February 1. Is it just me, or didn’t January seem a bit elongated? In the middle of a Swedish winter, when the Baltic winds sweep across the Öresund and the mercury drops to levels that I feel are almost inhumanly cold, most people stay tucked away indoors. But for me, looking out across Västra Hamnen, the chill is just another layer that makes this place so incredibly unique.

Living and working here since 2002 has been an extraordinary journey. When we first moved in, the area was still vibrating with the energy of the Bo01 housing expo. The Kockums Crane still stood as a sentinel of our industrial past – a silhouette that would soon be replaced by the twisting grace of the Turning Torso. Since then, I’ve watched this neighborhood evolve from a visionary “City of Tomorrow” into a living, breathing community that never stops reinventing itself.

Västra Hamnen – A Neighborhood as a Muse

As a multidisciplinary creative artist, my work is often a reflection of my surroundings, and when not traveling, this neighborhood has certainly been a tireless muse. There is something about the way the light hits the seawater and bounces off the diverse architecture that demands to be captured. It’s not like I have a choice.

19,000 Passionate Neighbors

One of the most rewarding aspects of my online life is the community we’ve built together. My Facebook page, I Love Västra Hamnen, has grown to over 19,000 passionate followers. I publish images and films there several times a week in an effort to bottle the essence of this place – the storms, the sunsets, and the quiet morning moments. Knowing that thousands of people share that same “neighborhood pride” and find joy in my visual stories is what keeps me heading out with my camera, even on days like today, when the wind feels like it’s carving ice into my soul.

So, friends, stay warm out there, and keep looking for the beauty in the “now” – no matter the temperature.

This is from an abandoned office not much more than 1 kilometer from where I am writing this in Malmö. It struck me as I saw it flash by in Lightroom that I’ve been semi-subconsciously drawn to unintentional time capsules for several years – abandoned places where time has been preserved not by design, but by neglect, chance, or sudden change.

I keep documenting these time capsules because they carry a particular kind of mystery: rooms left mid-sentence, objects halted in place, quiet traces of human presence without the humans themselves.

They invite curiosity precisely because they refuse to explain themselves, even as they hint at lives interrupted rather than neatly concluded or at least faded out gracefully.

For me, the unintentionally of time capsules do more than fascinate. They hold the tension between what once was and what never got the chance to become – and that gap triggers something both intellectual and visceral: the urge for me to look closer, to record, and to understand what it means to leave without closure.

I don’t think my fixation is accidental. Photography does something similar. It isolates what would otherwise vanish and insists: this mattered. Maybe not forever, but enough to be held onto.

And yes, there’s something personal under this particular surface. As my life has been shaped more by abrupt shifts than gentle transitions – moves, separations, endings that arrived without warning, I rarely got the luxury of easing into change. Instead, I learned to cope afterward, by looking back and reconstructing. Arguably, sometimes lingering a bit too long.

Maybe that’s why I return to the past so often – not out of nostalgia, but because some things were left behind too quickly…

Clomp, clomp, clomp. Wheeze, wheeze, wheeze. Blah, blah, blah.

When I crawled out of bed around five this morning, groggy and stiff as a plank, it was with slow Frankenstein steps that I shuffled over to the Fitness24Seven gym in the block behind our local supermarket, ICA. I was looking forward to the week’s first workout on home turf. The previous session I’d done at the chain’s branch on Hornsgatan in Stockholm.

I like Fitness24Seven’s concept, where your membership gives you free access to all their roughly 280 gyms in five countries. Last year I trained at ten different gyms in Malmö, Gothenburg, Trollhättan, Stockholm, and Bangkok.

The machines aren’t the same quality as at my old gym, where they have Italian Technogym, but they’re perfectly fine. After all, it’s the muscles that are supposed to do the work – not the machines.

Just like so many other Monday mornings around six in the am, only the middle treadmill was available. To my right ran The Clomper, to my left ran The Wheezer, and on the far end walked The Yapper, who, as so often, was in the middle of yet another incredibly important and very loud phone call with someone.

For me, training is non-negotiable. The medication I take for my arthritis suppresses my immune system so much that I have to keep moving just to have a fighting chance against nasty germs and mischievous viruses. On top of that, exercise keeps the ghosts at a respectful distance, which in turn leaves room for my fuel – creativity.

I usually listen to BBC, Monocle Globalist, Conan O’Brien, or The New Yorker Radio Hour when I work out. But The Yapper’s forty-minute phone call this morning made it hard to hear or focus on anything other than the conversation he was having – a call which, judging by the volume, was clearly of the highest national importance.

