Malmo station. Outside. Night. It’s very cold, it’s not possible to smoke anywhere and a Viking homeless dogs me talking in Swedish. The taxi takes me all around the city and gets back along its wheels to let me at the hotel, placed three streets away from the station. I make the maximum of fake-tour to observe the city through the glasses.

I see how the Klagshamm beach is coming, under a milkshake sky, and I repent of not having brought an electric swimming costume and a waterproof bathrobe made of wool. The beach is magnificent, although its icy sand and the 10 degrees below zero that keeps it as it is do not invite to walk along it with the cigarettes on the elastic band of the G-string.

Later I’ll check that although the cliches are realistic, they are not accurate. Three days in Sweden will teach me to get along with its inhabitants and to check that, with a certain dose of beer and familiarity, they can be as easygoing as any cheerful Mediterranean.