Going Down Monteliusvägen.

What a beautiful morning! I remember waking up an hour before the alarm went off. As the lazy capriciousness tried to set in me and make me regret that I had to go to work, an encouraging thought occupied that space.

Instead of the usual complain about having to go work, I felt appreciation over that I was going out in this beautiful morning. A calming peace entered my mind and I fell right back to sleep only to be woken up by the sound of the alarm what felt like immediately. It announced the start of the day and moments after a switched it off, I was in the bathroom singing; though out of tune, jovially.

Sunday! What a fitting name for just this Sunday! Or have I been pretermitting all the past Sundays!?

The streets are empty as usual, most people still tightly tucked in the warmth of their blankets.

Not a cockerel crow not a dog’s bark. The sun shyly taking its place in the clear blue sky. It too does not seem to willingly desire to disturb the sleepy morning. A gentle blaze agrees with it, silently, invisibly swooshing by.

A few cars even they installed with noise reducing systems hum lightly as they crisscross the assigned roads. The drivers enjoying the near devoid Sunday morning traffic.

In the city the order transcends. The clean streets welcome the few treading feet. The buildings firm and unquivering, guarding every soul within the walls, asleep or awake, from the storms that may be.

Two hours later, I go down Kattgränd, down the stairs that mark the end of the tarmac and concrete and the start of the not very many city walking paths still left bare. Into the small reserve, a sloping border from Södermalm, somewhere between Munchenbryggeriet and Maria Hissen. Both historical landmarks.

As I come to where Kattgränd and Monteliusvägen meet, a dose of fresh air fills my lungs. The rain that showered most of the day before washed away the dust, but most importantly for me the poisonous pollen as well.

After five years in Sweden, I was made aware that I had developed an allergic reaction to pollen. Since then, every time this sweet scented dust from the trees hits the roads, and that’s every spring, am left a sneezing, coughing, itchy-red-eyed weakling. Sometimes it strikes so hard it feels like my lungs are squeezed from the inside making it hard to breath.

But the rain takes care of that when it comes. While others pray for the sun, I pray for the rain during the spring season. I stay indoors as much as possible and thus can not enjoy the warming rays anyway. Otherwise a have no quarrels with the sun, especially not this Sunday.

I stop at Monteliusvägen and behold the sprawling Lake Mälaren. Calm and patient, slowly rocking its waves in an unconvincing flow. It too seems to be enjoying the sun as its surface sparkles in response. Boldly daring.

One day, I say to myself while I curse the day I never learned how to swim. You win; I give you a walkover but one day Mälaren. I will dive into you and explore your soft belly.

I look around me, the green and the many flowers, some too eager to sprout out after the long autumn and winter seasons already blossoming brightly while others as if caught in their slumber, just budding. The green grass already familiar with the spring.

Right there, life makes sense. We are here to enjoy these. Alone, I look around in search of another human being with whom I can share these. No one… wait. Another early riser is enthusiastically brushing the cemented path to a garden outside his house. An old cultural house, more so a cottage. As if sensing my brief gaze, he looks up and our eyes meet.

“Hej hej!!” he shouts excitedly to which I shout my hej back happily. He goes back to his work whistling.

Just as am about to resume my walk, a middle aged couple walks chattering by. Their eyes down looking at the ground they walk on. They don’t seem to notice me though they hurriedly pass a half a meter away from me. Oblivious of what nature was offering, consumed by the power walk and the confabulation.

Across the Mälaren, the old city of Stockholm rests. Its tranquillity disarming and but for a few tall buildings its ancient look appears unpollutable. The brown city hall building, like a watchman, guarding the city. The Riddarholmskyrkan, the oldest building in Stockholm dating back to 1200, with its long metal tower, a golden cross at its tip points, directing to the deity above.

I pass between the two orange coloured cultural buildings along Torkelknutsonsgatan. Though people still live in them, they are preserved in their original state as built over a hundred years ago and are guarded by the city bylaws to tell and represent their time and the cultural history of the city.

As I pass by, I remember a story that I heard about the house on the right side. A woman who lives in one of the apartments on the ground floor heard a commotion from the apartment above her. She had always thought that she lived alone until that day. This was fifty years ago.

Late in the evenings, she would hear foot steps going up the stairs but never saw anyone during the day. This was disturbing because the noise from above would at times keep her awake late into the night.

One day she decided to find out more about her neighbour. The way to the entrance of the house was just outside her window so she sat by the window one evening and waited.

Several hours later, just as she was about to give up, a man walked past the window towards the entrance. She could not believe her eyes, all this time she had thought that she was alone in the house whilst a man lived just a few steps up.

The following day, she waited at the same place around the same time and as the mysterious man passed by she rushed out and stood by her door. The gate squawked as it opened and a tall strong looking man came through. When he saw her, he stopped momentarily and looked suspiciously at her little form then ascended the stairs ignoring her extended greetings.

She tried this again even suggesting a cup of coffee at her place but the man ostensibly got more and more irritated. Taking his unfriendly tone, she shouted to him to keep it down when in the house coz it was disturbing her sleep. These only agitated him further.

After a while she could not stand it. She had tried to enquire about the man but no one knew him or about him. She called the police and reported the suspected intruder. She then warned him.

When the police came with guns and dogs, the man was nowhere to be found. They decided to break in after waiting long enough and investigate the inside of the apartment. What they discovered made headlines the following day.

From the bedroom, the smell of rot spread to the rest of the apartment. There was a table by the bed filled with plates of different foods in different states of decay. On the bed, a woman lay dead. Judging by the body’s putrefaction, she had been dead for a while.

It was later ascertained that the woman was the man’s mother, he was mentally ill and that he had been making food for his dead mother every evening. He would then leave the food on the table by the bed.

Anyway, the twittering birds bring me to, back to the beauty, the fresh air, the peace and the happy feeling the day was giving. They must be the same birds that Bob Marley saw outside his door steps when he rose up that morning. Their songs sweet the melody pure and true as they gave him their message. Don’t worry about a thing, summer is nigh!

Njoro.