Perhaps I shouldn’t even mention it. When compared to someone like my dear sister-in-law, who has managed over 30 years, my 50 days of sobriety seem almost negligibly insignificant.

Yet, this little milestone is important to me. Especially now while we’re in Vietnam and observing “Sober October.”

Every evening that I resist the temptation to order an ice-cold beer or a shot of bourbon (or both) at one of the restaurants where we dine here, my determination grows stronger.

With each passing day, the idea of drinking anything other than a glass of dull sparkling water or lime juice that is brought to our table seems more and more distant. As long as I don’t have to sip water through a straw, I’m fine.

I’m not overly fond of alcohol-free alternatives, but I can certainly appreciate washing down my throat with an ice-cold, zero-percent beer without feeling much repulsion. Yet, despite the taste that alcohol-free beers do have, it was that temporary euphoric feeling – the release – from a tall, strong one that I was truly craving.

In the late 1980s, I discovered the boozy, writing poet Charles Bukowski. Like many other young, lost men with artistic ambitions, I was captivated by how he managed to be so damn creative and productive despite leading such a tough life.

As I read Bukowski’s unfiltered descriptions of the squalid, impoverished life he lived in the Los Angeles slums during the 1960s, he became a sort of Californian version of the other broken artist I had long admired, Vincent van Gogh.

When actor Mickey Rourke landed the role of Henry Chinaski, Bukowski’s literary alter ego, in the noir film “Barfly” with Faye Dunaway (and Sylvester Stallone’s younger brother, Frank Stallone), I already knew even before the film premiered that it would be a brilliant success, at least in my cinematic universe.

Today, I’m equally fascinated by how Charles Bukowski survived as long as he did as I am astonished at how I, coming from a family where alcoholism has wreaked so much havoc, could glorify his life in that way. C’est la vie.

One of Bukowski’s most honest and perhaps most accurate quotes goes like this:

“That’s the problem with drinking…If something bad happens you drink in an attempt to forget. If something good happens you drink in order to celebrate, and if nothing happens you drink to make something happen.”

Just fifty days today, but one day at a time…

For those of you who were here in younger years, lugging around a heavy backpack covered in travel dust, wandering up and down the busy road in search of a decent guesthouse, a place to rest for a couple days, you’ll know what I’m talking about.

For those of you who haven’t been here but might remember the beginning of DiCaprio’s film “The Beach”, you’ve got a little insight. A little glimpse as to what it looked like on the famous Khao San Road back when a tiny, dirty room with a tired bed, a plastic bedside table, and a creaky folding chair cost as little as $3 per night. After checking in, you’d receive a key to a rusty padlock so you could “secure” the room’s cardboard-thin door. A bowl of steaming hot banana porridge or banana pancakes for breakfast were included in the rate. Coffee, juice, or a frothy coconut milkshake cost a little extra.

Because of how easily rooms were broken into, passports were always stored in the reception’s “safe” and only taken out when it was time to cash in a traveler’s check at one of Khao San’s two small bank offices.

In the autumn of 1988, when I walked along Khao San Road for the very first time, the street was dominated by guesthouses, a dozen tiny travel agencies, a few tailor shops, and countless rows of rickety stalls filled with trinkets and hippie apparel.

Stopping by “Khao San” for a layover before the next adventure often meant running into folks you’d met before; on one of the southern islands, maybe during a wild, nightlong beach party in Bali, on a street in Singapore, or outside the Thai consulate in Penang during a “visa run”.

Most of us were on our way somewhere, but there was almost always time to share a meal and bid bon voyage with a gleeful toast from a foamy bottle of Singha, Kloster, or Foster.

Every guesthouse on Khao San had a restaurant on the ground floor where Hollywood movies were shown in the evenings, one at 7pm, another at 9pm sharp.

Oftentimes, rather sizable groups gathered in front of the restaurant’s 32-inch fat screen TV to watch an action flick like “Die Hard” with Bruce Willis, “Lethal Weapon” with Danny Glover and Mel Gibson, and “Above the Law” with debutant Steven Seagal.

I had unloaded thousands of banana crates at the port of Gothenburg all summer long and brought a thick stack of traveler’s checks (American Express) with me to Southeast Asia. But it turned out to be quite the challenge to spend my money when a pad thai with tofu cost only 20 baht ($1) and fried rice with chicken, vegetables, and cashews just a bit more.

I remember how a small Singha cost 25 baht and that the infamous Khao San Party Pack, a small bottle of Mekong, three small Coca-Colas, an ice-filled tin bucket, and some straws, going for 100 baht ($4). For an extra 5 baht, you got a tiny bottle of what would later become known as Redbull. All the liquids were then unceremoniously poured into the bucket, stirred, and straws were handed out. Party time.

Letters and packages were sent and received at the main post office a few streets south of Khao San Road, and that’s where I also made collect calls to Sweden or to the US.

