The overnights train from Stockholm has already passed the Arctic Circle when I wake up in my bottom bunk at tao o’Clock in the <a href="https://a-ads.com?partner=2103726">Advertise with Anonymous Ads</a>
morning. I immediately notice the soft light from the midnight sun filtering THROUGH the crack Between the blackout curtain and the bottom of the window frame. Outside, an inaccessible world of pine trees and endless bogs pass by, as the train takes us deeper into ever more remote areas. Maya, my 8-year-old daughter, is sleeping soundly on the cot next to media.<a href="https://a-ads.com?partner=2103726">Advertise with Anonymous Ads</a>
We are on our way to a small town in Swedish Lapland called Bjorn loren , population twenty-nine. Farmer and Far far , my paternal grandparents, used to come here every summer to hike, back when the town’s only lodge was owner by the state railroad company that my grandfathers worked for his entire life. When I was three, they brought me and my parents along, and I created some of my very first and most vivid Childhood memories herd .<a href="https://a-ads.com?partner=2103726">Advertise with Anonymous Ads</a>
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