and happy. The bad ones get under your skin and fill you with impotent rage.

Well, I was Ms. Glad; so far my Design Date was going very well indeed.

I opened the messages. The first one was from Lorna confirming my 10:30 at the Nobel Museum in a couple of days. Second message was from my sister Mandy, just calling to check I was doing okay. Third message was from Maria, my Designer Date Wrangler. “Uh-oh.” I sat up on the bed, sensing bad news.

“Hello, Jennifer, I hope you have arrived safely and are enjoying the hotel. I wanted to let you know that unfortunately Thomas will be on business in Moscow for the next few days and may not be back in Sweden in time to meet you. He has left his number if you want to call him.”

Not wanting to think about how much it would cost on my cell phone to bounce my voice via satellite from Sweden to England to Russia to England and back to Sweden, I decided to call tomorrow. It was a lovely evening; I was going to take a walk, find some food, then have an early night. I was dating a Viking tomorrow and needed to catch up with myself.

The hotel was a short walk from the funky Odengatan and grungy Kungsgatan areas, and I soon discovered that my trip to Stockholm coincided with a big Metallica concert and that the fans owned the city that night.

Heavy metal was king in Scandinavia, and Metallica was probably its oldest ruling dynasty. The streets were crammed with roving gangs of teenage boys looking strangely like baby hedgehogs, the backs of their denim jackets spiky with tiny metal studs. The bars spilled over with long-haired bikers—fueled by excitement and Jack Daniel's, they roared across the street at each other like Norse warriors going into battle.

I have a bit of a heavy-metal soft spot and ordinarily would have enjoyed the display, even seen it as a warm-up act for the Viking tomorrow. But the atmosphere seemed tense and volatile rather than fun. I stopped at a supermarket for some chips and cookies (just because I was traveling was no reason to let my diet go) and settled in the hotel bar with a book and the internationally ubiquitous chill-out music of designer hotels.

At 10 a.m. the next morning, I boarded a ferry from the quay outside City Hall and set sail for Birka.

Birka was an island, situated one and a half hours west of Stockholm, along the inland archipelago of Lake Mälaren. Although there wasn't much to see now, this UNESCO site was an important part of the Viking heritage. Founded in the eighth century, Birka had been Sweden's first city and a busy trade center between Northern Europe and the Baltic Sea. It also contained the largest Viking-age cemetery—more than 3,000 graves scattered throughout the island—and excavating archaeologists were still uncovering important finds.

It was actually one of the archaeologists I was on my way to date. Each summer a number of them, specializing in Viking-age studies, stayed on the island as part of a living history display but also to learn more about the Vikings by emulating what is known of their living conditions and habits.

This was all good news for me, as I wanted to date a Viking.

I know this is going to sound terrible and wildly politically incorrect, but I've always thought the Viking image deeply sexy. Ruthless warriors conquering all in their path, Vikings always seemed to be depicted as having big hair, bad attitudes, and hard, hot bodies. I realized as a peaceful vegetarian I should have found this image appalling rather than appealing, but there you go, that's hormones for you. Vikings were the stuff of daydreams, as far as I was concerned, and this was my chance to find out if my fantasies survived scrutiny.

 

Stockholm had been really warm when I'd left, but as I walked from the ferry down the metal gangplank into the steady drizzle that enveloped Birka, I didn't need to be told I had got my outfit completely wrong. Although I'd thought to wear a waterproof coat, underneath I was freezing and being bitten to death in my open-toed sandals and capri pants. Rain and mosquitoes? I was failing Viking 101 from the outset.

I followed a gravel path toward a thin copse. The sound of wood being chopped rang energetically through the trees and echoed off the rocks, scaring dark clouds of guttural crows into the darker rain clouds that hung low above Birka. I knew that Ny Bjórn, archaeologist and part-time Viking, was re-creating a Viking-age kitchen with his fellow archaeologists. Unless IKEA dated back much further than I realized, I guessed that sound was them cutting up trees and building the kitchen from scratch.

As I came through a clearing, I saw a group of people surrounded by tree trunks stripped of their bark and piles of fresh shavings. The stakes were loosely laid out on the forest floor in the shape of a small one-room house. A cold-looking woman in a long woolen dress was crouched at the edge of the clearing, stirring a cauldron over an open fire. The rest of the group were men and stood in the center of the clearing, blunt saws and axes at their feet. Two wore long, woolen, monklike robes, cinched at the waist by long twists of thin rope. The rest wore sturdy leather trousers and boots, topped with rough woolen shirts and tweed jerkins. They all stared at the arrangement of wood, hands on hips and nonplussed expressions on their faces. Maybe it was early IKEA after all?

Catching sight of me, they immediately busied themselves, moving around bits of wood and generally trying to give the impression that they were very busy and knew exactly what they were doing. I was touched that they were bothered about impressing a woman who was dressed as if going for coffee in the south of France, when actually on a rain-sodden island that clearly hadn't seen the sun in months. But I suppose none of us would have been on the island if we didn't have some issues to work through.

One of the group, in leather trousers and a crazy flat cap, smiled and strode toward me. “Auch, hellooo, Jennifer, welcome to Birka,” he called out in a broad Scottish accent. I was confused: I thought my Viking was Swedish—Ny Bjórn was surely never a Scottish name?

He got close enough to shake my hand, by now so cold it was shaking anyway.

“Hello,” I said. “Are you Scottish?”

“Ooh, noo,” he replied with a grin. “But I've done a fair bit of excavating in the Scottish Highlands, so I've got a bit of a burr.” He actually had so much of a burr that just saying the word took him about fifteen minutes.

“But you are a Viking?” I asked, looking to establish some facts. “Or at least you're dressed like one.”

“Yes,” Ny Bjórn replied, “or as we assume they dressed, from the remains we have found in Denmark, York, and Northern Germany.”

Rather than the ruthless warrior I had imagined, Ny Bjórn actually looked more like a wandering minstrel. My first impression was of a tall, thin, and engaging man, clearly having the time of his life on this cold, wet island. His long reddish-blond hair tied back into a ponytail, Ny Bjórn had a mischievous-looking face, punctuated by an energetic goatee that wagged up and down like a happy dog's tail when he laughed. I knew straight away that he wasn't my type: He looked like the smart kid you enjoyed chatting with because you sat next to him in chemistry but never fancied. I didn't mind, though; I was still fascinated to learn more about him and what he was doing here.

Ny Bjórn and I retreated to a large, cold rock to talk. He explained that until they finished building the cookhouse in two weeks' time, they would be sleeping rough on rainy Birka.

I had my first inkling that maybe Vikings were tough not because it was cute and sexy but because they had to be. And I—with my pathological hatred of the cold, not to mention mosquitoes—might not find myself a natural fit into Viking society. I asked Ny Bjórn to explain who the Vikings actually were.

“The word ‘Viking' is used for all people in the North cultural sphere, but Vikings were really just a tiny part of the community, mostly those who went raiding and taking things with force,” he replied.

“So they were like unionized burglars?” I asked.

“Exactly, that's the Viking part. They were seen as heroes by the local community who watched them come back loaded up with bounty, but by the end of the Viking age, to call someone ‘a Viking' was really seen as quite rude.”

“Umm, so as a Viking you could be fairly prosperous, by the sound of it.” I found this reassuring from a comfort point of view, but what about from a dating point of view? The key question (which I was too ashamed to ask outright) was, exactly how hot were the Vikings?

I paraphrased: “We have an image of Vikings as being rough, roguish types and you're sitting here in leather trousers, which have gone on to become the uniform of rock stars. Were Vikings seen as the sexy rock-star gods of their age?”