I turned and ran, back the way I’d come and then down another alleyway and then another and another, frantically searching and listening for people, for any other living thing. Soon I encountered a few tourists and then a few more. But it wasn’t enough. I wanted the safety of a crowd. Going around another corner I ran into someone carrying a drink, and it spilled all over my I Love Stockholm T-shirt. He said something that sounded like a Swedish swearword and then started yelling at me. I apologized without looking him in the eye, keeping enough distance between us so he couldn’t grab me, and got away.
But just around the next corner I slipped as I tried to make a quick turn and fell face first onto the cobblestones. There was something gross on the ground. I didn’t know what it was, but I figured it was what had made me fall. It smelled awful, so maybe it was dog poop—there were lots of dogs in Stockholm. I picked myself up and noticed that my shirt was torn and so were my pants, the hole that had ripped open exposing my knee and some blood. I wiped myself off, rubbed my hand across my eyes to stop the tears and again raced on, down one alleyway after another, out of my mind with panic.
Finally, I stopped near a group of restaurants and a crowd of people. I leaned against a wall and took in great gulps of air, trying to stop the fear that had been fueling my flight, pressing my head against the cool stone surface, telling myself that I was safe now.
When I had calmed down a little, I lifted myself off the wall and stood up straight. I opened my eyes and looked along the street I was on, way along it, and I thought I saw a girl on a bicycle in the distance. I couldn’t tell if it had a horse’s head, but it seemed that she was looking back down the street toward me. Then she moved on. And when she did, I saw something heavenly behind her—open space and beyond it the purple-brown walls of the royal palace!
I started running again, this time exhilarated rather than afraid, and before I knew it emerged on the wide street at the south end of the palace and into freedom. There was the harbor to my right! There were lots of lights and scores of people and boats easing along nearby and, across the water, the outline of the one and only Grand Hôtel!
“YES!!” I cried out, not caring who heard me. I started at a quick pace for my destination, turning at the front of the palace and walking along the water, then over the bridge and then right along the north side of the river toward the front doors of the hotel.
By the time I got close, I was much more relaxed, moving slowly and feeling very grown up. It was like Grandpa had said to me: I was getting older, capable of more things, and it wasn’t so bad to have your capabilities tested. I’d passed. Man, would I have lots to tell him. I had the feeling that though he’d be freaked-out by all of this, he’d be pretty proud of me too.
But the doorman gave me a funny look as I approached the door, and when I put my hands out for it, he reached for me and said something in Swedish. I didn’t think it was a swearword, but it wasn’t very pleasant either.
I turned my shoulder like I’d often done in baseball when running down the third base line trying to avoid a catcher’s tag while heading for home. I guess this doorman hadn’t played much baseball, because he totally missed me. But I wasn’t going to wait around for him to catch up. I bolted up the steps and into the lobby and made for the golden elevators across the room. But a bellman, or maybe the concierge, saw me coming and tried to block my way.
What was going on? But I’d forgotten what I looked like. I was filthy, my shirt covered in some alcoholic drink and caked with grime, my pant leg was ripped open at the knee, where I was bleeding, my face was dirty, and of course… I smelled like dog poop.
I turned and made for the reception desk. These guys would recognize me, wouldn’t they? They’d surely seen me before.
But the guy on duty didn’t look familiar, and as I ran up to him he barked something in Swedish at me. I wasn’t sure if it was a swearword too, but it definitely could have been.
“I’m staying here,” I stuttered, “with…with my grandfather…David McLean!”
“Take him out of here!” cried the man behind the desk in English, glancing up and down the lobby, looking embarrassed. In an instant, two bellmen had me in a grip and were ushering me toward the main doors.
“You can’t do this! I AM STAYING HERE WITH MY GRANDFATHER!” I shouted.
“Not anymore,” said one of the big blond bellmen with a grin as they shoved me out onto the street.
Now I was lost and homeless.