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reads.

Bengt Ohlsson: Hipsterstället I was hoping the visit proves to be a home for the elderly

" Well, I was wondering... is there any supermarket nearby? I ask.

The mysbyxige the man staring research on me before he reaches out and grabs the hand in a northerly direction.

– Yes finished, you just run down to the roundabout and take a right and continue under the motorway... then you will come to a large area where there is everything you could wish for. Lidl, Aldi...

makes me panic. I have lassat into the bags in the villa's lower floors and took a rekognoscerande hundpromenad. And realize that this is the area that God forgot. An environment that would arouse Lars Tunbjörk from the dead. Breed so manicured that Stig Dagerman would grope after reservoarpennan.

And all the signs. Porcelain tiles that greet the strangers welcome with eerily floral letters, circle the names of all who live inside the lowered blinds, and to warn all the dogs to lift his leg against the property line.

Read more by and about Bengt Ohlsson "

A beautiful large wooden sign at the road pointing towards the ”Falkenhof”, and I'm starting to make me desperate notions of a bierstube where you can press in and of itself fläskmackor and sauerkraut so that it runs along the chin.

But the ”Falkenhof” turns out to be a home for the elderly.

How had I been able to know? The ads on airbnb is like everything else; Tinderbilder from the most advantageous angles, mangy sofas on the Block where the man turned the kattklösta the end cap inward to the wall. All available on airbnb are located ”centrally”. Lysrörsbleka ones in Jakobsberg trumpets that it only takes eighteen minutes to shopping, second hand, a lattemugg in one hand and a chaipotta in the other, and vegan delights that are pressed in all the body cavities.

more specifically, Sankt Pauli, and feel how calm descends. This pushed my buttons for how ”nice neighborhood” looks like. Here it is crowded and gyttrigt, here thrive fotbollskitschen around the home team with piratflaggan, this is a stirring konstfärdig graffiti over the facades, here are the stores with the ”bold” clothes, where the basiga, pårökta the music calls a behind the half-closed eyes.

Yes, here everything is as it should be.

at Least for a while.

Soon brought memories of other trips to other cities, where it pressed on the right buttons.

and Then the creeping, unpleasant the Truman Show-feeling; that everything is rigged to such as I shall think that it is a ”nice neighborhood”. That there is a director up there – maybe his name is Adam Smith – that as soon as I get out of the car put megafonen to his mouth and yells:

" Aaand... action!

And all put in motion. The firm flatorna on the terraces stifles a sigh and pulls his hands over the snaggen before they plait each other's hands over the falafel. The knitted bookworm fix its three-month in the carrier and grab tygkassen with the vegetables. The veiled women go forward in their sandals.

of the other trips to other cities, where it pressed on the right buttons. Avenues in New York city, where the smoke vällt up out of the grates, just when a yellow schacktaxi susat past. The back streets in London that advertise the greasy breakfast with sausage and white beans. Square in Paris with the squiggly green gates to the metro, Tabac signs, and trottoarserveringar with lunchvinande company.

Read more by Bengt Ohlsson: ”I can't be bothered with that the men charged emotions”

the Feeling of the backdrop. A gust of wind can tip it over all the way, and behind that is just... account number. Oligarkers and klippares investment. And say what you want about the account number, but they are not in the undershirt in the window in the evening and smoke a cig.

I do all that I am programmed to do in the ”good quarter”; slafsar in me something on the outdoor terrace, drink a weissbier and staring at statisterna as the divers passed by. I subjects the basiga the music, trying on a garment, observes that I look ridiculous out in it and goes out among the statisterna again.

And I think of Tunbjörkkvarteren that filled me with a kind of sickened, and I wonder if they will appear in a different light when I park in front of the trädgårdstomtarna. For the quarter may be how to kill – but there are at least people who are not up to scratch as extras. Surskalliga communism that locks at night, drink a cup of chamomile tea and press started Netflix.

People like myself.

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