When The Yapper isn’t running on the treadmill, I can usually hear him talking and laughing so loudly that he truly deserves his nickname. I’m annoyed with myself for not having more civic courage so early in the morning.

I can live with the obviously flat-footed Clomper, and even though it sometimes sounds like The Wheezer is about to give birth any second, it’s really only The Yapper who manages to sabotage my concentration a bit.

From a social-anthropological point of view, I’m fascinated by how some people seem to be completely filterless and can behave as if they own the gym.

Some of the younger guys think it’s perfectly okay to mark three different machines as “theirs” at the same time. Others have no problem scrolling for several minutes between sets, as if they were at a café and not in the middle of a workout.

Last week, I actually mustered the courage to ask a guy (my age) if he’d be done with his sets soon. He just sat there glaring at his screen when I tried to get to the machine he was occupying. He got visibly irritated and snapped:

“I didn’t know you had booked it.”

I laughed, left him to his screen, and went to another machine without thinking too much more about the slightly odd situation. But clearly, I didn’t let it go completely. On the walk home, I felt like a guy from the “gym police”.

Sometimes I have a hard time understanding how people think when they barrel along in their own little bubble without showing the slightest consideration – or even understanding what you’re talking about when I gently point out that it’s not okay. Maybe I’ve just been to Japan too many times.

In an hour or so, it’s supposed to start snowing. If we’re lucky, it’ll remain for a while. I’m looking forward to some snow. I like the light and the silence a blanket of snow brings with it. The fridge and freezer are reasonably well stocked with food, and in one of the kitchen drawers, I’ve collected five or six cans of Heinz Baked Beans in case we end up completely snowed in here in Malmö.

Back in the late 1980s, when the highway between Kiruna and Riksgränsen was closed due to a snowstorm, you’d call the Swedish Road Administration to check when it would open again. A recorded voice on the authority’s phone line would then say:

“This is the Swedish Road Administration’s automated answering service. The road between Kiruna and Riksgränsen is expected to open in three hours. End of message.”

No timestamp, so we had no idea when the recording had been made. But it was also funny. Communication isn’t always that easy. Not for government agencies – and not for people at the gym…

In the past 20 years, I’ve stayed at dozens of different hotels all over Stockholm. So it is without any hesitation whatsoever that I can say Södermalm is easily my favorite island to be based on when visiting the capital.

This past visit, I stayed within meters of Maria Magdalena Church captured above. The photograph was taken just a few days ago, on my merry way to enjoy a beer or two with Annika – a dear old friend and, in our youth, a former bartender colleague from Hotel Riksgränsen in Swedish Lapland.

There’s something about Södermalm that always enchants me. One moment I’m weaving past vintage shops and falafel joints on Götgatan, the next I’m up on the cliffs of Mariaberget, watching Riddarfjärden and the old rooftops of Gamla Stan. A view that never gets old. Södermalm has this gift for stitching the ordinary and the quietly spectacular together.

By the time I reached the bar, my shoulders had already dropped a few centimeters. That’s what Söder does to me. It doesn’t try too hard. It doesn’t shout. It just offers a good walk, a good view, multiple places where a good meal can be enjoyed – and the faint but persistent feeling that, if you weren’t already living somewhere else, you could live there quite happily.

The results from the poop test came in the other day.

What? Let me explain.

I started the new year with two things that – at least for me – were mildly anxiety-inducing. First, I handed in a stool sample to check if there was any blood in it, which in turn could indicate an elevated risk of cancer in the rear end (and a bit further up the plumbing system).

Then I took a blood test to check the risk of prostate cancer. The time between testing and getting the results was… not exactly fun.

In situations like that, my lively imagination isn’t much of an asset, and since I also have semi-chronic hypochondria, I managed to sink pretty deep into some abyssal thought spirals while I was stuck in that drawn-out “waiting room.”

Prostate cancer is the most common form of cancer among men in Sweden – and the risk increases, like all other crap, with age. Cold facts: if we live long enough, most of us men will get prostate cancer. You don’t die from it as such, but sooner or later, it hits almost all older guys.

Like so many men my age, my prostate sometimes gets a bit sore, and that can in turn affect its neighbor, the bladder, so you feel like you have to pee even if only a few drops have collected there. Around the clock.

Unlike many of my male friends, I have zero problem talking about stuff like this. For me, it gets defused when I say it out loud. And I hope that others who walk around bothered in silence might feel a little less alone if they have similar symptoms.

It’s quite fascinating how much easier women seem to have opening up about their physical, age-related issues.

