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Biological Warfare Sweden was the hottest place in Europe right now--even hotter than Athens. Everyone thought it was unusual--everyone except Arran and Rebecca the sun makers. In the morning Ingar and Henry's blond five-year-old, dressed as Zorro with a black cape, mask and sword, raced around the backyard. He was so hot by the time we were ready to leave he needed a popsicle to cool off. His mom told him he could only have one if he brought us popsicles too. Ingar solemnly enlightened us they were his favorite treat as I sucked a Coke flavored one. We saw more coastline today than yesterday. At lunch we strolled to the beach looking for a spot. As I rounded a final corner I found Arran's abandoned bike, left standing upright in a sand dune. That was as far as he had made it when he tried to ride up the dune. Nude little kids, with trademark blond-white hair, played in the sand and water. They didn't burn, even though all of them were stark blond and blue-eyed. The kids, besides splashing each other with water, had found a new idea--they threw jellyfish at each other. Biological warfare. Swedish parents were relaxed at the beach. They talked to their kids quietly and we never heard anyone raise their voices at their kids or, heaven-forbid, strike them. We noticed their driving was calm too. Arran and Rebecca bought two liters of Tri Smak ice cream that we all shared for a healthy supper. With fruit and a few nuts thrown in, I think I hit all four food groups. We found a camp spot by a small river and went down to eat our ice cream, still frozen after being wrapped in a wet towel and my fuzzy pullover. Arran opened the ice cream container and met a rainbow hue of green, white and pink. Sharon and I tried to guess what the flavors were. Reading the container didn't help as it was entirely in Swedish. After Sharon and I pondered the colors, I asked Arran what flavor he thought the pink was. In his soft New Zealand accent he replied, "I spent all my time worrying what the green was, I didn't even get to the pink." Arran told us of a time he and a friend went to a premier showing at the theater. The tickets had seat numbers on them. They were in their assigned seats waiting for the show to start, when two people came along with the same seat numbers. The ushers told Arran and his friend to move to the back of the theater because they were younger than the middle-aged ticket holders. They moved, and the view was not nearly so good. "Shit," his friend griped. The middle-aged guy in front of them turned around and admonished, "Let's not use that language." Whereupon Arran's friend grumbled, "Listen; I probably have a bigger vocabulary than you have, and I've decided the word 'shit' describes the situation perfectly." |
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