The train to Stockholm was half-empty, and the 'quiet' zone I was in was genuinely quiet, except for a middle-aged English couple with one of those relationships that's founded on constant trivial conversation. He had converted prices on the menu to pounds and was reading off the cost of each item and then laughing. Later, he pulled up current post-Brexit exchange rates and read them off, pausing after each so she could go "ugh". I thought maybe a purple-faced guard would come and scream "cease your nattering!", but instead a buoyant woman with blonde braids checked tickets and said "perfect!" after each one as though we'd each done something wonderful and unexpected, and perhaps we had.
The trip's not spectacular like Bergen-Oslo is spectacular, but there are mirror-calm lakes, red farmhouses, green fields, forests, expensive-looking suspension bridges, stands of birch, clusters of enormous wind turbines. In Stockholm, the streets are full of hurrying people: Even in July, it has none of the theme park-feel of some European city centres.
In the evening, things are different. A summer night in Stockholm is like a huge, low-key garden party where you don't know anyone. Clowns in white makeup and white outfits make balloon swords for children. In the parks, groups of young Swedes sit cross-legged in huge circles. If you walk a block, another immaculate green park with a droppings-streaked bronze statue at its centre and another mysterious congress of Swedish youths. They might be plotting revolution, but probably revolutions in Scandinavian reggae or flat-pack furniture design.
The hotel is a chain hotel full of tourists and business travelers that still somehow feels entitled to take weird stabs at funkiness. The elevators advertise shows by DJ Hep Cat Matt and DJ Black Santa. Over my bed hangs a photograph of a man all in black with a silver skull on the table beside him and a human skeleton stood up in the corner. I don't know who he is, but I like knowing that he's there, gazing at me while I sleep.
Skansen sounded interesting, so I went there. It's an open air museum filled with historical buildings relocated from elsewhere in Sweden: Farmsteads, churches, schools, manors, houses, cottages, windmills. I noticed early on that everyone else seemed to have brought small children with them. Skansen turns out to be pretty close to the limit of what an adult man can visit by himself without it seeming a bit weird. But then, why not me? Aren't I, too, full of childlike wonder?
There are peaceful little towns and farmsteads, with bloodcurdling screams drifting faintly over from the Death Drop at a nearby amusement park. Some buildings are open and furnished. In them sit women in kerchiefs, each with an explanation of something like 19th century spinning technology ready to go. You need to carefully judge how much eye contact you make if you want to avoid triggering them. The ones you do set off are actually quite interesting. The stuffed crocodile in the apothecary's window, for example? It proved he had the foreign contacts necessary to procure exotic drugs.
Skansen's zoo, which is something it has for some reason, is a collection of (mostly) Swedish animals. Grey seals lying in the sun, opening one eye, looking around lazily, closing it again. A peacock eating a pringle. Wild boar flopped over in piles, sleeping the sleep of the just. Bison flicking their tails and chewing cud. Lynx stretching like housecats. Roosters strolling jerkily along, stopping suddenly every few steps and looking around suspiciously. Sheep trying to eat a tree branch and baaing with excitement about the whole project. Bears and wolverines sensibly hiding from visitors.
Fotografiska is a photography gallery I went to in order to have done at least one thing in Stockholm intended for adults. Fotografiska is desperately stylish. Its web site is too stylish to tell you useful things. Its cashiers are too stylish to handle cash, and almost too stylish to sell tickets. Its lighting is stylishly dim. Its featured exhibitions were by Bryan Adams. Surely shows by celebrities are the best case ever made against photography as a serious art form? Anyway, this is where you can find Adams' pictures of other celebrities. Including the Queen, who, alone of the subjects, seems to have turned down suggestions she jump in the air, pop her shirt off, slump onto the floor to show her secret pain, or fall backwards into a pool.
Fotografiska does have fantastic washrooms.
The National Historical Museum is impressive, but I will say that the Danes have a more impressive collection of bog people. Bog people are, I think, Denmark's greatest natural resource. Second is probably wind power, or herring, or something along those lines.
