I’m writing this in September 2015, months and months after my term in Sweden has ended. It’s useful, at a distance, to have that distance; it’s more useful in the moment to have the vividness of the memories. I’m writing at a disadvantage. I only have my photographs and the memories they remind me of; and the decisions to take those photographs and not others. Luckily, I have thousands upon thousands of photographs. The ones in this blog are mostly crossposted from my Instagram, which means that they’re composed, edited, and high-quality. I have so, so many others.

It is interesting, then, to consider how few human beings in the history of the world have ever gotten to actually choose where in the world they want to live, and for how long. I am beyond privileged for that — most people, even in today’s modern world with airplanes; even with the ability to travel and visit for the wealthiest of the human race; even with the ability to take very long trips. To get to decide to live in, say, Stockholm, Sweden, for six months; to elect for it and take every consequence as a consequence of that decision: that is a unique and unusual circumstance, and I feel so proud and humbled by it. 

Stockholm was, then, truly the perfect place to have picked. With its universities and its nightlife perfectly balanced; with a full range of European seasons; with its proximity and ease of travel to other countries; with its rich internal history and beautiful art, architecture, statues; with its friendly Swedes and its friendly attitude towards non-Swedes. Despite the expensive food and drink; despite the early-closing subway stations and museums; despite the early darkening and constant snow in the early months; despite the incredible cold at 7am on the walk to class. The feeling of Swedish-ness changed over the months, growing to expand past the pastries and the IKEAs, past the yellow and blue and white of the winter — the Swedish signifier includes the dark, narrow, empty cities covered in mist in the early Spring; the polite, quiet casinos full of foreign nationals; the inquisitive, brave birds who kept flying into my room in the evenings; the apple ciders, so many apple ciders. Sweden has come to include the totality of my experiences; experiences riding the last bus of the night, knowing that getting off means walking home at 2:00AM; Skyping friends at family at all hours to compensate for time differences; getting lost in at least three forests per month; hiking and wishing I’d hiked more; going to bars and wishing I could afford to; seeing the polite, knowing pride on the faces of Swedish nationals when they won Eurovision in May; seeing the brilliant faces of those Swedes and those who consider themselves, like me, temporary Swedes as illuminated by the bonfires of Valborg and reflected in the maypoles of Midsommar. 

Sweden is, then much, much more than the sum of its parts. For every house full of tangential friends is a network of lasting friendships and relationships; for every fleeting campus full of international students who will, by all accounts, absolutely never see each other again is a web of knowledge and love and friendship that transcends time and space and political borders, united by the same experience at the same time.

Isn’t it grand, then, to have chosen a place and come away with such strong feelings of connection to it? By making the decision by whatever arbitrary metrics and have it justify itself with great experiences and great people and great places; to expect to have to find the best in it and to find pretty much only the best; self-fulfilling blessing or prophecy or whatever the case. It has been – and, critically, continues to be — a blessing of the highest order.