Hi everyone!
I wrote this little bit of story about three girls, Koether, Noor, and Selwa. They are all Muslim :) as am I, so I don't really mean the title of the blog. I would love for people to read this and tell me what you think. I will hopefully be adding to this every little while. For this particular piece, I want to know: Is it a very very boring way to start a book?
If you want to feel like a real European, you have just to hop onboard the Öresunds train and ride to Denmark.
It feels European, I think, that you can do that, just hop on a trustworthy train and end up in a different country. I am sure that there is not a more beautiful body of water than the Öresund (which separates Sweden and Denmark). It is always so blue and quiet and calm.
Just before reaching the water, you will first ride through Malmö Central and Malmö Syd (Malmö South).
When the train stops in Malmö Central, it stays there about 15 minutes and waits for people to get on. Then you're on your way.
The train goes through Sweden and Denmark several times every day, so it must not be so remarkable. But it is remarkable for me to see Danish newspapers on the tables when you're still in Malmö, and to see wastebaskets that say in Danish on them: taenk på miljön (think of the environment). And to hear a Dane behind you, and a Swede sitting in front of you.
Malmö Central station lies right in the middle of Malmö, as the name suggests. You see the canal and lovely buildings and ice cream kiosks and grass, and it feels wonderful.
Then the train rushes on. You are now out in the fields, empty of buildings, out in the countryside, where every little bit of land is a different shade of green.
The train brakes by Malmö Syd station. It is actually not a part of Malmö, and there is but a tiny community with houses within eyesight. A few people get on and off the train here, the last Swedish outpost.
And now there's only the tracks and the open sea before you!
The train rushes further (if you assume, of course, that no cow is hostilely in the way). You see Swedish flags as they wave in the wind, and on the next flagpole flies the Scanic flag with its red and yellow colors.
You see the road for the cars beside you, and if your train seat faces backwards, you see the signs pointing to Stockholm, Göteborg, and Kalmar. It feels so nice to think that, although you're on your way to Denmark, all this is only a stone's throw away. You can come back as easy as applesauce.
Right, and then you see some boulders, you rush through a tunnel, on the other side you see the coast and how it slings its way into the water. The train continues on the land as long as possible. You see how the water creeps closer and closer.
All of a sudden you find yourself on the bridge itself, high up in the air. The water floats below.
It takes about 3 minutes to cross the bridge. Then you're in Denmark. The landscape is always wilder here. The loudspeakers on the train begin speaking in Danish, as they tell us that now we have now reached Tårnby, and now Kastrup Lufthavn airport, and now Orestad, and last (at least for me), Copenhagen’s Huvudbanegård (which my Danish cousins love to pronounce as Who-ban-e-go). At this point, you are smack in the middle of Copenhagen, that is, right across from Tivoli.
It takes about 30 minutes to get to Copenhagen's central station from the Öresund bridge. Once you've gotten to the Huvudbanegård you can take a train to Germany, the Netherlands, France, and all possible places. And of course you can always go back to Sweden.
So had Noor written for one of her first reporter assignments. During her last few years of formal schooling before university, she became involved with local reporting. The show she worked on had been geared towards immigrants in Linköping, the city in the very flat plains of Sweden where she grew up, where once long ago a glacier had crushed all hollows and ambitious hillocks from the earth.
When the bridge opened, Noor’s father had announced with a big cheesy smile that they were all going to go. It was during the sweet infancy of the bridge. Its massive frame was complete and erect, but the trains and cars had not yet embarked upon their maiden voyages. It was the biggest outdoor event Noor could ever remember. They had climbed out of the car at the Öresund, surrounded by bicyclists, and skateboarders, and cartwheelers, and other adventurers, all with their own specialty and inclination for crossing the eleven miles out from Sweden into Denmark.
Noor’s family opted for a sluggish walk. Noor was still young at the time, and her little sister had just graduated from toddlerhood. She cried to be carried every little bit, so much so that in later years, their dad would tear up when the Öresund bridge was mentioned, and say, ah, how little Hadeel was then and how I broke my back getting her across!
After three miles, Noor was also tired; they never made it all the way across by foot. They had looked fondly across the water and bade farewell to the many trips by ferry the family had taken to see Danish kinfolk. Alas, the ferry was no more! There was merely the highway side by side with the train tracks.
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