So this is what it it’s like to live in a postcard.
It’s Thursday evening here in (name that I haven’t been able to pronounce, let alone spell), which is about an hour out of Goteborg. I’m sitting on the bench seat waiting to go out for dinner with the Swedes and co, and I’m in possibly the most picturesque setting I’ve ever seen. It’s kind of how I always imagined the old people in Cocoon were to go when they died; a cross between Mediterranean paradise and Wellington (on a good day).
Tonight we’re going out for dinner to a fancy restaurant (where I am told I am required to wear pants), and tomorrow we are arranging a barbecue for all the guests here at the beach house.
It’s all just rather lovely.
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