(I had no time and was too ill to write about the three Baltic States—next week I hope!)
Books are like imprisoned souls till someone takes them down from a shelf and frees them.
Samuel Butler
I entered the newish mansion disguised as a bungalow and had the feeling I was an Angel of Death.
I’ve felt that way many times over the years.
This time it began only a couple hours earlier with an email from an attorney:
I was provided your contact information from […] from […] College. He mentioned that you may be able to assist with purchasing a book collection (a rough estimate is close to 5,000 books.) Would you be available to schedule a time to meet at the property to review the collection, so would prefer to meet today, tomorrow or this weekend, but could meet early next week? Unfortunately, I am under a time crunch. I do, however, have movers that can box up the books and deliver them to you next week.
I wrote back and was told the location was in a community on my way home.
“I can come today at 4:30…”
I’ve been in this community many times. One of the earliest stories takes place there.
I think it might be called a transitional living community. Most of the homeowners are mature. It also has assisted living spaces should one need to graduate to that. An assisted living studio lists for $6995 per month. Services would be extra.
All the places I’ve been called to there are high end. Lots of brick. Deceptive from the outside. Once inside, you see how lavishly built they are. The lots are tiny. Almost no yard. Odd shaped. The architect must have been challenged to squeeze as many in as possible—like a jigsaw puzzle. I’d guess no two lots are alike.
The remnants of Hurricane Debby have been blowing through in waves. Yesterday morning, she knocked over a tree on the mountain, putting us all in the dark for 6 or so hours.
I finally found the right house.
Street numbers jump all over, as tiny lots snake down and cluster around “driveways” and can be all odd numbers. You have to search to find where the even numbers are.
The layout is almost like Medieval Stockholm.
I parked on the street. (Streets are made to a small scale as well.) Walked up the driveway—large enough for one car only—and to the front door. I was a few minutes early. I pushed the doorbell. The skies opened in a blink, and I hurried back to my vehicle. Debby got me about half wet.
A car arrived and backed into the one car driveway. An attractive young woman dressed in black got out and hurried to the front door. (There’s no overhang to shelter you above the front door.)
I gave her a minute and followed. She unlocked the door, and I stepped into another time and place.
The walls were covered with early 19th and 18th century oils. Mostly portraits. A big fleshy oil of Cleopatra holding the asp to her breast. Religious themes.
‘Relatives?’ I thought.
Antique furniture. Ceramic and stone busts.
But my footsteps nearly echoed. The home was hollow. Maybe the oriental carpets had been rolled up.
She was not interested in small talk and led me from room to room to show me where the books were. There were in 6 or 7 rooms on the main floor and upstairs and in the basement.
When she was done, I said I’d start here and work my way back to the others.
There were research folders and scholarly journals—like “Metaphysics.”
A photo showed him as a Philosophy Professor at Oxford.
I found a leather photo album shelved with the books and pulled it off so it wouldn’t get packed accidentally. She was very attractive. Black hair. Clothes and photo technology dated her not much older than I.
Things like this make me so sad. Images of smiling healthy people—not that long ago.
Many of the bookcases were in lightless rooms. The cloudy skies outside didn’t provide much ambient light. The iPhone has a flashlight, so I read by “phone light.”
The books were all over the place—not just in multiple rooms—the collection was all over the place.
18th-century leather. Early 20th-century Dickens. A broken Britannica—maybe the rest of it was elsewhere in the house. A run of 2-dozen Loeb Classics. Modern books—but nothing frivolous.
No, what Ernest calls “octogenarian inspirational stuff” that we find so often in elderly homes.
It could have been an 18th-century country cottage in England if you only looked at the inside.
“I assume it is an estate?”
“She’s in a nursing home.”
“And you said you’d be able to get them delivered?”
“Yes. We have movers coming for everything else.”
I made a high offer based on that. It might cost us $2000 to send 3 or 4 people over and pack and haul them.
She seemed pleased. “We just need them out of here.”
Driving home in the warm rain, I thought about the books. I’d seen nothing collectible, though there were a lot of antiquarian cloth and leather.
I’d asked about the paintings.
“They’re going to auction locally.”
“If you think of it, send me a link. I like some of the old religious oils.”
Oddly, a lot of books were mis-shelved—upside down… as if they’d been put up in a hurry.