When I walked along Khao San Road earlier tonight, roughly 35 years after that very first time, I felt swept up by a little nostalgic melancholy.

It wasn’t the chaotic hustle and bustle, or the cacophony of sounds I missed. It wasn’t the nagging pitches from the road’s persistent tailors, the piles of cheap, pirated cassette tapes, or the scent of charcoal-grilled chicken-on-sticks that I longed for. It was the era I missed. Being 25 and having so much life ahead of me. Knowing that I had more amazing sunsets to look forward to than were already behind me.

Before we headed to the subway for our journey back to the hotel, Charlotte and I ate dinner at the classic Buddy Beer (which is now a large hotel and restaurant corporation). Khao San Road seemed deserted. Perhaps because it was still so early in the evening, But maybe it was because the world has changed so much after the pandemic.

When our kind waiter asked if I I was “finnish” with the meal, I skipped my stock response, no, I’m actually Swedish American. It just didn’t feel right tonight. Then came the monsoon rain. But we made it home dry and just a little bit older.

After completing an intense drone gig for Skanska in two different locations, I spent the better part of this afternoon hanging my new paintings together with a dozen other artists in the town hall’s spacious exhibition venue. Tomorrow afternoon at 4:00 pm is when Malmö’s annual Gallery Weekend begins.

Hope to see you there!

Friday: 4:00 pm – 10:00 pm
Saturday: 12:00 pm – 4:00 pm
Sunday: 12:00 pm – 4:00 pm

I had a really weird dream last night. I was sitting on an old Boeing 747 with barely anyone else in it. Interestingly, in this unusually vivid dream, I did notice an old friend (whom I hadn’t seen in about 5 years) among the passengers. He was disturbed when I didn’t sit next to him, but since the cabin was so empty, I figured I’d take advantage of this and spread myself across four free seats a few rows behind him.

As the giant plane took off, it seemed to fly close to some tall trees that lined the right side of the runway. I’m not sure if the tip of the plane’s right wing touched any of the trees, but it was a close call. The last visual I have from this somewhat freakish dream was that the 747 was slowly ascending toward cruising altitude unscathed. That’s when I briskly woke up.

I took the photograph above near runway 24R at Los Angeles International Airport (LAX).

With Charlotte in Göteborg and me on the wagon, after watching a few episodes of the quirky series Poker Face, I went to sleep unusually early last night. I woke up this morning, went for a jog, and then enjoyed a swim in a surprisingly warm Öresund.

After breakfast, I headed out to a meeting for next week’s Gallerihelg (Gallery Weekend) where I’m both exhibiting my artwork and documenting other participants and the event itself.

Once my meeting was over, I took the train across the bridge to a sun-drenched Copenhagen where I briskly walked from the main train station to the grungy area affectionately known as Reffen. The main attraction there, for me anyway, is Copenhagen Contemporary, the Danish capital’s ginormous international art center.

Some 25k of walking later and back home, I made dinner for Charlotte and myself and sat out front of our condo awaiting her much-delayed arrival. The above view is what I had in front of me.

Bright and early this morning, the 2023 annual Malmö Gallery Weekend poster arrived in my mailbox. Turns out that this will be the third time that I’ve been invited to exhibit my work at the city’s eclectic, cultural event. This year, I’m going to show three large acrylic paintings, two themed around a specific word that I find inspiring and/or intriguing, and one painted while I was listening to the soundtrack of Ridley Scott’s brilliant, neo-noir detective film Black Rain by composer Hans Zimmer.

Hope to see some of you there!

#gallerihelgen2023 #konstimalmö #arthappening #artevent #americaninmalmö #malmöartist #artinmalmo #rådhusetmalmö #acrylicpainting #swedishartist #svenskakonstnärsförbundet #konstnärsförbundet #malmökonsthall #malmö #konstfrämjandet #konstiskåne

Twenty-five days of sobriety. Perhaps not a significant enough milestone to make it worth mentioning here. I think so. Even if I’ve never thought of myself as someone with a dependency on booze, most people I know don’t, I do see each new day where alcohol is not part of a routine dose of escapism, as a small, yet appreciatable milestone.

Most of my friends have yet to comment on this ongoing sobriety challenge of mine. Some have questioned it in passing with a causal “but why?”. I think I’m still in a slightly defensive stage where whatever I reply probably sounds preachy. So be it. Like most topics that can be construed as not somehow reinforcing the image of the always resilient tough guy, any mention of even potentially misusing alcohol is still considered taboo. Especially here in the land of Vikings.

Last night while lounging on our front patio watching the sunset and hundreds of people pass by on foot, bicycle, and scooter,  I tried to envision what it would be like with a glass of chilled bourbon in my hand. I tried to remember how the euphoria (or, in everyday parlance, the release) felt when it set in and how my body and mind would have sunken into a pleasantly semi-catatonic state.

