Here’s my writing spot while here in Greece. I’ve written chapters of “The Aging Man’s Survival Guide” and “Phobias & Fears” in this exact corner – first in the fall of 2023 and then again in the spring of 2024, when we were here producing a story about the concept of health travel and this fabulous sports hotel.

My corner is quiet, cool, and comfy – without too many distractions. While writing, I typically listen to relaxing electronica broadcast in decent quality from Soma FM’s Drone Zone channel. Soma FM is out of San Francisco and it’s been my go-to station for more than 20 years.

Depending on how focused I am, I write 4–5 hours a day, seven days a week. Yeah, it’s both a calling and a curse.

Currently, I’m working on a chapter about the spring and summer of 1988 when I was a dockworker in the harbor unloading boxes packed with unripe bananas for Banankompagniet, the Swedish company in Göteborg that at the time imported all bananas to Scandinavia.

It was a tough, honest, and well-paid gig that allowed me to save enough money for a six-month trip to Southeast Asia that fall.

I’m fascinated by how many details I still remember from nearly forty years ago. And when I only have a few fragments of retention, I’ll often reach out to old friends and acquaintances to see if they recall some detail that I feel needs to be included in a particular scenario or episode I’m writing about.

I still get a real kick out of making books. There’s a rhythm to it – a steady pulse that begins with an idea, swells through weeks of editing, and finally slows into the quiet satisfaction of holding the finished piece.

The square 21.5-centimeter format has become a favorite – perfectly balanced for single-page compositions, yet generous enough to let panoramic, double-spread images breathe wide open.

Above all, making books that share my love for places – landscapes, cities, and corners of the world I’ve visited more times than I can count – feels like a calling unlike any other I’ve known.

I have at least a dozen more books ahead of me, and right now I’m deep into one about Österlen in southeastern Sweden. It’s a place I first set foot in back in 1998, armed with one of the earliest pro-ish digital cameras: Canon’s DSLR D30, with a whopping 3,1 megapixels and a CMOS APS-C sensor.

Compared to my three-year-old iPhone 14 Pro Max, with its computational wizardry and intelligent image processing, the D30 seems prehistoric. Yet those first frames still carry a raw, unpolished charm – proof that it’s the eye and heart, not just the gear, and certainly not the megapixel count, that creates the image that tells the story.

Yesterday, I shot the background image for this chapter’s collage at Copenhagen’s Central Station – a place that always feels like a portal. Standing there, with the clatter of trains, feels like I’m already en route to somewhere else entirely – leaving landlocked Scandinavia for a place where luck and serendipity tend to write my most memorable stories.

You can order my books from:
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The best thing about dining in Stockholm? All the dive bars and no-nonsense restaurants. The places with sticky floors, laminated menus, cheap beer – and seriously good food. I’m talking about spots where the lights are maybe a little too low, the music’s a little too loud, and the service is fast, friendly, and refreshingly unpretentious.

Last night we hit up Verona along Ringvägen, on Södermalm and a proper old-school Swedish pizzeria completely free of fluff. The pizza? Crispy, cheesy, and flavorful. The pizzasallad? Mama mia. Tart, crunchy, addictive. Places like Verona don’t scream for attention – they just quietly earn your loyalty. Long live the world’s real-deal restaurants!

Photo: Charlotte Raboff

Sunday. Evening. Söder.

After an early morning dip in Öresund, which also helped shake off the remnants of yesterday’s party, I walked to Malmö Central and settled into car 7, seat 31 (window), and I looked forward to a long train ride up to the capital. My companion for the day was What a Fool Believes – Michael McDonald’s autobiography, narrated by the man himself. Michael’s scratchy voice made even the announcements about signal failures along the way sound almost soulful.

Once in Stockholm, all I wanted was to rinse off the travel dust in a sun-drenched Årstaviken, where the water was perfectly cool.
Right now, it’s Peak Sweden – those rare summer weeks when the country is euphorically seductive. As I like to say this time of year, all is forgiven. I often think about how much more pleasant Sweden would be if the weather were like this for at least half the year. Or as the old boxer Ingo once put it – I would have settled for a quarter.

I’m here to keep working on my book Before I Forget, but also to catch up with friends and family – as far as calendars and logistics are able to align.
And of course, I hope to get a chance to meet my friends puppy Zinken. I’ve already said hello to a few four-legged friends here in the city, so I feel prepared. After all, Zinken is a distant relative of our own Torsten “Lillisen” Raboff.

Yesterday I learned that Fred Nicholas passed away on June 28, 2025, at the extraordinary age of 105. It’s difficult to describe a life that long and that full without sounding like I’m overstating it – but in Fred’s case, words almost fall short. His legacy stretches across continents, generations, and disciplines. He wasn’t just a witness to the 20th century – he helped shape it.

Fred and my father, Ernest Raboff, met while studying journalism at USC. They were young, ambitious, and curious – drawn to each other through an interest in storytelling beyond the university’s walls.

Then came World War II.

My father became a reporter for the U.S. Army newspaper Stars and Stripes, covering the war in France and Italy. Fred served as a U.S. Army officer and was deployed to North Africa, Sicily, Italy, Southern France, and later the Philippines.

