(Extra)ordinary Adventures

I'll never forget when I met Sammy Davis in a blues bar in Stockholm. Arriving in the Swedish capitol, I managed to find my hostel after a few wrong turns and checked into my room. Due to an exhausting ten hour bus ride, I was too tired to manage the city’s underground and went on foot in search of food. Blocks of beautiful buildings and towering trees kept my eyes occupied as I found my way to the Riddarfjärden – the bay that surrounds central Stockholm.
Nothing compares to seeing a sunset on the Riddarfjärden. The colors reflect on the water, interrupted only by the occasional passing sailboat. I walked, enjoying the multitude of houseboats that lined the harbor. Scruffy bearded, blonde men grilled sausages on the various boat decks in a final salute to the warmth of the long evenings. The contrast of the bohemian houseboats with the elegant architecture seemed to turn the city into a surreal fairytale.
I continued my stroll past the Roman statues of the City Hall Gardens and over a busy bridge into Gamla Stan, also known as Stockholm’s Old Town. The cultured crowds that oozed into the narrow streets of Gamla Stan amazed me, causing me to stumble around aimlessly like a lost child at a museum. I smelled kebabs and grilled herring in the air, and I couldn’t decide which direction to travel until I heard a single blues guitar riff coming from a nearby alleyway.
I followed the music to a battered door covered in posters that advertised local performers, and I walked into a small bar that was densely packed with drunk Swedes. Originally, I had only planned on staying for one beer. That was until an intoxicated Irishman tapped me on the shoulder.
“Ah, yer American! Lemme buy you a drink,” he slurred.
So our conversation begun. I told him I was traveling by myself, doing work exchanges to afford my living costs. He bought me another pint and stared blankly. “But yer a girl! Aren’t you scared to travel by yerself?”
To my left, I heard a deep guffaw. I glanced over as a short African man in a baseball hat interrupted, “You look like you don’t take any shit from anyone.” And with that, he joined our discussion. After grinning at me for ten solid minutes, I asked the man where he was from. He laughed and said, “Ghana. Now guess my name, and I’ll buy you a drink!”
Several failed attempts later, he giggled and told me, “My name is Sammy Davis. What can I say? My mother really liked the Rat Pack."