Biting Cold in Lilla Torget

The wind tore at my cheeks.  Cold air pinched and pricked the only bare area on my body.  Gorgeous white rushes of snow whipped around me.  My view of buildings was blurred even though they were near me.  A light gray sky shone. The set sun was far behind overcasting clouds.  Burning eyes blinked at me as I passed silent patrons of the old Malmo streets.

Lilla Torget (the little square) of Malmo has bright colored buildings built to withstand bitter cold winters and constant salted wind.  People step over cobblestone walkways. The bridge the gaps between buildings with their chins tucked to their chests.  Dark wool coats wrap them. Arms squeeze tight to their sides, disallowing the smallest gap between limbs and torso.  

I watched a few stragglers search for a good shop.  They hurried against the wind. I wondered where I should go for lunch. I glanced up and saw a single candle glimmering in a second story window.  It was the only natural source of light in sight, and it pulled me into the dark wooden door below.

Like a wish for contact, or a longing for a kiss, candles call deeply to people in dark regions of the world.  That necessity to have natural elements of warmth is like magic when you don’t see the sun.  Months after fall leaves and months until spring comes, flickering flames of tabletop candles amiably give to anyone yearning for warmth.  Houses are full of them, and hosts will stop you at the door in order to light some extra wicks before you enter.  It is a symbol of life within the dark existence of long winter months.  

I opened the door and watched a sweet woman flex against the cold air that followed me in.  I smiled brightly.  The wooden floors were dirty, the counter was muddled with different pies and cakes.  A small manual cash register sat to one side.  The woman asked me if I would like something to drink.  

“Most definitely,” I replied.

I took my coffee up small wooden stairs so steep I had to use my free hand.  Baby blue roses cursed the walls with a bright presence. It was unfitting in the wintertime, especially next to windows showing dark gray skies and flags whipping in a hard wind. I sat at a long table with no table cloth and coffee stains overlaying it.  The silent shudder of candle-flame entranced me.  I had found the candle, the building, the warmth for which I had searched.  Whispers of a conversation entered from a doorway.  Danish vowels bounced and sung from some unseen lips.  I closed my eyes and imagined the laughing face I could only hear.

It is strange to eavesdrop when I don’t understand the people speaking.  It does not feel intrusive or odd because I am not pulling private information; just the sound of symbolized thoughts coming from a unique voice.  I find myself listening to people speak foreign languages often when I am abroad; tapping into the inflections and cries, identifying with pauses and scoffs while they speak of unknown subjects.  When I return to an english speaking country I have to retrain myself to not listen to conversations.  The enchantment of miscomprehension evaporates when I understand. The mystical quality of vocal sounds now replaced by gossip and banter.

At my stained table I spent some time writing a letter. I described the south Swedish climate to friends in other countries.  My pen slid lightly over less and less blank paper.  I paused to watch the candle burn.  The flame was strong and still.  It mocked the spiteful wind through the adjacent window.  Snow rushed and swirled in the open air outside.  I was warmed, and unafraid of the snow any longer.  It was a beauty that had to be endured;  a different kind of beauty than candlelight.  The flurrying wind and the billows of snow give perspective.  The darkness of nordic lands is a phenomena unexpressed in other places. Out the window showed the relaxed palette of Swedish winter.  Where candles are the genial, kind beauty; the vehement and passionate beauty; the window showed serene beauty, a deep-seated and tight beauty.

The stairs creaked under my willful steps down.  I left my empty mug at the cluttered counter.  As I wrapped myself in a scarf and jacket I glanced once more around the shop.  I thought deeply of my experience.

I wonder when I will see these streets again. The call of candles and the cold wind prompting me inside.  The dirty wooden floors and reflective glass windows.  It is a gift to feel the bite of snow now, and to squint toward my next destination.  Will I feel the ache of steps on Malmo’s cobblestone soon?  And if so, will I still identify with the beauty of cold or the magic of natural light in a small cafe?  I will see someday, and the pull of this shop may once again hold me.