ARRIVAL (IS THE BALANCE)

At last—God Bless my sitting ass—I have arrived.

Luggage: check.

Safe, sound, and sealed.

Comforted by the familiar tug of pack on back, backpack and Mac, I exit the airport and board a train headed North to Malmo.

The world passes through dirty windows: fields and water, a latticework bridge, the ugly, industrial outskirts of Copenhagen.

Sitting opposite me, a faux-redhead whispers excitedly to her companion.

It’s all gibberish to me—a red-blooded, meat-eating, ignorant, arrogant, single-language, close-minded, American fool.

God Bless the country of shopping malls, fast food, and Fords, chain stores, obesity, belligerence, blissful ignorance, egos and opinions; the country of Red (necks), White (majority) and Blue (bloods). Camouflage hats and hunting jackets. IPhone outlooks, economic altitudes and attitudes. Minds open like the double barrel of a shotgun, shoot-to-kill, and ready to blast.

The train pulls to a stop.

I get off, associating myself with better things (as any good American would).

Juliana surprises me at the Depot.

We embrace.

Her body is warm, smile wide and bright.

Central Malmo is undeniably hip. The buildings tower above; six-story sentinels overlooking cobblestone streets, cafes and clothing stores. By night the lights are low, casting Jack-the-Ripper shadows, and everybody wears scarfs and coats and leather-boots, sweaters and jeans.

Juliana shows me her apartment—all of three bedrooms, a kitchen, living room, and two roommates—located at the very top of a building, boarding the bohemian downtown and more upper class hipsterville—brown tweeds vs. worsted wool, mostly black.

The hipsters wear Adidas and Nikes, dark jeans, three-quarter coats, Buddy-Holly glasses and hairstyles, stubble beards, mustaches.

The more Bohemian-minded folk sport slacks and fur-collared tweeds, nylon coats, oversize scarves and faded Levis—coffee-cups and cigarettes held in ungloved hands, well past dark.

She shows me around.

We eat at a hole-in-the-wall—ill lit, bathed in yellow florescence—Arab tacos and a bottle of Coke.

We catch up.

It cools down and I’m wondering if my “layers” theory will work for winter backpacking. I have no coat—rain-jacket, yes, but nothing substantial (or hip). I packed light, lots of layers: sweaters, compression shirts, thermals, etcetera—options.

It’ll do.

Whatever.

I think of freezing to death in the Valley—back home, unloading Christmas trees with Eric Huus in 10 bellow (that’s Fahrenheit).

Yeah, I’ll survive the 50’s in deck shoes if I have to—blind-folded and shirtless, ha.

We head back home, meet with her friend Linnea and roommate, Maria.

Sit around and drink tea.

I can’t help but wonder—in the afterglow of months spent working, arrived-now, traveling again and happy—why do we do it?

Compromise this feeling I have in my cheeks right now.

Think:

We spend the first quarter of our lives “growing up” “maturing” solving the mysteries of our “youth”, and just when we’ve reached that “peak”, having discovered who we are, what we want, and what makes us happy, we alter our design to better fit society—a conventional life—shedding those discoveries like an unwanted skin and beginning an “adulthood” of compromise and abandon. We walk away from our identity, assuming the stresses and unhappiness of “age” “maturity” “professionalism”; a life lived “because” [enter excuse here].

I’m not talking about responsibilities.

I’m talking about excuses.

The sad, even ridiculous truth is that you can’t change your identity—you just become unhappy.

How many bright, full-of-life people have I met traveling, only to rediscover them later, devoid of that joy and substance—conformed and unhappy, functioning against their personal design and humanity?

Sheeeeit.

Look in the mirror mutherfucker.

Dozens.

Myself included.

And for what?

[enter excuse (or excuses) here]

I’m not shrugging the responsibilities of adulthood—by no means. I’m not providing any answers, how could I? We have our own individual dilemmas, circumstances and even train-wrecks, perhaps.

“Life’s a bitch, and then ya die”

-       Nas (Illmatic, 1992)

I’m just watching the sun drop—that special light in your eyes fade to a nondescript blur.

Rich or poor, hip or otherwise, I urge you: make the sacrifice.

Don’t compromise this life. Don’t trade your joy for something as insignificant as an excuse or a fear.

Maintain.

Grow up (growthefuckup) and keep. Don’t go downhill at 22 or 24 or 26. Don’t loose sight of who and what you are, and of what makes you happy (which sometimes can be as simple as that: staying true to yourself).

Watch for the hook, ya dig?

Though it feels good in the steam, don’t it?

Like watching your reflection disappear in the bathroom mirror: you’ve just turned the shower on, how long you gunna let it run?

There’s chlorine in that shit!