expatdiaries /
Stockholm

Ninja traveller. Seamlessly travels between Stockholm, Shanghai, Zurich and France. Late nights in the city and early morning countryside life. Fashion, beauty, reflections, portraits and inspiration.

Contact: [email protected]

  • First thing on list when I get back to Stockholm next week:

    Buy cake 

    Read print

    Fika.

    x

    Love, Christine Deckert
  • Almost every day I passed her after work. Old lady. Lonely, in a wheelchair. The lines in her face told a thousand stories. Round cheeks. Maybe swollen from some kind of treatment or medication (it brought my mind back to when my mother ate cortisone whilst battling cancer). Tiny fragile crooked hands, fingers unable to move. A plastic bowl sat on her lap. Sometimes there was a little bit of money in it.


    There was something very special about her. She was always smiling. There was still this extensive amount of glitter in her eyes despite her obvious struggles. She smiled in a childlike way, as if she was up to something exciting. Her eyes spoke to me in a profound way and even though I couldn't understand what she was saying I somehow felt a deep connection to her.


    I took the same route back from work as often as I could and gave her some money, sat down for a second and listened to her. Who knows what she was telling me, I really wish I did - I'm sure it was lovely. We smiled and I left. As I continued walking my heart always broke and I cried all the way back to the hotel. Something in her woke up something in me that I hadn't felt for a long time.

    Maybe she reminded me about how much I miss my mother. Maybe she reminded me about a lot of things. Maybe I had been in too much of a hurry to stop and see things around me. That ability is something I never want to loose. And I feel so much gratitude towards this little lady.


    One day when I walked home from the office she was gone. The day after I didn't see her neither. But if I see her again I will stop. I'll smile. Listen to tales I can't comprehend and I will give her what I can to thank her for what I felt she gave me.


    It takes so very little.

    Let's see people. Let's please preserve the essence of being human.

    x

    Love, Christine Deckert
  • I wake up to the smell of freshly baked almond croissants. The second best kind, since the bakery in Durmenach is closed today. It’s always closed on Sundays. I know their opening schedule by heart by now. Getting the good croissants early in the morning is one of the little things in life I love the most.

    Will there be any left for us when we arrive? The bakery is like a war zone in the morning. But victory can sure taste good. If not, you can always get the second best ones and let me tell you, they’re not bad either.

    We have breakfast and then we drive to our construction site for a few hours of hard labour to build a future. I’ts a good feeling. Teamwork. Laughing. Finding solutions. Planning. Fantasising about how everything will fall into place one day. The air smells different today.

    I’m wearing an old French military jacket that is way to large for me, a wool power sweater to keep me warm and a headlight. They come in handy when you are dismounting things in dark basements. His long, dark brown hair curls spreads out over his face. God I love those curls.

    At days end when we reenter the main house I can smell the Sunday roast. Made with the largest possible portion of love. I hear Martine laugh in the kitchen. As she does.

    We slip out of our working gear and I splash some fresh water on my face.
    It´s Sunday. Time to eat, rest, spend time together and get lost in conversation.

    I love Sundays.

    x

    Love, Christine Deckert

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