Field Notes: Malmö
A week away in Malmö with my best friend.
As the plane approaches Copenhagen airport, the clouds clear just in time to reveal views of the Baltic Sea. Tiny white dots dance on the waves—Schaumkronen, we call them in German. Also visible are white banks of sand, saturated blues and flat landscapes. Soon, I will be in Sweden again; it has been a while.
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The train crosses the Öresund Bridge. I want to drink the colour of the sea.
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Morning coffee in an unfamiliar kitchen, sunlight pouring in. It’s still early. The fridge hums its melody, and my water glass throws patterns on the table. Seagulls proclaim the proximity of the sea. I love those early hours—a day ahead, full of moments and memories waiting to be made. Everything around me is still in slumber. The thought of a beloved person—today, my best friend—sleeping peacefully in the next room.
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I fall a little in love with most places I travel to. I like to imagine I leave pieces of myself behind—stray hairs, fragments of skin, soft traces that float through the air and settle on benches and walls until the wind lifts them again. But really, it’s the places that leave something inside of me.
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Plants pressed behind windows—the same varieties that thrive on balconies in Athens. Their green leaves push against the glass, reaching for as much daylight as possible.
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The Sunday uniform in Malmö: black leggings, white tennis socks, sneakers, and coats like the cosiest blankets.
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The Baltic Sea smells briny, possibly from the algae gathered at the shore. A ripe, musty scent that doesn’t quite match the white, rippled sand and clear water. The beach still feels raw, not yet prepared for summer crowds. On Google Maps, we zoom in on satellite images—tiny figures on colourful towels spread across the sand. I can almost hear the children’s shrieks, splashes of water, the low hum of conversations, maybe a radio playing somewhere. We move further down the beach. I smell sunscreen as I pull my winter coat tighter.
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Monday morning. The seagulls seem busier than they were on the weekend. Are they flying to work? Greeting each other along the way?
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Malmö feels strangely empty. L and I take turns asking, “Where is everyone?”
Maybe it is the Easter holidays. We imagine people out of town, tending their gardens, having Prinsesstårta in the sun.
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The windows of others: some perfectly curated with plants, objects, and designer lamps. Others are long-forgotten—plastic flowers faded by the sun. Some are purely practical: ashtrays, old magazines, empty PET bottles. I read these windows just like stories, patiently waiting to be told—individual chapters behind thin panes of glass.
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A geriatric man in checkered Vans slip-ons stands outside Malmö train station. I half-expect him to pull out a skateboard and glide away.
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The fried fish grows cold as we sit in the rather dismal village of Lomma, looking out at boxy houses that seem empty. On one balcony, people have gathered in puffer jackets. Champagne flutes glint in the sun as they clink glasses. A seagull perches on a streetlamp, watching us greedily. It’s been there since we ordered, lulling us into a false sense of security by staying still as I picked up the food.
We relax and eat, occasionally interrupted by cold gusts of wind that rattle the plastic tartare cup and blow stray hairs across my face. We drift into conversation—about Easter, the life of Jesus, Atheism—while the seagulls get ready to attack.
