Is naturally a topic important to any Swede. I need hardly say that the sun started shining in Sweden the moment I left? For a time, it seemed I had simply taken the rain with me to the US. It rained in Rhode Island. After that, we went on to Mobile, Alabama. It rained.

“Well, the sun seems to be shining in Fairhope”, said Lathea to me in the car on the way there.
“But I haven’t gotten there yet”, said I.

It rained in Fairhope.

So, to the people of Fairhope: my sincere apologies. The weather didn’t matter at all the moment I stepped into Page & Palette, of course. It’s an amazing bookshop, and the event took pace in the room next door where there was a bar.

So there I was, surrounded by books and people who loved books, with a beer in my hand and a smile on my face. I like to take this opportunity to stress that I did not have the beer until after the event.

The event itself, as the bookshop, was truly amazing. Such friendly people and so many great books around us. I had a blast, and bought three books. This does not bode well for my luggage.

It was not until we reached New Orleans that I experienced some sunshine, but New Orleans in the sun more than made up for it. “There are great stories here”, I said to Lathea. “I could definitely see myself writing here.”

The only thing is, I don’t think I could write about the south. I already love it (when I’m writing this I’m in Georgia). It’s something about the heat. Warm weather is such a big part of the people and culture and history that I doubt I could ever fully describe it or do it justice. I come from Sweden. We don’t have heat. I imagine it’s a big part of why we turned out the way we did; coming from ancestors who for some reason choose to live in Sweden. No wonder we don’t have any great philosophers. It’s easy to think if you live in, say, Greece or Italy, with sunshine and beaches and red wine. Not so in the cold, with snow and darkness and moonshine.

In New Orleans I bought a poem and got another one for free. The second one began: “the freedom to use the imagination, laws in which the rebel can roam, freely, the art of the broken heart. the strenght behind storing and sharing secrets. the spaces between ideas, the words wrapping around the urge to be more than an adverb.”

I couldn’t be a poet either.

In New Orleans I also ate food while listening to a live jazz band, of course, and made small talk with our waiter. He was perhaps 60, maybe 70, maybe timeless, and on his wrist was a silver jewelry that was also a harmonica.
“How long have you been in New Orleans?”
“Oh, since 1980.”
“Do you have family here?”
“What do you think I came to New Orleans to get away from?”