Sweden

I'm smelly, tired, jetlagged, and home. Twelve hours of trains, buses, metros and planes, and I'm no longer in the country of sun bright midnight and smiling strangers. The water is pure -- melted snow runs through the taps, pretty rain sifts down, swimming rivers flow between the city’s islands. It says, “Maybe, actually!” It has antiquated drinking laws, but they speak for themselves in the safe streets and contented youth. The clothes were made for my body, and the hot dogs’ crispy bits made for my mouth. Our hostel was on a boat. We floated, and Sweden carried us.