This Is How You Get Schooled on New Year’s in Stockholm
I arrive on a desolate night, my father’s question ringing in my ears. “Why go to Stockholm in December?” he begged to know, as I packed my bags just days after Christmas. From the back of a hushed cab, I check the time. It’s 4:45 pm, only no one told Sweden. Darkness envelopes the land, my presence a speck of white on an infinite chalkboard.
I wander waterfronts, alleyways, and museums with numb toes, my fingers buried deep in my pockets. Non-distinct faces buried beneath scarves pass without pomp, their temperament as cold as the weather.
It’s the last day of December in this strange land. I waffle between how or if to ring in the new year. I’m older now, the angst around twelve thirty-one’s finally allayed. I’ve seen enough fireworks, jello-shots, and made plenty of hazy midnight toasts to make this night like any other. At least that’s what I tell myself.
It’s still early when I catch an outdoor concert. A quasi-famous DJ blasts house music, his giant speakers perched on frozen cobble stones. Just minutes into the show, I glance at the time. It’s hardly 10:00 pm, but not hardly cold. Should I stay until midnight? I wonder, as a spirited debate rages in my mind. In the end, I decide weathering chilled toes and music I don’t like isn’t worth the cost of claiming I was there. I turn on my heels and make my way home.
I zig then zag my way to Luntmakargatan Street. As I near the avenue that will take me to my hotel, I see a young man holding a giant map. It rests high above his head as if making an offering to the navigation gods. He can’t be more than sixteen years old and looks so desperately like a tourist he could play one in a movie.
“Excuse me,” he says. “Do you know how to get to Old Town?” I take a peek at his map before remembering I know the way. “Follow me,” I tell him. “I’ll get you to the street that will take you there. You’re going to see the fireworks?” I ask. “Yes,” he beams.
The silence of our walk is broken by his curiosity. “Where are you from? How long have you been here? Did you travel alone? What do you do?” I tell him I’m an actor before he tells me the same. “I’m going to be on a series back home in Thailand,” he says.
We reach the corner as I explain he just needs to walk towards the music. It sounds more poetic than it is, but my point is made. “You’ll have fun,” I tell him. “There are many young people like you.” He looks at me with suspicion as if I’ve just told a lie. “What about you?” he asks. “You’re still young.” Maybe, I think. “Do you want to come with me to watch the fireworks?” he wants to know. “Thank you,” I tell him. “But you go and have fun.”
I start to make my way when he calls out into the crisp air. “Hey, do you want my phone number? You know, in case you ever come to Thailand? I can show you around,” he says. He is unbridled — the way you are when everything is out in front. Protect at least a sliver of that, I think. I accept his offer, knowing I’ll never call but I’m too afraid to disappoint him twice. For a moment, I see not only the same shaped eyes or dark black hair, but a reflection of the me that always said “yes” before it was easier to say “no.” He reminds me on that dark Stockholm block not only who I was, but who I could still become.
We part ways as I head back home. I’m now just blocks from my cozy hotel room. Then something stops me. I can’t go on. Something stirs within telling me I must turn around. I pivot on the feet I can no longer feel, making my way on streets that now feel all too familiar. I get to Old Town just in time as the sky is painted with red, blue, and green strokes. Bright white lights waltz in the blackness as a smile breaks the plain of my lips. I am here, under this giant brisk sky, right where I’m supposed to be.
