As the train leaves Penn Station and the short female train conductor, who fits the expression – butch – to a tee, starts yelling. I know what’s she’s getting at. MY suitcases. I stashed them behind some seats next to the train door and found a more comfortable seat, kind of like you’d do it at any Swedish train. Shoulda known better.
“Whose soootcases do we have hea?” She barks, like a pissed off terrier in her rude New Yorker accent. “Whose soootcases do we have HEA?!”
If this was Sweden I would likely have been embarrassed, even blushed at such attention and hurriedly leaped from my seat to claim my bags. Instead, I raise my hand and say they are mine.
“Come hea! You can’t just leave ‘em! Come hea! Terrorrrrissssts!” Some people in the train look scared. It’s unclear if they’re scared of the threat my suitcases are posing or if they fear that Gestapo has just come to claim them. I just respond, “Calm down, already. I’ll be there.” I don’t even apologize, the beaaatch-butch’s not worth it.

I realize at that moment that I am a slightly different person when American. More self-confident. Chilled. Comfortable. I do, say and feel things that I don’t when Swedish.

Settled in my new seat, I turn on my laptop to clean up an interview. As I see the New York City skyline getting smaller and smaller in the distance, I plug in my head phones and turn on my latest favorite tune – Just Like a Woman, the Nina Simone version. Loudly.

She takes just like a woman, yeah, she does, and she makes love just like a woman, and she aches just like a woman – and she breaks … like a little girl.

Could be me.

The way Nina sings this song is just indescribable. Download it. It’s one of those songs that make every woman feel…hahahaa…just like a woman. It’s oozing sensuality. It’s so jazzy, bluesy, so old school, so American.

A couple of seats in front and across from me, sits a black dude with one of those spiffy suits that only statuesque black American men can pull off. It’s a dark gray suit with tan and white stripes and his starched white cuffs and collar are visible underneath. His shaved head is covered with a black felt hat, fifties style, and he reads a copy of The New York Times through tortoise-rimmed, rectangular spectacles. His shoes…give it to me baby… a pair of square-toed dress shoes in crocodile leather!!!

Everybody knows, baby’s got new clothes…

Oh yeah, he’s a “smoove playa,” as my friend Briston would say. It’s impossible to not look at him. Mr. Crocodile Shoes’ might be totally over the top, but man, he’s pimpin’ it. He’s noticed that I’m looking at him and he’s also noticing me jamming and singing, or miming actually (the conductor butch, probably would have me thrown off the train if I started singing for real.) He smiles and looks curious. I’m guessing that he’s trying to figure out what I’m listening to. I’m not dancing in my seat, but I’m definitely moving, tapping my fingers on the laptop and closing my eyes, seriously letting loose in this silent jam of mine. If I was on a Swedish train right now, people would probably be convinced I was one of them “crazies.” Liberation. Maybe he thinks I’m crazy, but he nods approvingly as if he could hear Nina’s husky voice and the backbeat. He is in the song without knowing it. Watching him becomes part of the song.

And your long-time curse hurts…

This is what I f***ing love about America. People. All these different people. Characters. The exchange. Watching them. Talking to them. Learning their story. Imagining their story.

Brentwood. The conductor with the rude New Yorker accent announces it loud enough to cut through my head phones. It’s evidentially Mr. Crocodile Shoes stop. He gets up. Looks me in the eye, touches his hat, as if he was about to take it off, but only lifts it a tiny bit. He smiles and says “Have a great trip, ma’am.”

Yes, I believe it’s time for us to quit…

Well... I have now hijacked Larry's computer as he's wandring around discussing his 1A piece with folks in the science department. I've had lunch with the science desk editors and gotten some great contacts for other stories I want to do. In addition, my quest is to find the entertainment desk and "accidentally" drop off a copy of Adam Tensta's CD "It's A Tensta Thing." This is easier said than done, as my companion is 70 years old and doesn't know his way around this gigantic building and much less knows where people who'd write something about international hip-hop would hold fort. I feel like a spy or a hacker, desperately trying to locate the right people through his intranet account, before he gets back. Keep your fingers crossed...

Nov. 19, 2008 – 16.00 EST
At this very moment I am (“proof”) reading a front page story by Larry Altman for tomorrow’s paper (Monday.) Yeah, I’m in Manhattan, in The New York Times new and very flashy building near Times Square. After a crazy-busy week, about four hours of sleep per night and three Bloody Marys (my official travel drink,) I am sitting here trying to give some constructive criticism on an article written by one of the worlds prominent investigative reporters, Dr. Lawrence K. Altman. Hahahahaaaa…

Before we printed the massive article (nine damn pages!) which is about the health condition of the four candidates in the presidential election, I staggered around on the second floor of the high-rise, which is home to the science, sports and the business desk -- jetlagged as hell. N.E.E.D. C.O.F.F.E.E. Looking out over the landscape of neatly planned cubicles, many empty as it’s Sunday, I all of a sudden spot a familiar face.
”Oh my gawed!” we both burst out as our eyes lock.
”What are you doing here?” Mike De La Merced asks and we share in a big hug. I explain that I ran into Dr. Altman (courtesy titles are very important at the NYT and considering that Larry is 70 years old, I conform to etiquette) during the Nobel festivities in Stockholm last year and how he asked for my assistance on a story. It’s just three years since I showed Mike the ropes of a crime reporter at a New York Times-owned community paper in North Carolina. Now he’s a big dawg, a business reporter for the NYT and sits in the swanky designed NYT building which goes in orange, dark wood, silver and black. Mike is as tired as I am, minus the jetlag. He’s worked night and day for the last month, covering the American financial crisis (now global), which has its heart just a few blocks away. We began, just like good old times in Wilmington, to talk about projects and stories and I invite Mike to Stockholm. Wouldn’t it be great if he could write a story about the global financial crisis with a Stockholm or Scandinavian angle? I ask. That’s an awesome idea, Mike responds. We split after deciding that I’ll swing by his desk after having lunch with my editors on Monday. I begin to get this sneaky suspicion that I will spend my few days on Manhattan inside The NYT building. I don’t mind.

As many of you know I am in The U.S. This is a home-coming/inspirational trip. In contrast to what many people have suggested – take advantage of the weak dollar and shop till you drop – my time here will be spent in inspiring environments and with interesting people who are very dear to me. NYC. Florida. North Cackalacky. My plans include brainstorming The New York Times reporter, Larry Altman’s biography. Get inspiration and information for writing projects. Chill on the beach. Surf (if it's warm enough.) Write, write and write.

During my 15 years in the U.S., especially during my times as a crime reporter at some North Carolina newspapers, many of you received irregular newsletters of my adventures, encounters and thoughts, via e-mail. Some Swedes have complained that they stopped coming. (Jerk, you used to point out that they were loooong, but admitted, not too long ago, that you kind of missed ’em.) So, the irregular newsletters will resurface again – now in a blog format.

Back then I wrote in Swedish, but now I’ve chosen to write in English since my eccentric and eclectic social circle includes a large portion of non-Swedish speakers. Feel free to make comments, I'd love to hear from y'all!