On June 11, 1978, my mother, Solveig “Sissi” Andersson, passed away. A few weeks earlier, I had come home from school at Bancroft Jr High and seen a friend and part-time assistant of my mother’s, Richard Ross, sitting on the edge of the bed in her bedroom at 842 Croft Avenue in West Hollywood.

My mother was lying in bed with a red towel covering one of her eyes – I don’t remember which eye. According to Richard, my mother had bent down to wash her underwear in the bathtub and struck her eye on the sharp edge of the metal handle on the bathtub’s glass door. The impact was so severe that she lost her balance, fell backward onto the bathroom floor, and hit the back of her head hard.

There was always drama at our house, and it was usually my mother who caused it. Her alcoholism guaranteed that, and her waking state constantly fluctuated between three stages: tipsy, drunk, and hungover. All three variations made her both unreliable and, above all, unpredictable.

No one doubted that she was intoxicated when the accident occurred. She drank pretty much from the time we left for school in the morning until she fell asleep at night. She would often lie on the couch, snoring loudly when Tyko and I came home from school in the afternoons.

On the carpet below the couch, there was almost always a blue plastic glass filled with vodka. I remember the stench and to this day cannot drink it. But then again, that’s the only spirit I can’t drink.

My mother was clever at hiding her bottles of Smirnoff, but after two or three drinks – which she drank with lime juice or club soda and ice – I suppose she couldn’t muster the energy to put the gallon bottle back in its hiding place. So, instead of making sure there was something for us her kids to eat, a large glass bottle of Smirnoff would sometimes be standing on the kitchen table.

When the ambulance arrived to pick up my mother, we thought she was just going to the hospital to get patched up, and then come back home. But she didn’t. She never came home. Following a surgery where they attempted to relieve the pressure that built up when her brain swelled after the fall, my mother slipped into a coma and died 48 years ago today.

Both Tyko and I were obviously deeply upset when the news arrived. The surgeon told me on the phone after the operation that my mother’s general condition was critical; above all, her liver was shriveled from years of alcohol abuse. He explained that she would not have lived much longer regardless, and would only have been able to pull through the surgery and recover if her body hadn’t been in such bad shape.

Looking back now, nearly half a century later, I can admit that I felt both a profound grief and a sense of guilty relief. My mother was rarely kind to me. In her eyes, I reminded her of my father and became intertwined with him as the root of everything that had gone wrong in her life. I was her convenient scapegoat for him abandoning her for a younger woman from Alaska who worked as an erotic dancer at strip joints along La Cienega Boulevard.

I spent most of the day on June 11, 1978, comforting Tyko. He was only 11 years old and understandably had a really tough time processing our mother’s death. Our dysfunctional family had now been decimated even further, but life for both of us, at least for a while, would actually turn around when we moved to Sweden a few weeks later.

I’ve come to learn more about my mother in recent years, and maybe I’ve even come to terms with some of the shit she’s had me carry with me for the rest of my life. Still, a part of me, the most generous part, would have loved to have her see how I managed to create a decent life for myself, despite her vindictive, vodka-fueled misbehavior. Above all, it would have been wonderful to see her amazing granddaughter, Elle and Charlotte.

I don’t celebrate my mother’s death today. But it certainly is a day that is hard to forget.

The photo is probably one of the very first of me, likely taken by my father.
This post isn’t about me seeking sympathy or empathy. It’s just another story that I needed to tell. However, if there are readers who can identify with it becasue they too grew up with an abusive parent, then maybe it can help them feel less alone in their lifelong struggle to feel good about themself.

I’m definitely not a resort or a retreat person. I don’t like being trapped in a cushy, comfy all-inclusive bubble where I don’t get to see, hear, smell, or taste anything other than what has been more or less intelligently composed and conceptualized for me by a team of hospitality pros.

To me, that kind of institutional, over-sanitized travel feels completely hollow. Soulless.

I much prefer staying at smaller, independent hotels where you actually feel like a guest – a human being – and not just another faceless, revenue-generating statistic in a corporate database.

That said, as much as I push back against the “resort industrial complex”, this hotel’s location here in Greece is undeniably beautiful.

The scenery here doesn’t give a hoot about stiff and worn hospitality mechanics; the way the light hits the bay and the surrounding landscape is the real deal.

