Kristinehamn, Sweden. Late afternoon on Monday, July 23rd, 2012

Dear diary,

I am very unhappy.

Just 238 km left heading for Armpit Place in the woods of Dalarna.
The Turbo went to heaven, and other than supporting a stinky loss of speed, we did a screech&scrooch to the next town on backroads.

Trollhättan is not really far away, not if you are in Sweden. But it will take at least a day of shipping and repair.
If the garage gets the Turbo.
If the Turbo is still available.
If the Turbo is the fitting one.
If you drive the right Saab.

Well.
According to the flush it is the only car one should consider riding, and that is also something no other thing will ever give you.
Except for your girlfriend.
(She insisted I write that)

After all, it is not expensive. Not really.
Not if you happen to do a repair in Sweden.
For a Saab.
Done by a damn good Saab mechanic.
A unique opportunity one cannot (and shall not) miss, you surely will have to agree.
Considering all those facts, it is cheap by all means.

But I really do hope that there will be many fish in the lake we will see tomorrow or the day after.
And I'd love to see a lot of mushrooms as well, growing in the woods that hopefully will be numerous to feed hungry mouthes.
(They have elks here, tall and blonde and friendly people talking funny, and endless skies. Woods are not a problem in Sweden, either)

Those people here, you know. They are somewhat fantastic. I almost forgot about that.
I always had this thing for bleaky northerners, but even my new girlfriend (fromTurkey) starts to like them. And that was unexpected and not supposed to happen early.
There must be some (kind of) underlying meaning then - a one of which we have not notified before.
(Except for me, of course. I am a Saab owner)

We found a very promising restaurant here for tonight, and our doggie already made friendships with the locals.
Take that big fat Irish Wolfhound beast, getting a turn-of-head on ugly loud little yelling plushy couch potatoes and you have the thing to worry about: Pray.
Guess what? Thought I knew my Dolfie. He loves them.
Go figure. Maybe one day he is not my dog any more.

Even those bloody fur noses seem to be different here.

Every good story starts with a What If.

What If
- the Turbo would not arrive tomorrow?
- we had to stay another day?
- I start riding elks?

Sweden is ~unbelievably~ green, and there is more clean fresh air than we can breath. It feels good to be back.

Jean