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About Norrkoping

Alright, so here’s the deal—I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’ about findin’ a prostitute, right? Like, what’s the vibe? I’m Larry David, neurotic as hell, and I’m goin’, “Ehhh, is this even worth it?” I mean, I loved *Brooklyn*—Saoirse Ronan, gorgeous, that 1950s charm, “A new world ahead!”—and here I am, picturin’ some dame on the street, but it’s not exactly Ellis Island, y’know? It’s more like, “Oh great, another transaction gone wrong!” Pretty, pretty good chance I’ll screw this up.

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After that, I decide to grab some lunch at a little café on Österlånggatan. The food’s bomb, but the waiter? Ugh. He’s got the personality of a wet sock. I order a smörgås, and he just nods. No smile, no “How’s your day?” Just…nothing. I’m like, “Dude, you’re in Ystad! Lighten up!”

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