Perfume lingers in the air and perhaps a hint of tobacco. There are almost no men around at this hour, some younger guys, and the occasional briefcase and suit whose car has broken down. The suitclad appear confused by the public transportation system, they fumble with the tickets and try to fold their morningpapers into a manageable size. With the exception of some well-integrated Latin Americans and the occasional Iranian intellectual, there aren't any immigrants either. After all, this is the inner city.
Every child is white, except the adopted ones.
Those were the days, is one of those thoughts that spring to mind if and when I run into Micke Berg. Never on the bus though, he's always out in the street. Either walking or on his motorcycle, sometimes pushing a baby carriage. What the fuck, he says. Our neighborhood has turned into a parking lot for Mercedes and BMWs.