*the following information may be incomplete/ untrue/ falsifiable, as we spent the 48 hours described below in haze of jet-lag and sleep deprivation:

After spending 4-ish hours putting bikes together in the airport following a 9-hour flight, it was time to ride our bikes 4.7 miles to Malsta, where we had rooms booked at a hostel. We pushed our bikes through the revolving doors of an airport exit and stepped outside into the country of Sweden. It was between 6-7pm and the sun was shining high in the sky, the air fresh and crisp, the perfect temperature where you don’t think about whether you’re hot or cold. 

 

But how do you ride your bikes out of a major international airport where you can’t read any of the signs? Within minutes, a Swedish police car found us huddled in a parking area not far from the terminal. Chris explained to him that we needed to ride to Malsta, preferably on a bike path, and we began our adventure with a police escort through the maze of airport traffic to the bike path that ran parallel to the highway the entire 4.7 miles there.

We realized two things right away:

• there are bike paths with signage, marked with city names and distance in kilometers, running next to every major road
• the sky is indescribable, but I’ll try: we’ve said it’s “wide,” “oval,”  “stretched-out,” “like being in a snow globe without the snow,” “like being Alice in Wonderland.” It stretches further than seems possible in all directions, brilliant blue sprinkled with clouds (which S described as “always perfect”) from one horizon to the other.

Somehow, we all made the ride to the hostel without a problem. I was half-expecting someone (maybe me) to just fall over or stop and not be able to keep going. I felt like I must be in some kind of survival mode, because by the time we got to our hostel, I hadn’t slept in two days. This is where things get fuzzy for me. We arrived at 8:00pm and reception staff was gone for the evening. Chris was on his phone, trying all kinds of numbers left on the door, but he was having trouble reaching anyone. He was using his phone internationally for the first time and wasn’t sure what kind of country code to use to dial out and in. He ended up finding a working number on our reservation email, which was different from any numbers left at the door.

They gave him the code for a key box to our room. Although the place generally consisted of hostel rooms with a shared kitchen, our reservation turned out to be more like a little apartment in the basement with a tiny kitchen and sitting room and bedrooms that were more like cabins on a boat, big enough for single beds. Two rooms had one single bed each, which the boys took, and one room had three single beds, which was perfect for Chris, S, and me. Five single crisp-white beds. Everything was tiny, simple, and clean.

The apartment was perfectly Swedish. It was like spending real time in one of those showrooms in IKEA, where they demonstrate how to make the most of a small space. I was glad it was in the basement, as the sun was still shining bright at 9pm and our windowless rooms were cool and dark.

At this point, all I remember is collapsing on a bed, my mind on the bandages covering the weeping poison oak spots on my neck and shoulders. I’d accidentally left my roll of medical tape on the plane, the one thing I needed to make sure I could cover my skin, which was oozing oils and yellow, sticky pus. If it wasn’t covered, it globbed onto my shirt and bra and anything else I was touching. I needed to remove the old bandages, clean the rashes, and figure out how to cover it without medical tape.

But I was. so. tired. I fell asleep to the sound of Chris leaving for the store to get food, bandages, and tape. The kids, having slept on the plane, were reinvigorated by the excitement of the new place and were rummaging through the apartment.

When I woke again, it was the middle of the night, but twilight out and Chris and the kids were sleeping. I stumbled into the kitchen, found a bowl of half-eaten leftover pasta and sauce in the sink, ate some of the noodles with my hands, and went back to bed. The last thing I remember before nodding off again was thinking about how much I would pay someone to take my poison oak away. I came up with $350.

We all woke the next morning at 10:30am, which felt like 1:30am to our bodies. Check-out was 11 and the original plan had us leaving town and riding 20-ish miles to a campsite. The thought of it made me want to cry.

There was no way this was happening. Chris checked with reception, who had booked our same apartment for the night but had two different hostel rooms we could split into. We took the rooms, transferred our stuff, and spent the day exploring the small town of Marsta and the neighboring town of Sigtuna at the recommendation of several locals. It’s one of the oldest towns in Sweden and except for the ruins of a castle and the language, we could have sworn we were in Northern Michigan, complete with mini golf and ice cream.

Our ride out and back to Sigtuna, which was about 12 miles, without our gear, was a great way to work off some jet lag and general kinks from traveling. We made it back to our hostel rooms, which were nothing like the apartment we’d had the night before. While the apartment had been dark, cool, and private, the rooms were facing the street with big windows. The sun “sets” here around midnight and “rises” around 3:00, but even then I’ve never seen it get actually dark, just twilight. Between the light, the heat of the small room, the sounds of all-night traffic and the neighbors coming and going, Chris and I hardly slept. It was miserable, but also good, as we were ready to hit the road and ride south towards Stockholm to get the touring properly started.