Way out west

Morning in Gothenburg.

Wake up next to a married woman. And a musician.

More beds in the other rooms. One person in each.

We're staying in a seventies building on a beautiful street. Inside, the apartment is cosy. Good writers on the shelf, terracotta pots with plants that take up space, and pale bentwood chairs.

A window is open. Beyond the park, the sound of the festival again.

I got here via Karlstad. Had a beer while changing trains.

In Karlstad they are redoing the road in front of the station building. The gravel throws up dust as I cross the street and into the beer hall.

I hesitate for a second before ordering. Know that my Stockholm accent, which seems to have grown more pronounced with the years, can stir something up.

The man from Värmland behind the bar doesn't bat an eye. Only one of us is judging.

Above him, the beers are written on the wall in purple, green and pink chalk.

I have trouble choosing. But it's good for the neck to look up and not down into the phone. “Can you help me? Something exciting, but not too exciting.”

“Number two,” says the man from Värmland. “Made here in town. Craft.”

He has seen me. That is what I want out of my half hour in Karlstad. Same as when I'm at an airport. Sauerkraut is for a layover in Munich. Belgian beer is for Brussels.

Squint up at the flourishes under number two.

IPA. 130 kronor. 6%.

130 kronor for a beer. Expensive. Not least now, with apartment prices high and me outside the market.

“Oh, 6%,” I say. “That's pretty strong.”

The words ring false.

“You can handle it,” says the man from Värmland.

He seems to take me at my word. Or he is just being polite, pretending not to hear that what I actually mean is the price.

“True. I damn well should be able to.”

Sit down on the narrow, warm sidewalk between the torn-up street and the station.

Straight ahead of me a man my age is sitting in headphones and a short-sleeved shirt.

“Are you going to Way Out West too?”

He takes off the headphones and looks at me.

“Are you going to Way Out West too?”

He shakes his head. He lives in Karlstad. Moved back after a few years in Stockholm. A baby on the way.

We talk without stopping for twenty-five minutes. Then I have to go.

He puts out his hand. “Thank you for starting a conversation with me.”

I take his hand. We introduce ourselves.

Walk toward the train. Jog the last stretch.

Warm through the body.

Three days with the record label I'm travelling with. Musicians and celebrities inside the “VIP”. Everyone with a reason to be there.

Talk to people. Say what you mean.