Should I stay or should I go?

'In our neighbourhood, we had 35 burglaries in one week.'

Get It Try It

Keep one foot in an increasingly chilly Sweden? Or skip off to the promised land of sun-dried tomatoes?

Vesuvius stretches out in the twilight. Her curves tempt and tease. Naples, sparkling and sinful, is at her feet. The sea reflects the light of the evening.

Somewhere there's the sound of sirens. The city opens its arms. It's dangerous, irresistible. Once again I give into its embrace.

In Naples, crime is as high as trust in authorities is low. Trash clutters the alleyways, Camorran lurks in the shadows. In spite of all the problems, or paradoxically perhaps thanks to them, I've never encountered such an appetite for life as with these people of Naples. Their ability to flip the bird at everything that's difficult in their lives and live in the 'here and now' is enviable.

I know it's risky to generalise and romanticise. But in this crazy city there's a kind of basic attitude that's the opposite of our Swedish 'it'll be alright in the end'.

Here the feeling is 'it's never going to be alright, so why worry'. People live their lives in spite.

One takes a coffee at Maradona's altar in Bar Nilo and prays to the football gods for a victory for Napoli. Enjoy a pizza with sluttily red juicy tomatoes. A glass of wine for pocket change. Catcalls, shouts, and glances as I walk on.

All while the sun runs its course across the sky and the volcano slumbers, the continual and silent reminder that life may end at any moment, so we might as well try to live as well as we can.

Naples is Italy in the extreme. Nothing is impossible. Rules are meant to be bent, problems to be solved. Politicians on posters get mustaches and penises, they're mocked and dismissed: 'who bothers voting - they're all thieves!' Here people believe in the Family, Football, the Neighbourhood, and God - in that order. Or as my friend Lucia sums it up: 'we have so many problems, but the sun shines most days of the year'.

So far we've been able to say the opposite about Sweden. We shovel snow, keep a stiff upper lip, huddle in the darkness. Our tomatoes are terribly pale, the wine's expensive, flirting when sober is considered politically incorrect.

But we sure are good at queueing and talking softly, good at keeping things tidy. We've trusted our authorities, we've paid our high taxes, and we've known that we actually get a lot for them. Living in an ice-cold, hysterically expensive, cloudy country has been worth it. To achieve the great comfort, equality, and freedom we've had.

But it's not really like that anymore.

Only seven or eight years ago I thought of street beggars as degrading, alien, obsessive.

Now they're on Swedish streets too.

In our neighbourhood, we had 35 burglaries in one week.

And in the suburbs? Cars burning. Gang murders. Hand grenades. A parallel society. Honour culture. Impoverished pensioners. Healthcare queues. Library brawls. Chaos in the schools. Gang rapes. My daughters, who won't be able to go about freely as I did. That thought gives me no rest.

Much is still good in Sweden, but much has also deteriorated, and in a short time. So the question becomes more and more important: can these trends be reversed? And if not, can I and will I stay here for the long haul? Paying more and more for less and less? I'm not alone to wonder. When a social contract is broken, only the poorest get stuck behind, those who can't leave.

I have never been one to give up those I love, but insight about the brevity of life grows and, with it, a longing to leave. Remain full time where the problems aren't really mine and the sun warms my thoughts. That thought makes more and more sense, as I, listening to the depressing news on my car radio, scrape the ice off my windshield.

Jennifer Wegerup is a Swedish journalist who has written for Expressen, Aftonbladet, La Gazzetta dello Sport, and Sky News Italia.