It rained my last night in Stockholm, a Saturday, and the streets were left to tourists, food delivery men, eccentrics, and the poor. A very old woman walked by in the rain with her arms out, singing, bags of shopping in her hands. An old Roma woman slapped a man on the patio of a kebab restaurant. One more night under the eyes of the hipster necromancer and I fly home.
The trip's not spectacular like Bergen-Oslo is spectacular, but there are mirror-calm lakes, red farmhouses, green fields, forests, expensive-looking suspension bridges, stands of birch, clusters of enormous wind turbines. In Stockholm, the streets are full of hurrying people: Even in July, it has none of the theme park-feel of some European city centres.
In the evening, things are different. A summer night in Stockholm is like a huge, low-key garden party where you don't know anyone. Clowns in white makeup and white outfits make balloon swords for children. In the parks, groups of young Swedes sit cross-legged in huge circles. If you walk a block, another immaculate green park with a droppings-streaked bronze statue at its centre and another mysterious congress of Swedish youths. They might be plotting revolution, but probably revolutions in Scandinavian reggae or flat-pack furniture design.
The hotel is a chain hotel full of tourists and business travelers that still somehow feels entitled to take weird stabs at funkiness. The elevators advertise shows by DJ Hep Cat Matt and DJ Black Santa. Over my bed hangs a photograph of a man all in black with a silver skull on the table beside him and a human skeleton stood up in the corner. I don't know who he is, but I like knowing that he's there, gazing at me while I sleep.
Skansen sounded interesting, so I went there. It's an open air museum filled with historical buildings relocated from elsewhere in Sweden: Farmsteads, churches, schools, manors, houses, cottages, windmills. I noticed early on that everyone else seemed to have brought small children with them. Skansen turns out to be pretty close to the limit of what an adult man can visit by himself without it seeming a bit weird. But then, why not me? Aren't I, too, full of childlike wonder?
There are peaceful little towns and farmsteads, with bloodcurdling screams drifting faintly over from the Death Drop at a nearby amusement park. Some buildings are open and furnished. In them sit women in kerchiefs, each with an explanation of something like 19th century spinning technology ready to go. You need to carefully judge how much eye contact you make if you want to avoid triggering them. The ones you do set off are actually quite interesting. The stuffed crocodile in the apothecary's window, for example? It proved he had the foreign contacts necessary to procure exotic drugs.
Skansen's zoo, which is something it has for some reason, is a collection of (mostly) Swedish animals. Grey seals lying in the sun, opening one eye, looking around lazily, closing it again. A peacock eating a pringle. Wild boar flopped over in piles, sleeping the sleep of the just. Bison flicking their tails and chewing cud. Lynx stretching like housecats. Roosters strolling jerkily along, stopping suddenly every few steps and looking around suspiciously. Sheep trying to eat a tree branch and baaing with excitement about the whole project. Bears and wolverines sensibly hiding from visitors.
Fotografiska is a photography gallery I went to in order to have done at least one thing in Stockholm intended for adults. Fotografiska is desperately stylish. Its web site is too stylish to tell you useful things. Its cashiers are too stylish to handle cash, and almost too stylish to sell tickets. Its lighting is stylishly dim. Its featured exhibitions were by Bryan Adams. Surely shows by celebrities are the best case ever made against photography as a serious art form? Anyway, this is where you can find Adams' pictures of other celebrities. Including the Queen, who, alone of the subjects, seems to have turned down suggestions she jump in the air, pop her shirt off, slump onto the floor to show her secret pain, or fall backwards into a pool.
Fotografiska does have fantastic washrooms.
The National Historical Museum is impressive, but I will say that the Danes have a more impressive collection of bog people. Bog people are, I think, Denmark's greatest natural resource. Second is probably wind power, or herring, or something along those lines.
It rained my last night in Stockholm, a Saturday, and the streets were left to tourists, food delivery men, eccentrics, and the poor. A very old woman walked by in the rain with her arms out, singing, bags of shopping in her hands. An old Roma woman slapped a man on the patio of a kebab restaurant. One more night under the eyes of the hipster necromancer and I fly home.