Fred rose to the rank of Captain and was awarded the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart. Though their paths during the war were separate, my father and Fred shared its weight, and that bond never really faded. They reconnected in the 1950s and remained close friends until my father passed away in the fall of 1986.

What many people may not know is that my father also advised Fred on his early art investments. They talked often about emerging artists, new movements, and the transforming creative scene in post-war Los Angeles.

These conversations helped shape Fred’s lifelong commitment to the arts. He would go on to become one of the key figures behind the Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA) in Los Angeles and chaired the committee that selected Frank Gehry to design the Walt Disney Concert Hall. His quiet influence helped define the cultural identity of the city – without fanfare, without ego.

Fred was also the founding board chair of Public Counsel, now the largest pro bono law firm in the United States. It’s emblematic of who he was: someone who combined vision with action, power with principle, and who made room for others to rise.

Whenever I visited Los Angeles, Fred would insist we meet for lunch or dinner – sometimes at his country club, sometimes at that small Brazilian place on Washington Boulevard in Culver City that he loved.

Charlotte and Elle joined on several occasions, and every time we left feeling seen, appreciated, and lifted. Fred had a way of making you feel not just welcome, but worthy. He gave encouragement without pretense, and warmth without conditions.

I feel so fortunate to have known Fred – not just as a friend of my father’s, but as a man who lived with clarity, kindness, and conviction. His presence in our lives, however occasional, left an impression. A steady voice. A generous spirit. A brilliant mind rooted in humility. And now he’s gone, and the world feels a little quieter without him. I took the above photo of Fred when he and I had lunch in 2022. He was 102 years old, sharp as a knife and as witty as ever.

Rest well, Fred. And thank you for being a friend of the family.

Dear Tyko,

Today, you would have turned 58. And while I don’t believe in a heaven paved with light or an all-seeing deity tallying our deeds, somewhere deep inside, there’s still a hope – a quiet wish that you’re out there somewhere, beyond the reach of the pain that forced you to leave us.

You’re missed – deeply, daily – and the silence around how you left us is still heavy with unanswered questions.

Maybe the truth is buried too deep. Still, your absence speaks louder than any explanation ever could.

I often wonder how you would have handled today’s world – how fractured and tribal it’s all become. Even our own family – on Dad’s side – has drifted into separate camps, no longer talking or sharing our commonalities, but instead living in echo chambers and milking the tribal cows for all they’re worth.

You and I talked about stuff like this time and time again – how we should focus on what we have in common, not what sets us apart.

So yes, I miss you – today more than most – but maybe, in a way, it’s just as well that you don’t have to witness how little we’ve learned from history, how far we’ve strayed from kindness, from connection, from each other.

As always, I carry your memory quietly –
still warm, still glowing.

With love – always.

Kim

The storm arrived with much fanfare last night. No thunder, but boy did it rain throughout the night.

In 18 years, I’ll be 80. When I was 18, I drove a motorcycle at 80 around the Greek island of Corfu and then ate way too many slices of watermelon soaked in ouzo. Now everything’s in slow motion – except time. That still flies.

The upside of getting older? I care more about saying what I actually think and less about sugarcoating my opinions.

Because nothing’s like it used to be – and maybe that’s the conundrum. We pretend it is, then get chagrined when it’s not. Maybe better to carve new paths than drag myself through old disappointing ones. Maybe.

Today it’s back to writing. Next up: a chapter about the ten years I spent in the restaurant business – an important part of my collection of brutally honest stories from my soon-to-be 62-year-old life.

Speaking of which, next week, coincidentally on my own birthday, I’ll participate in celebrating the passing of someone wonderfully full of life. This feels strangely fitting. A reminder to both live fully while you can and to always salute a life well lived.

Nyköping. Sunday. Happy.

From yesterday’s beautiful baptism of Lukas at the ancient Råby Church — built some 800–900 years ago — followed by a wonderful gathering of cousins, second cousins, and third cousins in Råby/Aspåker at the idyllic summer residence of Jan and Kristina Starrsjö.

It also happened to be the 65th birthday of twins Jan and Per Starrsjö, which was modestly but joyfully celebrated.

We in the Andersson family don’t get together nearly as often as we’d like. But when we do, my heart always fills with love and joy. Especially happy that Elle joined us.

Yesterday’s occasion will be remembered for the delicious food, the summery countryside setting, and the heartfelt conversations about our shared history.

Thank you so much, Janne and Kina, for a warm and cozy get-together.

It’s that time again. Time to share a new book project I’ve just completed, titled “PHOBIAS & FEARS.” The new book explores a super-interesting topic that I think most people can relate to (whether they want to admit it or not). I started collecting information about various phobias last summer after a long dinner where the subject was passionately discussed, and I began to realize how common it is to have at least one phobia. Most of all, I understood how paralyzing it can be when a fear or phobia starts influencing your decisions and holds you back in different ways.

So, what are you afraid of?
Spiders? Elevators? Flying? Or maybe… that a snake will show up while you’re sitting on a hotel toilet? My new book offers a mix of humor, empathy, symptoms, and possible ways to deal with both the most common and the most unusual phobias.

As I see it, this book is for anyone who’s ever wondered: “Is it just me?” So, get ready to laugh – and maybe feel a little uneasy, especially when you discover new things you didn’t even know you were afraid of. The new book is available as a paperback, audiobook, and e-book.