I have been entering Sweden through the Stockholm archipellago ever since I was a little child.

“When are you coming home?”, my Swedish friends ask me. But few of them know how entering this country feels like so many things for me, few of them I’d describe as a feeling of coming home.

Mostly, I am waiting for the trip to end. I don’t enjoy the ferries on the Baltic sea with the screaming children, drunk adults and overpriced shops. I want the ship to dock so I can go down to the car deck where my bike is and be the first one out, the feeling of freedom finally hitting me once I’m on solid land.

But the islands creep by, so slow, so slow.

Even though Stockholm, for some reason, tends to be cloudy each time I reach it, and I don’t much enjoy reaching it, ever, even there colours can be beautiful.

There is beauty in complexity.

…

(This story told in pictures.)