Letter #1: July 25, 1948

"Those first few days were literally hell on wheels."

Dear Mom & Pop:

I’m here — I’m in Stockholm and it’s wonderful. Fascinating, spectacular, historical, beautiful and so complicated. The contrasts among the islands, the buildings and the people are truly amazing. Almost every street has its atmosphere, certain peculiarities of its own. And the city itself - it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. We took a boat ride up and down the different rivers and floated through all sorts of bridges. One had the largest cement arch in the world, another was more than a mile long, and there was one built in two spans because there just happened to be a big rock in the middle of the river.

The land around the city is very hilly and the buildings are built in layers. When you look up at them you see the buildings in the first row, but from then on only roofs - all sorts of strange shapes and sizes and they go on and on, up and up, with a steeple or a tremendous dome breaking through here and there. Along the rivers and along many streets huge boulders and great walls of rock form the foundation for much of the architecture. Many new apartment buildings are built in this way, rising far above the level of the street with lots of air and sun. These apartments are really very fine. They all have balconies and lovely flower boxes filled with flowers of bright colors. Yellow is the color mostly used and somehow they keep it yellow. When the buildings get dark they look old and not dirty. The streets are almost all of cobblestone and in the old part of town where we are staying they are very narrow. Only one person can walk on the sidewalk - the others walk down the street. No grass or trees - the houses are almost on the street. Our place is on a square, right opposite the stock exchange. There are little squares all over with fountains or statues in the center. We are in the poorest and oldest part of town and in many respects the most interesting.

This afternoon we visited the suburbs where all the new apartment buildings are situated. They are an impressive sight - tall, very large, all light colors, and each apartment with its balcony and flower box. Rent is much cheaper here than in the States. The people also take much better care of the property. To induce this they follow a plan wherein a new tenant pays say six hundred dollars to occupy the rooms plus his rent. When he moved the six hundred minus the cost of repairs for damage or wear are refunded to him.

I know Stockholm almost by heart now. I can go any place and find my way home again. We leave tomorrow, but how I hate to go. Ab, one of the boys in our group, has a pen pal here - a fellow he has written to for about a year but has never seen. This pal is a big handsome blonde and we’ve had quite a time together. We went to the museum, watched a man paint a picture of the Palace and ate some horrible sausages for dinner.

Food — come to think of it I’m hungry. I must have eaten fifty loaves of bread since I left home. It seems like that’s all they eat over here - at least at the places we frequent. If you want to go to nice places to eat, dance, or even see, it’s very expensive. For breakfast we always have milk, cornflakes, bread, butter, and jam. We buy this at a store and eat it on the road or in the hostel. Our lunch, too, is eaten this way and is usually milk, bread, jam and a meat spread with a cucumber or carrot. Then comes dinner in a restaurant with tables and napkins and everything. Usually we have fish. I don’t think I’ve had meat more than five times since I left home. What I miss most is water - it’s never served with meals and drinking fountains seem to be a novelty. I found one one day and as I stood there treasuring it, I actually saw at least five people trying to figure out how it worked, and when it did, what a drizzly trickle! But really, I’m not suffering. We never go hungry and I enjoy my bread as much as any starving European.

I’m actually beginning to enjoy riding a bicycle. Those first few days were literally hell on wheels. At the top of every hill I wished with all my heart that I was home in bed instead of pumping and panting up some silly slope. I don’t ache very much very often any more and since I’ve sent some things away I don’t lose a piece here and there every mile or so.

We’re changing our itinerary somewhat, dropping out a town here and there. It’s ridiculous to try to cover as much territory as we had planned. Now, instead of passing out at each hostel, we’ve a bit of enthusiasm and strength left so we’re able to see something of the towns. I just wish we could spend a week in each one of them.

Our group is really working together in a grand way. I like everyone and we are having wonderful fun together. The other night we camped out for the first time - on a beautiful lake with grass and trees and flowers all around. The moon was full and the campfire blazed and danced and crackled while we sang and sang. Ann sings wonderfully well, Ruth plays the harmonica, Mimi knows all the songs and the rest of us are eager with spirit. Right now Jeff is in the kitchen pressing his shirt with a hot frying pan, Lucy is kneeling in a basin of cold water bathing, and Stan is rubbing and scrubbing his blue jeans in a bucket. Two Americans just walked in - they are artists from Paris coming from Brussels and trying for Leningrad. A little French girl is tagging along. They’ve ten crowns left and are looking for a job in Stockholm. They’ve seen everything and act as if they understand it all. Have met many strange people - some of them very fine and others not.

Kenny actually wrote me a letter. Could hardly stand the shock. I’m sorry I can’t write more often, but it is really impossible. There is no time when there is always something waiting to be done. Even now I’m supposed to be at a concert in the amusement park.

We’ve had such wonderful weather since Copenhagen. Sun and a wind that actually blows in the direction we’re going. My jersey dress is doing famously - never wrinkles and is dirty but doesn’t look it. My brown shorts and halter have been handing from me for a week and you can’t find a spot, and I’ve sat down in the middle of every road at every stop from Holland to Sweden. Speaking of roads: some of them are really poor, regular wheel traps, and I get caught every time.

Borge Hansen, our leader, (I’ve renamed him BoBo) is a great one - lots of fun and an all-round good fellow. He speaks Swedish and Danish and gets along well with everyone. He’s got long, straight blonde hair like most of the Scandinavians. None of the men will have crew cuts because it was the hair style of the Germans. Nor will they speak the German language, although most of them know it well. Their hatred is sharp and bitter and lasting.

Swedes are thought of as snobs by the other countries. It is a fact that they are much more formal and reserved and very difficult to get to know well. This is what is said. I can neither verify or disprove it.

Pop, my watch is working fine. Everyone is amazed that it runs and glows in the dark, all for $7.00.

I’m getting a wonderful golden tan. Can’t understand it, but my nose hasn’t peeled once. Have gone swimming only once. We usually can’t stop because we haven’t time or we’re afraid we’ll collapse and sink.

Have seen many palaces, castles, churches, museums, statues, bridges, and lakes. I have given up trying to compare them or make a choice as to which I like best. I’ve decided that each one deserves a separate place in my memory and I’m trying so hard to store them away and not forget any of them. There are so many things that the past disappears with yesterday.

Roughing it like we are has its advantages. We certainly meet many more people and many different types of people this way. One night we slept in the station on benches - but that was an improvement over the train. But seriously, I wouldn’t have missed these experiences for anything. I’ve never been in situations like these before and they’ve made me aware of things I’ve never appreciated before.

Could you send Ivan’s address? I’d like to send him a postcard. Am slowly falling in teh direction of bed - an inclination which comes early but is never satisfied ‘til late. Takes me a while to work the zipper on my sleeping bag so I’d better start now.

Love, Gail