I’m once again on assignment in Greece to do a travel story about another seaside sport hotel known for its many activities. This time I’m on the mainland, not too far from the legendary islands of Corfu and Paxos.

I rarely eat anything other than yogurt and smoothies at home, except when Charlotte makes her delicious vegan pancakes. But when I get to stay at a hotel that serves a classic English or American breakfast, I typically go with the flow and indulge.

The above selection is from this morning’s breakfast, which I enjoyed after an hour running and lifting weights at the hotel’s gym.

Malmö. Last night. Gorgeous evening light, with the Öresund Bridge doing its usual quiet thing in the background. How could I not whip out my five-year-old iPhone and at least try to capture this beautiful bird?

This is not just any duck, but what, according to an informed source (ChatGPT), is a female mallard – gräsandshona in Swedish. She stood there on the wooden deck, checking out the view and everyone who came by as if she owned the place, which, given the confidence of most ducks around here, she probably believes she does.

The mottled brown feathers, perfect camouflage for nesting and for looking understated, are the giveaway that she is a she. The male mallard gets the green head and all the attention. The female gets practicality, elegance and survival skills. A better deal, if you ask me.

Look closely and you’ll see the blue-purple flash on the wing, apparently called the “speculum”.

Mallards are among the most common ducks in Sweden. They are adaptable, pushy, oddly dignified and always seem to know exactly where the snacks are.

This one had the bridge, the sea, the sunset and the pose. All she lacked was an agent.

I’ve begun realizing that, at some point I probably need to create a book devoted entirely to the dogs I’ve met throughout my travels. Maybe in cooperation with Charlotte’s @hundvanligahotell

I’ve never really set out to photograph dogs as a project, but because over the years they have just found their way into my viewfinder, again and again. Street dogs in distant cities, loyal companions walking beside their humans (or, like in Japan, in baby strollers), curious faces peering from doorways, beach dogs, farm dogs, and the occasional character who simply demanded a portrait.

I’ve loved dogs in almost every shape and size for as long as I can remember. Up until Palma, our Standard Schnauzer, they have been part of my life since pretty much day one, when CoCo was the family’s German Shepard matriarch. Maybe that’s why I keep photographing them. Dogs don’t really pretend to be anything other than what they are. They just show up as themselves.

This little Pomeranian was photographed in Tribeca, New York City. Definitely a face for a future book.

This shot was taken during the last meal I ate in the United States back in 2022. Strange the things we remember. Airports fade. Hotels blur. Entire conversations fade into white noise. But a meal? A proper meal? Those linger.

For years, I danced around the meat question. On and off vegetarian. Then pescatarian for five solid years. Fish, seafood, olive oil, vegetables, all very civilized and ambitious. The sort of diet that makes me feel morally superior while secretly fantasizing about pork chops, ribs and beef burgers.

And now? At 62, I find myself drifting back toward carnivorism with the enthusiasm of a man who no longer believes salvation lies hidden in a quinoa salad or a bowl full of sawdust (couscous)

That’s not cynicism exactly. More resignation mixed with honey-baked honesty.

At some point, I simply stopped believing that my personal abstinence from a beef burger was going to alter the trajectory of humanity. or impact my health negatively.

The world continued overheating. Billionaires continued billionaire-ing. Factory farms kept factory farming. Wars rolled on uninterrupted. Meanwhile I was sitting there chewing ethically sourced lentils.

I exercise regularly, walk a lot, train hard enough, and remain reasonably functional. The machinery still works. And frankly, my inner caveman occasionally demands something chewy and unapologetically primitive.

There’s also something deeply human about meat that is difficult to replicate. Not nutritionally, perhaps. Philosophically. Viscerally. The tearing, chewing and slight barbarism of it all. Chicken comes close. Fish never really does. Tofu certainly doesn’t.

I know all the arguments. Health. Ethics. Climate. Longevity. I’ve made many of them myself over the years. Some are entirely valid. But age has made me suspicious of absolutism in all forms, dietary or otherwise.

Most people are improvising their way through existence anyway. We create systems and identities around food the same way we do around politics, religion, and love. Divisiveness. Polarization.

Maybe balance is the only sane position left.

Eat thoughtfully. Move your body. Try not to be cruel. Don’t bore everyone at dinner with nutritional evangelism. And if a good steak occasionally lands in front of you, perhaps the wisest response is simply:

Pass the sauce.