It's an autumn evening and I'm crossing the small park in front of
Helgalunden church. You could also walk along the pavement that lines
the church grounds but almost everyone cuts through the park to save
time. Most days, after supper, I walk a loop around my neighbourhood
here in Skanstull. I go through the park, down Blekingegatan until it
joins Ringvägen and along Ringvägen until I get to Götgatan – where I
walk the short distance to the stairs straddling the sides of
Skanstull's tunnelbana exit. The stairs lead back up to my street.
My evening walk takes about 30 minutes, if I go slowly. It's been raining today, and it's dark though it's only five-thirty. Winter will soon be here, and it will start getting darker even earlier in the day. The desire path across the park is covered with autumn leaves from the trees that border the church grounds. The leaves looked beautiful a few days ago, soft piles of brown, red and yellow that crunched underfoot, but now, after the rain, they are sludge – wet, slippery and dangerous to walk on.
I walk carefully, following a muddy zig-zag trail that has been established by other walkers throughout the day. I am dressed in a hooded parka which has a reflection band snapped around a sleeve so that I'm more visible. I am also wearing jeans, boots, headphones and a woolen hat that, along with the rest of my clothing, is damp from the constant drizzle.
When I reach the end of the pathway across the park, I stop and wait to cross the street. It's then that I see the food delivery driver. He's on a moped and is driving the wrong way down the street – a mistake many make. The delivery driver narrowly misses getting knocked by a car coming towards him. He swerves to the side of the car, wobbles as if he is going to fall, but quickly recovers his balance. When he is past the car he pulls off to the side of the road, underneath a street lamp.
The driver is dressed in a green jacket and has one of those big square bags that all the delivery drivers carry attached to the back of his moped. His face is framed by his helmet and, as I approach him, I can see his shock at the near miss. He is breathing heavily, checking his phone and punching in something. He has a neatly-trimmed moustache, round cheeks and looks to be in his mid-thirties. Before I reach him, he has already started his moped and is gone.
I make my way down Blekingegatan. About fifteen minutes later I'm walking on Götgatan and past the big McDonald's. Outside the restaurant is a line of about ten food delivery drivers standing by their mopeds, bikes, and electric scooters waiting to pick up orders from inside. They are chatting to each other. I look to see if the driver from Helgalunden is among them but it's hard to make anyone out in the dark and the rain. In a moment I am past them.
My evening walk takes about 30 minutes, if I go slowly. It's been raining today, and it's dark though it's only five-thirty. Winter will soon be here, and it will start getting darker even earlier in the day. The desire path across the park is covered with autumn leaves from the trees that border the church grounds. The leaves looked beautiful a few days ago, soft piles of brown, red and yellow that crunched underfoot, but now, after the rain, they are sludge – wet, slippery and dangerous to walk on.
I walk carefully, following a muddy zig-zag trail that has been established by other walkers throughout the day. I am dressed in a hooded parka which has a reflection band snapped around a sleeve so that I'm more visible. I am also wearing jeans, boots, headphones and a woolen hat that, along with the rest of my clothing, is damp from the constant drizzle.
When I reach the end of the pathway across the park, I stop and wait to cross the street. It's then that I see the food delivery driver. He's on a moped and is driving the wrong way down the street – a mistake many make. The delivery driver narrowly misses getting knocked by a car coming towards him. He swerves to the side of the car, wobbles as if he is going to fall, but quickly recovers his balance. When he is past the car he pulls off to the side of the road, underneath a street lamp.
The driver is dressed in a green jacket and has one of those big square bags that all the delivery drivers carry attached to the back of his moped. His face is framed by his helmet and, as I approach him, I can see his shock at the near miss. He is breathing heavily, checking his phone and punching in something. He has a neatly-trimmed moustache, round cheeks and looks to be in his mid-thirties. Before I reach him, he has already started his moped and is gone.
I make my way down Blekingegatan. About fifteen minutes later I'm walking on Götgatan and past the big McDonald's. Outside the restaurant is a line of about ten food delivery drivers standing by their mopeds, bikes, and electric scooters waiting to pick up orders from inside. They are chatting to each other. I look to see if the driver from Helgalunden is among them but it's hard to make anyone out in the dark and the rain. In a moment I am past them.