Perhaps they moved in, and circumstances changed in a hurry.
I’ll never know.
5000 books. Many unsellable but needed desperately by us for decorative purposes. And most of the bookcases held similar books.
And I’m sure with that many I’ll find some sleepers too.
We will, of course, look at every one.
The house was lifeless. I was performing a function to expedite the emptying a home so it can be refilled by someone new.
Paintings.
I finally got my religious oils hung in the downstairs library.
I’m very sure they’re early 19th-century forgeries painted for the tourist trade. But they’re good enough for me. Even the frames have a Renaissance feel to them.
My librarian got them up while I was gone. I think she did great getting them evenly spaced.
The room now has a delicious gloom to it.
So much more to get up on the walls…
It is Friday, August 9th. Debby is pouring her showers over the mountain and valley.
It has been a lost week.
Last Friday was my final day in Stockholm. It was a free day. The “tour” had ended, and most of the group was flying out that day.
I started feeling ill two days earlier in Helsinki. More on that later.
Another person staying on was a teacher from New Zealand with whom I got long pretty well. We chatted after the “farewell dinner” about doing something together on Friday. We agreed to meet in the lobby at noon.
The only thing she seemed to really want to see was the ABBA Museum…
I struggled to finish last week’s story. I really wasn’t feeling well and was worried I would get too sick to be allowed aboard a flight.
What then?
At noon, we Ubered to the ABBA Museum. I had zero interest in it. I was never into disco and didn’t think much of their music. But why not?
I was not in a “leadership” mood and neither was she. It was ABBA by default.
The museum is on an island with numerous other attractions.
We got in line, and I tried to order tickets on my phone. I got them, but they are timed, and so we couldn’t go in for 90 minutes.
She was hungry, so we wandered a bit looking for lunch. It was a beautiful day, so a place with outdoor seating was attractive. I don’t eat lunch, so I had an Aquavit Sampler and a side of fried garlic rye bread (a local dish and excellent snack.) She got three types of herring—each in its own mini “pickling” jar. I was envious, but, remember, I was feeling sick, and food was not so appealing.
We still had time to kill. I’d seen signs for The Museum of Swedish Drinking Culture found in the city. She agreed that would be fun. (The guide said that not that long ago a huge portion of the population were alcoholics and that the government stepped in to try to regulate liquor.)
Now, where was it? I Googled. It was right here! The restaurant was part of it. I hadn’t recognized what Spritmuseum meant.
It was pretty fun. They had the original oils for the 50 US State Absolut Vodka AIDS drive. So, I could add another “gallery” to my list.
Other displays showed ingenious ways smugglers outwitted the “revenuers.”
Then it was time for ABBA.
It was actually interesting.
They got their big break by winning the 1974 Eurovision competition with “Waterloo.”
ABBA are among the best-selling music artists in history, with record sales estimated to be between 150 million to 385 million sold worldwide.
Photos were not permitted, but you can get a feel for it here.
The most interesting part for me was the group as high-tech holograms—recreated as when they were young. (One of the women needs a cane now.) It was kind of like their avatar tour, which I think is pretty successful.
My companion had the “cough” as well, though not as bad, and the afternoon was wearing on. But neither of us wanted to Uber to the dreary hotel in the suburbs.
We started across the city. It is indeed a stunningly beautiful place.
“Are you interested in the oldest restaurant in Stockholm for an early dinner?”
She’d had a big lunch but was still game.
Eventually, we wandered to the old town with its medieval streets and gorgeous ancient architecture.
I wanted one fancy meal before leaving Scandinavia.
The day before, our guide took us past the “oldest restaurant in Stockholm.” Den Gyldene Freden 1722.
The Golden Fleece looked familiar. I think I dragged the kids there 9 years ago. (A text verified that with my older son.)
1722 and virtually unchanged. I would have enjoyed it much more if I’d felt better.
I asked for a martini—verifying pointedly the young waiter knew what I was talking about.
“Olive or twist?”
Good.
It came out and was tiny—cute—and good.
It is a limited menu. I’ve had so much salmon and herring I couldn’t go there. Entrecôte? Too much.
There was a special on a card he brought out.
Black pudding with bacon atop it.
“Blood sausage, right?”
