Left behind in the angsty twenties

Yesterday was a day of pure niceness. It was a day where I was dedicated to not being a wuss, despite the blister that was developing on my foot (after all, I chose to wear boots); it was a day where I was not a complainer, despite the fact that I was relegated to bread and butter for lunch (it’s not the world’s problem that I don’t like smoked cheese, is it?); it was a day where I was not an annoyed bitch, despite having to leave Erik at a restaurant and run—in my boots—to the nearest ATM, which was not near, because CASH IS KING (I wouldn’t have had to do that had I taken out cash earlier in the evening like I should have).

Yesterday Erik turned 30 and nothing, but nothing, could ruin our moods.

Erik took the day off and we slept in until a whopping 8:15 am! Erik took some phone calls from early-bird well-wishers, while I whipped us up a birthday "fry-up," which is something of a tradition with us. Scrambled eggs, buttered toast, Heinz baked beans, soysage, hash browns, and grapefruit juice to wash it down.

Happy and full, we boarded the train to Denmark. Like last year, we decided to spend the afternoon at our favorite museum, this time surrounded, not by flowers, but by Matisse and an exhibition of contemporary drawings, which was, in my non art critic vocabulary, um...inspiring.

On the train ride home, Erik slept and I read a short story. And then the happiness continued, Malmö style. After some time at home, we went out for a festive dinner of burgers and fries, a milkshake, and a banana split. Finally, when the day was coming to a close, it was time to give Erik my present. All he knew about it was that we had to be somewhere at 8pm, that it was not theater, and not a party. (I found out later that he thought I had arranged for someone to knit him a sweater and they needed his measurements. Ha!)

So I led him, full and cold, up some blocks and over to the left. A few meters away from our destination, I gave him an easy hint (we talked about it today) and he whispered—excitement filling his face— ”the darkroom!” Yes, I had paid for his membership in a photography club, with access to a darkroom.

When I first met Erik he was working in a photography bookstore and never went anywhere without his precious Leica around his neck. But after leaving London and his university darkroom, Erik's interest in photography went into hibernation. The Leica pretty much just collects dust these days. And, in a near Gift of the Magi twist, he even mentioned selling it on the train to Denmark yesterday. The conversation started when I said I needed a new digital camera. ”Maybe I should sell the Leica,” Erik said, resignedly, ”I don’t use it and we could put some of the money towards a good digital camera.” Of course, I was horrified, ”No! You love that camera!” Then he said, sweet as can be, ”Thanks for saying that.” And then, as if on cue, ”Well, if I’m not going to sell it, then I should really join the darkroom.” Yes, you should.

When we got to the darkroom to meet the guy in charge, all thoughts of selling the Leica disappeared. Erik was in his element, inspecting the chemicals and asking questions about things I’ve never heard of. It was obvious that he couldn't wait to get in there with the rolls of undeveloped film he's been moving from London to Sweden and from apartment to apartment.

When we got home, Erik went immediately to the computer to find out where he could buy the best photographic paper in Malmö. He kept apologizing for the delay in watching Fanny and Alexander. But, of course, I didn’t mind.

It was a wonderful day: an apt kick-off to a decade that promises to be full of wonder. The thirties are great, right?