It would be a pretence to say I know anything about this Swedish town that I’ve arrived in, other that it’s the location from where I am getting the Stockholm train. I am anxious about taking the overnight train – my first alone – and acutely aware that outside the temperature is well below freezing.
I arrive onboard a double decker bus, stocked with coffee, tea and bottled water for a price. The lady who comes around offering to sell me these things looks at me with a comforting motherly air. I’ve wrapped myself in my scarfs, kicked off my boots and had my e-book reader, cross-stitch and notebook lying on the seat beside me. There are other passengers today, which adds a little distraction, but also brings a sense of security. I was a whole lot less comfortable when I was riding across cold rural Finland in a bus as the driver’s only passenger. Especially with us having no common language.
From the border to Luleå the journey took us through small towns, tall forests of snow laden firs and along the edges of flat white lakes, whose cover of snow looked untouched by man. I had hoped to see the sea, but the route took us too far inland.
There’s a brand of bus here called ‘Busgods’.
Other than dragging my suitcase through the snowy streets, and the gorgeous sunset that I witnessed chasing me over the hill to the railways station, my experience of Luleä is decidedly French.
Café Metropol has a warm inviting look to it, with its old-fashioned lamps glowing in the window, and although it was rather late for lunch but early for tea, I went inside to warm myself and eat a meal. There would be no evening meal for me, just a muffin, yogurt, bread roll and an apple picked up from a corner shop, which would have to last me the thirteen-hour overnight journey into Stockholm.
Normally I would feel disappointment at a café for using fake flowers on the tables, but since nothing seems to be growing outside, it’s much too cold, I’m surprisingly cheered by the colour. Five fake yellow sunflowers stand in the window, alongside a box of fake pink and purple tulips. Inside I do spot an orchid, not in flower, the rare authentic plant.
Tiny portraits look out of ornate frames, alongside old peculiar instruments which I cannot name made in an elegant pale wood. They are part of a collection of paintings, which represent a multitude of times and styles. No wall is left bare. Behind a metal bull (maybe there’s a Spanish influence too?) are stacked bottles of wine. Each wooden table top balances on a central, wrought iron leg. Wood is the material of choice, the bar is wooden, as are the floor and ceiling, although there’s a diversity of varnish which makes it look like it’s all been put together over time.
After serving me, it’s the post lunch sit down for the two chefs. They’re joined by two, dark-haired young girls who have been contentedly playing in their corner by the window and all four of them eat burgers. There’s a definite family comfort about the way they listen to one another and the way the girls loll against one of the men. I imagine their father.
I find my nerves softening.
I’m still there, still drinking my post-lunch coffee when a smartly dressed, and well wrapped up, teenage boy arrives for an interview. Of course, I don’t understand a word that’s said, they’re speaking Swedish, but they’re seated at the table in front of me, the boy with his back to me, and I see the nervousness in his posture and smile at his willingness to please. I imagine this as his first ever interview. One his mother has made him rehearse for. The chef is relaxed, patient, listening, and I develop the feeling that if the boy does get the job, he’s going to be in safe hands working here.