Why not? It would be memorable even if it was terrible.
It was wonderful—despite the illness plaguing me.
I coughed my thanks and farewell.
We Ubered back to the hotel. We had a beer in the bar and watched some Olympics.
Then I ran out of gas and went to bed early.
Wednesday
I awoke believing it was morning
A dog coughed in the other room
“Chuff, chuff”
Arising to let him out
I saw the clock—4
I put the others out.
Second. Third.
I coughed. Took some water.
Sweet social dreams
I’d wanted to record
fled upon eyes opening
Back to bed
Lights out
Curl up fetally
Sleep til it’s a proper morn
Maybe the disease that came back with me from the Baltic is weakening. Its invasion brought weakness, fatigue, coughing and depression.
Misery.
All I wanted to do was get back to work, and my body was held hostage.
It is August 8th.
The heat wave has finally broken. Today and the next ten days won’t get above 80. (The iPhone is an inveterate weather liar, however.)
My suitcase got delivered yesterday. They’d tried to deliver at midnight on Sunday. I wasn’t at work, and they didn’t just leave it like the last time. I haven’t opened it yet to see if anything is broken or spoiled.
Monday morning, a forester came and inspected my property to see if I was a good “tree farmer” and could remain in the conservation program. We walked around a bit, and he said everything looked great. I am a forest steward and proud of it.
My doctor called in a prescription for cough medicine on Tuesday, and it seems to have helped a lot. I didn’t wake up coughing every 15 minutes last night.
Since I landed at Dulles Saturday afternoon, things have been a blur. An unhappy blur. The flight was torturous as I struggled to stifle coughing fits. Miserable.
A lost week.
I landed and got through customs.
I stood by the luggage carousel, watching suitcases go round and round. Eventually, it stopped moving. I went to the desk and gave them my name.
“Your bag is still in Copenhagen. Can you describe it?”
I was exhausted, sore, sick. I just wanted to be home.
The whole flight I’d stifled coughing fits. I had a window seat and could turn and cough into my pillow.
I hobbled the mile or so to my car. (Glad I took a picture of what its location was.) Deck 1. 4 X. Parking fee was $354! I know I was gone a long time, but that’s insane. I need to look into those companies that drive you to airports and drop you off.
Home Saturday night. I barely had enough energy to air pop popcorn and watch some Olympics before dragging myself to bed and coughing all night—even though I had some serious cough medicine leftover from my COVID bout last winter.
Sunday, Monday, Tuesday—I faced off with cartloads of books. That felt good. I wore a mask for show. I was a little slower than usual but effective.
We met about July sales. The stores were a little disappointing. Maybe the heat kept people away. Other parts of the company did great, however. Web sales and Books by the Foot broke records.
I made a long to-do list to get caught up from being away for so long.
When I had no more energy at work, I went home. At home, I just couldn’t bring myself to do chores inside or out. Just sit in front of the TV and watch ping-pong or men’s field hockey…
Maybe with the cooling weather.
Looking for drugs in Scandinavia…
I’m so tired.
Someone on the bus passed a virus around. Dry cough. Tired, weak joints.
I was concerned my cough might keep me off the flights home.
There was a pharmacy—Apotek—near the hotel in Helsinki. Everyone speaks excellent English in Nordic countries. A mature woman in a white lab coat behind a glass partition acknowledged me.
Stepping over, I ask for pain relief. “Headache” and pointed to my skull.
She rose and led me to a gleaming wall of small boxes and tubes and bottles.
I recognized that Panadol (paracetamol) is the same as acetaminophen in the USA. I pointed to a small box, and she got it for me.
“Cough?” I made a small coughing sound.
We moved over a couple of feet. She pulled down a box that said “Codex” or something. I figured it was codeine cough medicine, which is legal over the counter in many places—at least it used to be.
I paid and left.
Back in the hotel room, I got in bed and began to read the box. I didn’t recognize the main ingredient. Googling a bit, I found it was derived from tree bark from the Cocillana tree? More Googling found that it has no testing for benefits or side effects.
What?!
This was a normal pharmacy, not a New Age herb and crystal place.
I left the box unopened on the desk in my room when I checked out later that morning.
My cough and cold have been up and down. I’m normal. Then a coughing fit comes, and I can’t stifle it. It jars my ribs and guts.