According to the nurse, whom I eventually had to call myself (symptomatic of Capio) – I had a very low PSA value.
Karolinska Institute informed me via Kivra that they couldn’t see any traces of blood in my stool.

Phew.

Slightly noteworthy, though, was what it said at the very end of the KI message: that I might want to cut back a bit on my consumption of OLW’s “Cheez Cruncherz Hot Chili.” How the hell the lab could see that makes me admire their analytical technique. Maybe they uploaded a photo to ChatGPT?

I’m writing these lines from a simple hotel room on Söder – near Mariatorget, Hornstullpucken, and the gallery strip. It’s thin-walled. So thin-walled that if I’d only understood German better, I could have understood what the woman in the next room was saying between her loud moans. Probably just as well that I can’t.

It’s cold, too. So cold that the kind old guy at reception brought in a small, wheezing space heater. But the bed is comfortable, the breakfast is good, and the location is fantastic.

Feels perfect to have kicked off the year by visiting the capital and meeting old, good friends from my time in Riksgränsen. Also managed a fun shrimp lunch with Per, one of my cousins, at Lisa E in the mother of all food halls.

During the days I’ve been strolling around and photographing Stockholm in a partly beautiful winter outfit – despite the fairly unfriendly photo weather. Steps so far: 53k. And now 1,055 culled images from Stockholm are sitting in the archive.

Clearly time for a book!

Alright, let’s tackle this beast of a topic – “Heeding Healthy Habits.” It is a phrase that, quite frankly, often conjures images of extraordinarily fit health gurus, smoothies the color of swamp water, and the kind of relentless self-flagellation that makes me yearn for a bourbon, a greasy burger, and a super-sized bag of fries.

But fear not, for I am not here to preach the gospel of unwavering dietary asceticism, but rather to muse on the more sensible path that I am currently on.

The world, as we’ve all noticed, is awash with longevity experts. Each is armed with peer-reviewed papers, bespoke supplement regimes, and the conviction that they alone have cracked the code to eternal youth – or, at the very least, figured out how to become a highly functional centenarian.

My own journey through this labyrinth of nutritional advice and exercise dogma has led me to a simple, yet profoundly liberating conclusion: heeding healthy habits does not demand the complete annihilation of joy. Instead, it’s a delicate dance between discipline and – dare I say – a generous amount of indulgence. At least on the weekends. Especially on the weekends. 

I am currently living by the venerable 80/20 rule, a principle so elegant in its simplicity that even the most fervent zealot might concede its utility. Eighty percent of my food can be considered a form of nutritional prudence.

The remaining twenty percent? Ah, that precious aliquot is reserved for the glorious, the unrepentantly unhealthy – the dishes that whisper sweet nothings of butter, sugar, and deep-fried delights.

Then there is the ritual of the gym, that temple of clanking weights and the rhythmic thump of feet upon the treadmill. An hour, every other day. Thirty minutes of cardio followed by thirty minutes of resistance training – defying the gravitational pull of my body’s slow decline. I don’t see it so much as an obsession; it is a commitment, a non-negotiable appointment, and a challenge that I feel a certain quiet triumph in conquering.

For ten days now, alcohol has been banished, and the mind sharpened. To complete this home-brewed regimen, the curious practice of intermittent fasting has taken hold of me again. In my case, this means no breakfast.

Unless, of course, I find myself in a hotel. For then, dear reader, all bets are off. The buffet, in its glorious abundance, demands a certain… participation. One must, after all, allow for exceptions for the sake of sheer civilized pleasure.

I think I’ve stumbled upon a rather compelling recipe. It balances indulgence with restraint, effort with ease, and sanity with the occasional, utterly necessary, culinary transgression. For what good is a long life if it is devoid of pleasure? I must simply learn to measure it out, to pace it – much like a carefully curated photograph – capturing the light and the shadow in equal, exquisite measure.

This tray is from a restaurant I’ve been to a few times in Bangkok, where they serve a terrific array of food from Chennai (formerly Madras).

Norra Hamnen (the northern harbor) has never been Malmö’s “pretty” side – it’s the city’s backyard that actually does Malmö’s heavy lifting these days. In this photograph (taken from the 54th floor at @skyhighmeetings in the Turning Torso), you can see an industrial landscape built for flow, not charm.

Today, it’s Malmö’s largest industrial business area, tightly tied to the port and ferry traffic. Malmö Industrial Park is the engine of Norra Hamnen – logistics, warehousing, manufacturing, and port-dependent companies.

