“I usually don’t pick up hitchhikers. But you don’t look like the usual hippie… “
The 40-something man opens the door of the fancy car he drives to make an impression on his clients.
I’m in. comfortably sitting in the rear, with my shoulders finally relying on something smoother than a rock.
It was fun to sleep for few days in a tent under zero degrees and winking stars fighting to be brighter than the orange moon. Listening to the birds talking to each other the whole night.
Fun and humid. the surface of the tent was frozen every morning we woke up. Sometimes I dreamed I would lose my legs since they were so cold. But as far as my body is warm, legs and arms are not a big issue. I’m fine with it.
I don’t look like a hippie, you can say so. I shaved in the morning, before hitting the road. And worn the jacked my mother hand-made for me. Maybe my hair are a bit ruffled by the wind. It’s not my fault if they are curly. If they would be straight, I guess they’d look dirtier. who cares, anyway? the only important thing now, is hosting these random travel-mates in my life. and understanding theirs.
Is he happy about having to give up his plans to lead the family company? Is he ok with being in the petrol business? why does he keep saying “we live close to the Continent. you know, in one hour we are there…”?. why not to describe the beauty of the countryside and the place were he sleeps every night, next to the woman sitting at his side, who didn’t speak a word for the whole journey?
Malmo. here is where they live. Malmo. such a mysterious sound… open vocals spaced out by sweet consonants. Producing the first “M” is like getting ready for a kiss. “A” of surprise for its wonder. “LMO” slowly blow the kiss in the space.
Such a sensual shape my mouth takes to speak the word. MALMO. the mystery of a place that tells me about water, forests and Nordic city-lines. And people who want to escape to the Continent.
Malmo: Italian sound that makes me think about the little gypsy sitting next to me. she is the one looking like a hippie and i don’t undestand how we managed to find a ride. Maybe is because of the way she smiled at them.
Here she is: looking outside the window to catch glimpses of the lakes next the highway. It seems there is always a lake you can go to wash your thoughts, in Sweden. You can sit at its borders and look at the clouds mirrored in the water. And forget about anything else but your breath.
When she is not immersed in contemplation, her body moves forward, as to absorb the meaning of our driver’s stories. or she lies back on the sitting, to look at him from the rear mirror.
I know she will go back home, after this new adventure, playing with stories and memory in my behalf. taking the license of writing in my name. giving freedom to the inspiration that she collected through life and pictures. and I don’t care if I will end up being another of her characters in the not-written yet novel of her life. or at least she hopes I don’t care.
