Spanish moss, sand dollars & shooting stars

Last week, we re-charged our batteries. It was a family affair: 15 people, 1 house, on an island together for a week. Bliss.

I'd honestly planned to blog from the beach, but when the time came to seat myself in front of this screen, I couldn't do it. Between bike rides and sand dollar hunts and pretending to read on the beach while really just chatting about nothing and watching the waves, I couldn't bring myself to post. These days spent together are far too few not to take full advantage of time, on which we're all constantly running low. But at the beach, time is on your side, even if the days fly by. 

Hilton Head Island, South Carolina was a first for us, at least all together. Our family has been on the Delaware beach train (a train I'll always love) for many years. But sometimes, it's nice to branch out and see what it is everyone's been talking about, what we're "missing." 

And it certainly was a different scene down south where the Spanish moss is plentiful; the beaches are as wide as football fields at noon and narrow down to a few meters by 5pm; and the ice cream shop closes at "tiiiin" instead of "ten." Although most places in our neighborhood, we discovered, closed closer to eight o'clock. Sometimes this made us stir-crazy, other times we relished in the nowhere-to-go feeling.

There were only a couple other groups on our strip of beach, meaning plenty of space to spread out and play games. Although the hard, tightly compacted sand makes for hard landings when the games get rough. 

My favorite time of day on the beach is always the late afternoon, when the sun's rays subside and the shadows lengthen. The wind picks up, and with it, the waves bulge higher, each one trying to out-do the last. At a certain point, I'd resign myself to another beach day's end and stroll home, skin salty and brown and dotted with sand. 

But we'd always get back down to the beach at night, long after dinner was over and card games had been played. We searched for turtle eggs to hatch so we could help the tiny creatures survive their perilous journey to the sea (of which we saw none). We also searched for shooting stars (of which we saw many). And one night, we got to see a fierce lightening storm far out in the ocean, shimmering reds and oranges between its frequent flashes of light. 

I don't know where we'll decide to go next year, but as long as there are a few beach chairs and umbrellas by the ocean, I think we'll be all set. 

All of Stockholm saw my underwear this morning

And if anyone missed it, they got another chance in the late afternoon and early evening. The combination of a slightly too short dress and a too high seat on my bicycle was not optimal, to say the least. But it wasn't my fault. Really.

My bike was stolen yesterday. Over the last several months, I have become better acquainted with how it feels to come to the spot where you left your bike the night before and find it missing. This happened last November - but on a rainy, cold morning, I was almost thankful to have to take the bus to work.

Yesterday, however, that same helpless feeling was made worse in finding the wimpy lock that had protected my bike sliced in half on the ground outside my apartment where I'd last left it. Someone had come down my tiny bike path of a street and deliberately stolen my bike, equipped with what very well could have been a pair of kitchen scissors - a preconceived burglary.

I defeatedly trudged to the tunnelbana station and got on the sweaty, crowded train. How I longed to be pedalling in the warm sun!

After arriving home last night (by foot), NS made a discovery - my bike had been "returned" and was parked in the bike dock of the apartment next door! What luck, what happiness! The perpetrator had realized their mistake of having stolen the worst bike on the block! Hurra!

I must admit that I have cursed my bike countless times since buying it in April, but, if nothing else, this incident has given me an appreciation for my main mode of transportation. 

The bike was returned intact, albeit a missing seat cover and, curiously, a raised seat. Hence, the day's never-ending peep show. My hope is that in such a liberal city, no one minded too much, but I'm not so sure. Only in Stockholm is a bike stolen in the morning and returned by night fall. And just so you all know, I've now invested in a real lock... let's hope this was my last robbery. 

Confessions of an American Cycler in Stockholm

From April to November, my main mode of transportation through Stockholm is my bicycle. I bought my beloved cruiser the week I first arrived in Sweden, and have been a devoted rider ever since. 

Photo by NS (and his bike too!)

Over the last couple years, I have learned a lot about cycling in this city, one of the most bike-friendly cities in the world, I should add. And I thought I was doing fairly well with my cycling competence until recently, as a series of events have unfolded, forcing me to completely rethink my form. 

Just this evening on my way home from Swedish class, I was pedaling uphill on Odengatan (one of Stockholm's busier streets) and cut left toward home. As I waited for a bus to pass before making the turn, I could just make out the face of the driver in the settling darkness - a face full of disapproval, shaking both head and finger at me for what may as well have been a mortal sin. Bus lane only: I must admit I'd thought of the possibility before, but it never seemed to be a problem for me to be there... 

Last week, I was vigorously cycling my way through the rain along Norrmälarstrand (one of the city's beautiful, waterside streets) when a stout man with glasses, a small dog, and a green umbrella with white polka dots approached the cross walk across the cycle path. I planned to sail smoothly behind him - but he stopped - forcing me to cut him off and prompting him to shriek a string of swear words in my direction while repeatedly smashing his umbrella against the ground until it broke. For a few seconds, I thought this angry fellow, whose morning I had just ruined, might actually chase me down. And on my 1-gear bike, I'm fairly certain he would've caught me. 

Which brings me to my next cycle faux pa: squeaky breaks. As you await a green light at an intersection and suddenly hear a high-pitched, screeching sound behind you, you can safely bet it is me. Oh the joys of a bike older than myself. Whether in car or on bike, there is no escaping the volume of this screech, especially on humid days. Pedestrians have actually told me how embarrassing my brakes are. Sometimes I share a sheepish chuckle with fellow-riders. But mostly I am on the receiving end of irritating glares.

Despite all of my cycle mishaps, big and small, there are a few things I do correctly: I always stay as far right as possible, allowing faster bikes (aka all bikes) to easily pass me. I wear a helmet. And I am happy to report that currently both my back and front lights are fully functional.

In conclusion, I have come to the realization that I still have a lot to learn about biking in Stockholm - and I guess it will probably be awhile before I'm doing this: