Entering Sweden and making our way to Malmö was pretty uneventful. I was still battling the sickness I had acquired during the night that we had spent camping in Germany. We weren’t planning on doing much of anything in Sweden, other than relaxing and spending a night in our tent before heading back to Germany.
We didn’t foresee any problems.
We didn’t foresee any weirdness.
Rest. Dinner. Sleep. Breakfast. Should be easy.
We arrived at the Malmö Camping & Ferie Center and went into the office. It was the usual thing: the guy showed us a map, pointed out places to pitch a tent and where to pee. Good enough. So, we were ready to pay.
“You also have to buy the camping card,” campground employee guy informed us.
“A camping card? What’s a camping card and why do we have to buy it?”
He looked at the two of us as though we might be completely daft. We looked at him as though he might’ve been drunk. He held up his hand and presented a plastic card. “You can’t camp without it,” he said. “It’s the law. 10 Euros and you can camp all year.”
All year? Wonderful! We’re only going to be here for one night, but knowing that we have this useless thing for the entire year is comforting. So… bravo, Sweden. You’ve got a good scam running there, jacking every single person who wishes to camp 10 Euros for a plastic card which provides no benefits, rewards, hand jobs or any other useful thing. Just the privilege to camp, which most people have managed to do sans card.
After we bought some snacks and mocked the useless card, we drove down the path, past all of the campers and RVs to a wide open space between some trees. We thought it was a little weird, this being the area for tents and there was absolutely nothing… no one at all. Well, except for a few ducks and bunnies.
We took a stroll around the campground and noticed something a bit odd about the campers and RVs that were occupying much of the place: they appeared to be permanent.
Indeed, we were surrounded by several RVs & pop-up campers with small picket fences, lawn decorations and portable patios. There were satellite dishes, dog houses and flower beds.
These people weren’t camping – they were living in a goddamn campground.
Somewhat baffled, we went back to our camp site to have dinner.
I sat in the tent, feeling sorry for myself since I was still sick, while Olivier unloaded all of the cooking supplies from the car.
I would like to say that after dinner, we simply went to sleep & rested soundly, but that would be bullshit.
The wind pounded our tent for the entire night and we were so smart that we had pitched our tent rather close to a lamppost that stayed on all night.
Once the sun was up, the wind had stopped and it was time to abandon any further attempts at sleep. Olivier broke out the cooking supplies once again.
“You want me to boil some water for tea?”
“Yes, please,” I replied as I rubbed sleepy crap from my eyes.
A bit later, drinking my tea, I asked, “Are you going to make some oatmeal?”
So, we had our oatmeal. Olivier turned to me. “I guess you want some coffee?”
I nodded my head. “And maybe you could toast those English muffins.”
Drinking my coffee, I watched as Olivier placed the muffins in the tiny pan… I was still watching when he burned his finger on it.
“That’s it!” He tossed the muffin halves into the tent. “I’m tired of playing Little Chef!”
Little. Chef.
Ok… so, I knew that this was one of those times where it’s really better not to laugh, that it’s just too soon and that once the person has calmed down and the pain of the searing flesh has abated, then it’ll be ok to laugh.
I erupted with hysterical laughter at that very moment.
Since we were actually in Sweden, I initially thought that perhaps Olivier was making some sort of befuddled reference to this:
But, no… I was mistaken. According to Olivier, it was because, “My pan is little, the cups are little, my spatula and the silverware are little and I don’t want to be the fucking little chef anymore!”.
I laughed until I hyperventilated, then decided that it was time to get our shit together and get ourselves the hell out of Sweden and its weird campground with picket fences. So, I began packing things up and headed toward the bathroom to get myself ready.
However, my path was impeded by some pushy fucking ducks mooching for snacks.
Of course, clingy little shits that they were, even after I had met all of their demands, they refused to leave. They loitered around the tent and once we had packed that up, they hung around the car and I wondered if they might chase us as we made our departure out of Sweden, demanding more breakfast treats.
You may not believe that wee little ducks can be bullies, but you’d be wrong.
After creating a diversion with some bread, we jumped back into the car and made our way toward the Oresund Bridge, or the Øresundsbron.
In spite of the fact that I was paralyzed with fear (bridges + water = stark terror) I have to say that this thing is rather impressive, being part bridge and part tunnel, spanning for about 10 miles.
Yeah… a big scary bridge that dives under the fucking water! Brilliant!
We spent the next 5 hours or so on the road before arriving at our room just outside of Berlin, where we would be spending the next few days.
After we talked with the owner and unloaded our car, Olivier went right to work, setting up his little pans, little cups and utensils, ready to play “Little Chef” once again.
Well… only until we could get our hands on the Wurst, Bier & Frühstück in Berlin.