“Vi ska utflytka. Med svenska jordgubbar. Och med 90-talsmusik, fötterna på handskfacket även fast man inte får, selfies på stränder, vinden som vrålar genom ett öppet fönster, daimglass när vi tankar och badkläder istället för underkläder hela dagen. Rose i kopiösa mängder i kvällssolen! Vi kommer dega på klipporna och lyssna till Sommar i P1.”
“We are going to go on excursions. With Swedish strawberries. And with 90s-music, feet on the glove compartment even tough you are not allowed to, selfies on beaches, wind roaring through an open window, daim ice cream when we fill up the gas and bathing suits all day instead of underwear. Rosé wine in enormous quantities in the evening sun. We will hang around on cliffs and listen to “Summer on Radio P1”.
In my contract it says, “As a principle, no vacation is granted in the first six months”. Yesterday I went to ask my boss if maybe, possibly and only as long as it’s no trouble of course, could I get three days off? Because my former colleagues, dear friends, are meeting on the Swedish island of Gotland and I would love to be able to go, too. My boss said, “As long as it does not collide with my or your direct colleague’s vacation days, I am all for doing nice things”. And with that, he probably saved my summer. He wouldn’t know because he doesn’t know what only four days of Swedish summer can mean to me.
The reactions of the Gotland gang were very appropriate. Together we formulated the above mentioned plan, and Andrea, the Princess of Superlativstan, let me know: “I have never been this glad in my entire life”.
(Stockholm-based friends, I’ll be in Stockholm one or two days as well and brace yourself for me attacking you with requests to meet you.)