The snow never did stick, and Malmö remains gloriously and unpredictably autumnal.

One of the best parts of the past week has been having regular and continued conversations with people about dreams. The kind that you have while you're awake. The kind that make your heart beat faster and your body feel like pure life is flowing through it. I'm talking dreams that cut to the core of who you are as a person - the thing, or things you were made to be or do.

It's so rare the people ever find a place where they dare to speak out their dreams for others to hear.

Peter and Ellen returned from Scotland on Thursday and have figured out how to speak with a Scottish accent. Peter explained, "you basically replace all the vowel sounds with an E..." Looking at their photos reminded me of home. There's a myth that the weather has to be sunny to enjoy a holiday, but the more mountainous parts of the UK are beautiful when clothed in an ethereal haze of mist.

This weekend has been pretty fun, from Thursday night meeting a rather tired South African named Luke and welcoming him to colder climbs, to Sunday night in Rosengård. Saturday night I went to a birthday party at which I met people from Honduras, Iran, Venezuela, and even some from Sweden. Rosengård is so vibrant in its multiculturalism. A party with people from these nationalities is much less reserved than your average Swedish gathering!

At about 1am on Sunday morning Emma remembered that it was Alla Helgons Dag - the national day of rememberence, although until we got to the graveyard I only knew that "tonight people put candles on graves," and not that the graves are those of deceased loved ones.