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Aug. 14th, 2005 05:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
haggholmLast night, there was some form of concert in the castle gardens downtown. ("Downtown" is a somewhat misleading phrase since the town in question only has, at a guess, something under 11,000 inhabitants—21,000 or so in the entire municipality—but it's the centre of the town, such as it is, and it mostly seems to be downhill.) The artist was not one with whose work I was in any way acquainted, as might be expected—after all, I haven't spent much time in Sweden over the last few years. I didn't feel at all motivated to spend money to go to the concert, but I decided (after some hesitation) to go downtown and see what things looked like. Well, I went down, had a bite to eat, and noted that while the town had a lot more people about than is usual for a Saturday night, the crowd was decidedly middle-aged. I sort of wanted to see if there'd be any people in my general age bracket around later on, but didn't feel like hanging around, so I went home for a bit (it's perhaps a twenty-minute walk in either direction, so it's not really a big deal to walk back and forth a few times).
I almost decided to stay home, figuring that I was extremely unlikely to run into anyone I knew, anyway, except perhaps Tomas—he's the only person back here I generally have any contact with, and I've been hanging around with him, anyway, so the prospects didn't seem very good. Well, I did end up going—and lord, was I wrong! I did run into Tomas, as it turns out, but also an astounding number of old classmates from elementary school—eight in all, so there were nine of us around if you count me. Actually, I think there were even more—perhaps eleven: There was one guy I simply didn't recognise (it's been about ten years, after all), and one guy who was pointed out to me whom I have no desire to talk to, ever. However, I spent quite a bit of time talking to the others, catching up and being caught up with.
It's funny—not long ago I would have thought I was immune to or incapable of (depending on one's point of view) the sense of connection that I experienced. These, for the most part, were not people I spent a whole lot of time with. Of the eight old classmates I talked to, half were girls, and back when I was seven to twelve years old, I really didn't spend much time talking to girls ... I've only had any contact at all with two of them over the past few years (seven in some cases, ten in most). Even so, there was a distinct feeling of connection—for all that I didn't directly associate with them very much back then, we did, in a sense, grow up together; six or seven years in the same class seems to matter down the road. Catching up was great. Some people had stayed in the old time; some had been all over the place—a couple of them had (recently? I'm not quite clear on this) been on a nine-week adventure trip through Africa (which was wonderful except for the time they got stuck in a tribal insurgence, with people wielding knives and spears banging on the windows of the bus). The person I spent the most time talking to, Sara, had (other than this Africa trip) spent a year in the US and three waitressing in Norway (apparently, this is a fairly popular way now for young women here to make some money).
Toward the end, something I daresay was moderately incredible happened. After we'd been hanging out and just talking for a while, Sara presented the ludicrous idea that we should enter the dance floor. Yes, "we". As in, including me. Me, on a dance floor!
The old Petter would, of course, have balked and refused utterly. The new Petter balked briefly, demanded that he be allowed to have another drink first (the second and last of the evening, mind), and tried it. I'm not going to say that I was any good at it, for two reasons: First, because I can't really judge; second (but, as it were, primarily), because as a first-timer I'm sure I was quite horrible. It was a surprising amount of fun, though (and every time I slowed down and didn't move enough, Sara would grab my hips and start shaking them—there were also a lot of admonishments to "shake that ass").
That ended when the bar closed, at 2 am (lunacy! Why do they close so early?), and we went home. I walked some of the girls home, since they were going to the same street as me, anyway; we talked for a bit longer, and I got home at some time between 3 and 3:30 am. It was late. I was tired. I have rarely had so much fun in my life.
I almost decided to stay home, figuring that I was extremely unlikely to run into anyone I knew, anyway, except perhaps Tomas—he's the only person back here I generally have any contact with, and I've been hanging around with him, anyway, so the prospects didn't seem very good. Well, I did end up going—and lord, was I wrong! I did run into Tomas, as it turns out, but also an astounding number of old classmates from elementary school—eight in all, so there were nine of us around if you count me. Actually, I think there were even more—perhaps eleven: There was one guy I simply didn't recognise (it's been about ten years, after all), and one guy who was pointed out to me whom I have no desire to talk to, ever. However, I spent quite a bit of time talking to the others, catching up and being caught up with.
It's funny—not long ago I would have thought I was immune to or incapable of (depending on one's point of view) the sense of connection that I experienced. These, for the most part, were not people I spent a whole lot of time with. Of the eight old classmates I talked to, half were girls, and back when I was seven to twelve years old, I really didn't spend much time talking to girls ... I've only had any contact at all with two of them over the past few years (seven in some cases, ten in most). Even so, there was a distinct feeling of connection—for all that I didn't directly associate with them very much back then, we did, in a sense, grow up together; six or seven years in the same class seems to matter down the road. Catching up was great. Some people had stayed in the old time; some had been all over the place—a couple of them had (recently? I'm not quite clear on this) been on a nine-week adventure trip through Africa (which was wonderful except for the time they got stuck in a tribal insurgence, with people wielding knives and spears banging on the windows of the bus). The person I spent the most time talking to, Sara, had (other than this Africa trip) spent a year in the US and three waitressing in Norway (apparently, this is a fairly popular way now for young women here to make some money).
Toward the end, something I daresay was moderately incredible happened. After we'd been hanging out and just talking for a while, Sara presented the ludicrous idea that we should enter the dance floor. Yes, "we". As in, including me. Me, on a dance floor!
The old Petter would, of course, have balked and refused utterly. The new Petter balked briefly, demanded that he be allowed to have another drink first (the second and last of the evening, mind), and tried it. I'm not going to say that I was any good at it, for two reasons: First, because I can't really judge; second (but, as it were, primarily), because as a first-timer I'm sure I was quite horrible. It was a surprising amount of fun, though (and every time I slowed down and didn't move enough, Sara would grab my hips and start shaking them—there were also a lot of admonishments to "shake that ass").
That ended when the bar closed, at 2 am (lunacy! Why do they close so early?), and we went home. I walked some of the girls home, since they were going to the same street as me, anyway; we talked for a bit longer, and I got home at some time between 3 and 3:30 am. It was late. I was tired. I have rarely had so much fun in my life.