The future is not vague here – Malmö municipality has a masterplan. They’re expanding Norra Hamnen with major land reclamation in steps and stages, and the latest green light means the port can grow by a huge new area (described as roughly 52 soccer fields). The fill work is expected to take about a decade, then additional years of ground prep – with the new land projected to be ready for port operations around 2040–2045. The port masterplan also talks about new quays for deeper ships and even potential wind turbines on the reclaimed area. The future for Malmö looks bright.

Pawed my way through the first assignment of the year today – My Dog at Svenska Mässan Convention Center. As usual, the Standard Poodles carried their tails high, and not entirely surprisingly the Dachshunds got no deductions for their nosework. The Labs and Goldens spread love, and all those proud Schnauzers (three varieties) were, of course, irresistible. And let’s not forget all the beautiful sheepdogs.

Wednesday. The last day of the year. Pensive.

Creatively, emotionally, geographically – 2025 was a good year. Was I happier than the year before, or just less unhappy than during any of my other sixty-two spins around the sun? I honestly don’t know. Joy is assessed differently now. Elle coming home for dinner a few times a month – that’s happiness. Waking up and feeling healthy and steady – that’s another win. Drifting back to sleep early in the morning with Charlotte wrapped around me – that’s a rare kind of calm.

I keep on keepin’ on. One day at a time. I don’t hunt happiness the way I used to. I try to catch the small, ordinary bliss instead. Happy Islands, I call them.

Because I juggle several book projects in parallel, it just worked out that we released four books in 2025: Malmö, Fears & Phobias, Österlen, and Abandoned – The Beauty of What Remains. The bestseller was the photo book Malmö – 490 of 500 copies sold. And once again: a big thank you for the help I’ve gotten from Charlotte and Maestro David Pahmp. This spring, a new book arrives – photographs from safaris in South Africa, Botswana, and Kenya.

The travels.

This year, I finally got to experience and document a couple of places I’ve carried around in my head for a long time: Hiroshima early in the year, and Svalbard in May. The contrast is almost tangible.

In total, during 2025, I checked into 34 different hotels in seven countries. A lot of those rooms were genuinely great – especially the ones with real mattress toppers. There should be legislation for them once you’re past fifty.

And then there were the others. Roughly a third of the rooms left plenty to be desired. Like, most recently, the Riverton in Gothenburg – where at least ten different design styles had been tossed into a blender with zero thoughtfulness, and the room felt bare, cold, and oddly put together. In my next life I’ll become a hotel-room designer – unless I come back as an albatross.

One of the year’s best trips took us to France. Elle and I celebrated Charlotte turning 60 with a beautiful hike along the French Riviera and a delicious dinner in old Nice – exactly the way my gorgeous sixty-year-old wife wanted it. She also got a lovely Danish ring. She deserved it. Anyone who lives with me through sunshine and sideways rain deserves some serious hardware.

My longing for the U.S. is still… lukewarm. Maybe I’ll wait until the most vile, corrupt, and pathologically narcissistic president in history – and his brainwashed choir – have cleared out of D.C.

This year, my half-siblings and I unfortunately lost contact completely. They’re tightening their grip on their tribes. If there’s one thing travel keeps teaching me, over and over, it’s that we have far more in common than what separates us – at least once we’ve peeled off the fairy tales and legends. Not to mention dogma and propaganda.

As Joni put it: “But I have no nationality, no race, no class. I’m a mutt.” And she sang it too: “Borderlines – roads, fences, they’re like cholesterol in the arteries.”

On the brighter side, I’m close with cousins on both my mom’s and dad’s side.

New year’s promises

I’m a believer in New Year’s resolutions – as long as we’re honest about what they are: lofty promises. At 62, I’m “fully baked.” So I keep my expectations realistic. I’m not about to become a different person overnight. A few degrees of course correction is plenty.

I usually do my reboot a week or so into January. It suits me better than making vows on the very night when champagne and sentimentality are doing their own little tango. The important thing is that you try. The attempt counts.

Not a resolution exactly, but intentionality will be my word for 2026. Which sounds contradictory, since I love embracing serendipity and often roll the dice whenever I can.

But something shifted after my most recent trip to Japan. I noticed the Japanese level of purposefulness – how little they do on autopilot, how rarely anything is half-assed – and how that mindset seems to seep into so much of daily life. Fascinating. Infectious.

In 2026, I want to stay clear of the smug, the stingy, and the ones who ration warmth and emotions. I want to be more open, more generous, and a few notches more humble.

Wishing everyone a truly Happy New Year, with health, and a lot of adventures we can inspire each other with.

Never give up. Never do nothing.

(Photo: Charlotte Raboff)