I keep telling myself that I haven’t stopped drinking just to see how long I can remain sober. I certainly want to beat my old buddy Lars’s sobriety record of 44 days. But this challenge is about something more significant that I have yet to figure out how to express in words. For now, I’m enjoying the challenge of being in charge and not a hostage with Stockholm syndrome.

We’re rounding off a truly sublime week in Greece. A week packed with exercise, delicious Mediterranean food, and plenty of sunshine. We’ve also got a lot of work done while on Rhodes. Charlotte has added a plethora of inspiring content to her popular websites and I’ve miraculously finished writing the bulk of a chapter in a new book –a memoir of sorts.

It’s also been a week with time allocated for contemplation, well-needed soul-searching, and interesting chats – primarily with Charlotte, but also with a new, intriguing acquaintance from the UK.

It’s day 20 of sobriety and I am continuing to allow myself plenty of time for introspection and self-interrogation:

• How I should navigate forward? • Do I have the energy and willpower to redefine and reinvent myself again?
• What should I prioritize?
• How do I enjoy life in a more health-promoting way without feeling bored and/or missing the “release” I get from alcohol? 
• Do I need to reevaluate relationships that have primarily been based around my willingness to enthusiastically participate in hangover-inducing bouts of boozing?
• Is total abstinence really required here or, am I instead actually capable of having a healthier, more measured relationship with alcohol? Or, is that just devil-speak? Sounds like it.

I seem to be stuck again in the midst of yet another seemingly bottomless quagmire…

But wait! What is that I feel beneath my feet? A boulder? Is it stable enough to stand on for a while, at least until I get my bearings and figure out how to exit this murky swamp?

Yes, I believe it is!

We walked through this nearby arid olive grove yesterday evening just before dinner. With their thick, twisted, and dense trunks, I think olive trees are among the most soulful of all perennial plants.

Maybe I think so because I also happened to be almost addicted to olives. Among the many options at the hotel’s expansive buffet are several kinds of juicy, marinated olives.

I’m kinda sore today. Not terribly sore, though. Not sore enough to keep me from putting my 60-year-old body through yet another sweat-drenching Core class. I’m such a masochist.

Yesterday, I started out with an early hour session in the gym, then a 1000-meter swim, and at 3:00 pm, the aforementioned Core class. Finally, before dinner, Charlotte and I went on a mountain bike ride to the nearby seaside village Kolymbia where I showed Charlotte the beautiful orthodox chapel above the harbor.

Back at the hotel and showered for the fifth time, I was absolutely famished. Neither of us is eating lunch this week, so among several other buffet treats, I enjoyed a generous serving of a classic Greek salad from the above-pictured tray.

There’s something about the Greek salad that goes mostly unnoticed outside of Greece. Even though it’s so simple and reasonably affordable to make – and always beautifully colorful and flavorful – a Greek salad is remarkably hard to locate unless you’re at a Greek, a Greek Cypriot, or, possibly a Bulgarian-Albanian restaurant.

At home or whenever we spend considerable time abroad, I’ll typically serve a Greek salad as a main dish for dinner once a week. Unfortunately, in Asia, Kalamata olives and decent feta cheese are hard to find and usually very pricey. I’m hoping that one day, just like what happened with avocados, olives, and feta will also be produced locally.

Here’s a recipe for an authentic Greek salad, known here in Greece as “Horiatiki” (χωριάτικη σαλάτα):

After an intense few days discovering Warsaw, it felt wonderful to start this week off with an hour-long workout at the gym. First, a 30-minute run on a treadmill, 30 minutes on a wide range of mostly upper-body-focused machines, and then a cooling swim in the sea.

I’ve been sober for 12 days now. Not trying to break any record and it’s really anybody’s guess how long I’ll be on the wagon this time around. But for each day that passes, I feel curiously stronger and more resilient when the inevitable thought or, temptation to have a beer, a glass of wine, or a tumbler with bourbon and soda arrives. Still haven’t opened any of the bottles of bourbon, whisky, or Champagne given to me by generous friends during our last gathering here in Malmö. Don’t miss the casual sipping and definitely not the binge drinking at all.

Even more fascinating is that I seem to have gained a nice buffer, a cushion of sorts, to help me escape from the grips of frustration and stress.

This is the salad the Raboff Wolfpack ate last night for dinner. Right now, Elle is on her way to Spain where for a few months she’ll continue her university studies remotely. So proud of her courage and willingness to take on a challenge.

Unless I’m in Greece, a good choice of different salads is surprisingly hard to find when I’m traveling and it’s usually the first kind of food I crave when I get back home. I just remembered that in the 1980s, while I was still living in Göteborg, I actually worked for a few months at a salad bar called Leonis.