Sundsvall in Two Parts: Featuring Falling Apples & the Consistency Thereof Along with Other Appearences Including the Widow-Maker

Part I: Featuring Falling Apples & the Consistency Thereof

I’m sitting on Nabotåget, på väg mot Sundsvall, listening to two fellows in the neighboring compartment discuss the inadequacies of Newtonian physics. It sounds pretty profound but it’s not. It’s elementary, really--something about the language makes me write that. Swedish is so simple, straightforward, childlike. “I speak Spanish to God, Italian to women, French to men, and German to my horse,” Charles V is said to have boasted. To children, or nostalgic train-passengers, any tongue but svenska would not meet the grade.
I am on my way to Sundsvall because the local Migrationverk is situated there—the “customs office,” approximately, where I will be mug-shot & fingerprinted like a criminal. This that I might finally get a residence permit to become “legal.” After a month in Sweden, I think this is time to take care of this task.
What a difference a day can make—yesterday night as I was packing my shoulder-sack for an early departure, there were rivers in the streets as Storsjön’s storm-clouds wrought their watery vengeance after a whole day without drizzle. This morning, it is clear and cold. We on Nabotåget, distinctly perceived this trick of the weather as we waited for a delayed train on the windy platform at the Central Station in Östersund before sunrise. But “All things are for the best in the best of all possible worlds,” as Pangloss reminds poor readers ad nauseum. But in humour, truth—even Voltaire’s tedious Neo-Classical pedantry. Lo! The cauld maurning makes the compartment extra cozy as I slice usufructables with my Swiss-Army knife and “pensively” dip them in my tin of cinnamon (I’m doing my best to conform to academic mood of my train-car). I don’ t taste any revisionist physics in my apples—the consistency smaks more of meal than of strings (these fruits are post-prime). Does this support quantum mechanix? I wonder if string-theory can describe the clumpage of cinnamon-granules. Relativity falls short, comparatively.

Part II: Konungens Återkomst

Through the window I’m watching the red houses, horses and haybails (both normal-coloured) rush by as we roll westwards—västerut mot Östersund. It was a beautiful day in Sundsvall—halfway between two Springs. It’s never going to snow (t)here: too coastal, too windy. Actually it will snow and melt in an interminable tango of break-up & re-freezing. That’s my prediction.
I meandered like the tourist that I am, shop-hopping and asking for directions just for a pretext to chat with folks. Between my arrival and departure, I made it to Sjögatan 17 (Migrationverkets new address) to take care of business. The rest of the visit was pure pleasure. I stopped at a coffee-shop to fill up my mug, took my shoes of, and wandered on the cobble-stones. I learned that tactic to meet people: “Aren’t you cold?” “What if you step on glass?” Bare-feet are a wonderfully underrated way to meet people. I can’t help bragging (since what else are blogs for)* that the second question of two interrogative women was about my dialect. “You’re from Norrland, aren’t you? (That’s a region of Sweden) I can tell by your dialekt.”
But enough with anectdotes and trifles. Now to return to a strain of substance: Naked toes! In their goofiness, they are the conversation-pieces nonpareil; the most potent people-meeters. Who has ever looked at toes without an ensuing urge to laugh, be it at Darwin, Dios or demi-urge, or whomever’s conceit we ought to credit for it’s particular sense of fun. And maybe most remarkable of all is that everybody’s toes are hilarious in their own unique way. The ultimate administer of justice is tailor who made men (and women), for he distributes ridiculousness with equanimity! He bestows his inspiration without bias but in an infinity of permutations. Let us show our gratitude to this most eternal of jesters by exposing our naked toes, even to the elements!

How big do you think was the apple that bonked Newt- upon the sconce? The size of a kiwi or a canteloupe?

*I'd duel any man brash enough to claim a blog were something other than a plot for little plantlets of self-flattery. Pools for Narcissuses to pine over through eternal navel-gazing. Beware the hazards of bloggership. "Rumpus-room" or "Widow-maker".... Sorry for the nonesense--I have to spill out all my English word-mongery here; my journal is strictly på svenska.