Column by
Lisa dos Santos

There are two central places in my life: Falsterbo and Flemingsberg. One is the idyll where I grew up and dreamed of a future; the other is the concrete suburb outside Stockholm that became part of that future. A reverse class journey, my fellow prosecutors like to joke when they hear that I’m from Falsterbo.
“Isn’t that the place with ridiculously beautiful beaches and paradise villas?” ask those who aren’t entirely sure what Falsterbo is.
“Yes,” I reply, looking out through my office window in Flemingsberg.

The sterile façade of the district court stares back at me from the other side of the bleak strip of asphalt that winds its way from the train station up toward the neighbouring suburb of Visättra. Just behind the courthouse lies an ICA Maxi, and on the other side of the railway tracks rise Flemingsberg’s colourful Million Programme apartment blocks. At the moment, there is an ongoing conflict between gangs in the suburbs, with shootings and weapons being discovered just a stone’s throw from the prosecutor’s office. It makes Falsterbo feel very far away. Almost like a fantasy.

Every summer, I take the train — which swishes past the prosecutor’s office — southwards and step back into Falsterbo. The contrasts leave me slightly dizzy. In June, Falsterbo lies completely still and untouched, as the summer guests haven’t yet ushered in the high season. I pull my suitcase through an almost neon‑green park, change for an evening swim down by the jetty, walk on white sand so soft I forget that asphalt even exists, and dip my toe into a compliant little wave. Childhood memories surge through my body at the speed of light.

It almost hurts when I see Falsterbohus. Preserved images from long‑gone summer holidays flash before me. The view toward the beach from the second sandbank. Towels and wooden clogs in the sand. Falsterbo postcards.

As I walk back through the park, I feel harmonious, as if Falsterbo — and all my carefully preserved memories of the place — offer me protection from the outside world. I walk up the hill by the church and stop. Suddenly something feels off. The view across the meadow gives me a strange sensation. Something is missing. And then it hits me: the little windmill that had always stood there is gone. It feels like a punch to the stomach.

The change causes my perfect postcards to crumble, and suddenly I feel anything but calm. The walk back and forth to the beach is now completely ruined! I rush home to my childhood house and, out of breath, deliver the terrible news to my parents, demanding answers. How can such a Falsterbo treasure simply disappear?

I’m told the windmill has been sold to Kristianstad, apparently because it was too expensive to maintain. I stare at them, dumbfounded, unsure whether to laugh or cry. Can one of Sweden’s wealthiest municipalities really not afford to keep a humble little windmill? Isn’t this a betrayal on par with the demolition of Stockholm’s Klara quarters? Throughout my stay, I obsess over the windmill, deaf to whether people want to listen or not. My indignation peaks. It’s as if I’ve redirected all the inner capital I usually invest in fighting gangs in Flemingsberg into mourning Falsterbo’s loss of a windmill. In my relocation, the great had suddenly shifted into the small.

When I leave Falsterbo, it’s horse week and the atmosphere is festive, and no one is any longer interested in attending my vigil. The train approaches Stockholm, and I read about the latest shooting. I feel myself recalibrating. Falsterbo fades, and Flemingsberg calls.

Back at my desk, I know I am in the right place — even if grains of sand from the beach still make themselves known in my shoes. I look out over the asphalt outside my window.
Imagine how beautiful it would have been if the windmill had ended up here instead.