Yesterday, my last full day in Stockholm, I felt crappy. Then I started coughing—occasionally uncontrollably. (It pretty much ruined my visit to the ABBA Museum—I apologize in advance.)
I’d gone out with one of the few people I found interesting on the tour, who also stayed on after almost everyone left.
She had the cough as well, though not as dramatic as mine when it hit.
When we finally Ubered back to the hotel—some 7 miles out of town—I was having sporadic fits of coughing.
‘This really stinks,’ I thought.
We watched some Olympics in the bar before I went up to bed.
I bid her farewell. She’s from New Zealand. She goes to Norway from here.
My transfer to the airport was at 6:15 a.m.
I coughed periodically through the night.
When I awoke about 5, I went to the mini mart at the gas station next door. They had Hall’s cough drops. I think… The package read Hall’s and Menthol…
Those only made it worse. As soon as I put a cough drop in my mouth, I started hacking.
I didn’t want to eat or drink anything. That seems to trigger the cough as well.
The airport must have a pharmacy.
Indeed they do. Very fancy. Everything is in Swedish, however. No brand names matched anything I’d ever heard of.
I asked the woman behind the counter. She wore a white lab coat.
“Cough?”
“Dry cough?”
“Yes.” (hack, hack)
She took me to a shelf aglow with gleaming little boxes and tubes and jars.
It was a pretty big comprehensive place. Very fancy. Very reassuring.
“We don’t have cough medicine right now.”
A drug store with no cough medicine? No Robitussin? No Mucinex?
I wandered staring at the incomprehensible shelves.
She got my attention.
“We have this.”
She assured me this was the right stuff. I had a choice of flavors. They looked like antacid tablets.
Beggars can’t be choosers.
I just looked it up online. It wasn’t straightforward. But here’s what I found:
Bisolduo lozenges are intended to relieve an irritating cough. Dual-acting lozenge relieves throat and dry cough.
• Contains effective substances from nature (alum and Icelandic lichen)
• The flavors are strawberry-mint or lemon-eucalyptus
• CE-marked medical product
• Sugar-free, lactose-free, gluten-free
I could just chew on a rock?
“Oh God, don’t let me have coughing spasms when I’m in line to board.”
I’m boarded. It is a tiny plane. We will be in Copenhagen soon. It seems so long ago when all this started there.
My cough has disappeared for a bit. Thank God.
I still feel crappy.
Maybe the second dose of Tylenol is kicking in. Maybe the Icelandic lichen. Maybe the Halls menthol. Maybe a combination of them all.
Only 50 minutes.
So tired…
We are flying over thousands of dark gray-blue lakes and drab green forests that go on forever—to the horizon.
Glaciers scoured these out 15-20,000 years ago.
That begs the question what was the landscape like here before the last ice age? Whatever was here was buried under kilometers of ice, which ground everything to nothingness.
When will the ice flow south again?
My gardens!!!
Nothing is forever.
I just want to get on the flight to Dulles. Then I can try to rest.
I want to see my home. What’s blooming? This time of year, not much.
Has it been hot and dry? I haven’t checked the weather. Too busy. Too hectic.
The airport was nice. Very civilized. Lots of nice shops, even out at the gates where I killed a couple of hours.
Pippi Longstocking (“The Strongest Girl in the World”) stuff. A Moomin store. (I don’t get it. But the Swedes love him… er… it.)
A woman across the aisle handed me a bag with a couple Vicks menthol lozenges in it.
“Keep it.”
Hours later we are over Labrador. 3 more hours to home.
I wish I felt well.
I don’t want to watch any more movies.
It is almost noon on Friday.
My semiannual doctor’s visit went well this morning. I didn’t cough.
I’ve gone through so many books this week despite feeling like crap.
Some bookseller friends have dropped off large loads for Books by the Foot, but I always go through them just in case they missed something.
24 carts from one guy only took an hour for me to review.
A lot of autographed material came. Ondaatje, Ian McEwan, Joyce Carol Oates… many others. Fun stuff, though not the hot sellers they once were.
Ernest handed me this big box. It has 50 DVDs from Janus film collection. When I got out of college and was working late nights, I’d time my day to watch on Public Television.
I’m excited to see them again.
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