Outings in Stockholm

The last day in Wellington, we packed up the bags and headed for Lyall Bay. We swam in pristine blue water, the bite of the Antarctic currents pleasant under the blazing sun. We could see the airport from the water, and a Swedish flag waving from the roof of a nearby house in the gentle breeze. A good omen, I hope.

Here it is cold and dark. Actually, not so cold. It's been above zero since we got here, and today all of the previous week's snow had finally melted away, and the flakes of ice the size of surf-boards in the channels are gone. But it is dark. Even the light is dark. Dawn comes around 8am, and the sun has set by 4pm. (No wonder my internal clock is buggered). The daylight is grey and fades to purple in the early dusk. The trees are bare leaving groping branches and long-empty bird's nests exposed to the air and the eye.

We went to Mosebacke - a beer-garden popular in summer but in the winter it is abandoned, the green umbrellas folded above the tables like sleeping flowers or caged birds. The houses and stones are not grey, but the pinks and yellows and reds and whites look as though in an old speia photo leeched and bleached by the sun. Leaves scuttle and stick to the infrequent patches of remaning ice. The winding cobbled streets with the old square houses seem as though after a holocaust, except for the candles in every window, a sign of cheer and life and beating out the dark and light that is dark. We look out over the city, and the muddy colours are beautiful. The houses are painted their greying candy colours, the churches are rusty brick with copper rooves turned completely green. The river is purple and covered in brightly lit boats, and birds - white swans, ducks and some remaining geese that like Oscar Wilde's swallow are leaving it a bit long to migrate. I wonder if they have a happy prince, crying for the frostbitten accordion-players in Central Station.

On our way home we stopped into a bakery staffed by a bright-cheeked woman with soft brown hair and breathed in the scent of hot bread and cardomon. I bought a delicious Araksboll, kind of like those chocolate rum balls at home but flavoured with some kind of aniseedy liquer and rolled in chocolate hail.

It was a nice walk.

The other day we went to Gamla Stan (Old Town), an island in the Stockholm archipelago (as they call it in English). We went in the late afternoon, it was dark, lit Christmas trees were in the windows of all the shops. We wandered the tiny cobbled alleys, looking at the tacky tourist shops and coveting Moomintroll and Pippi Longstocking merchandise. We got cold and went into the cellar of a centuries-old building for coffee. Delicious coffee with cardomom and cinnamon on top. Only pity is that espress coffee is around $7 here. In fact, filter coffee is more expensive than a latte back home. One can hardly afford to eat or drink, but at least it encourages you to look. In fact the sensation of being a cash-strapped waif kind of adds to the wintry beauty of the streets - you can window shop, but you know that none of it will be for you.

We also visited the Max Ernst exhibition at the Modern Art Gallery. It was really good, but we were so jet-lagged it was a bit over-whelming. It was the last day of the exhibition, and the crowds were jarring. There was a documentary on the artist, but I kept falling asleep. Every time I woke up he had a new wife. But the exhibition was really great. I especially appreciate modern art where both the technical and ideological side are really impressive. I like to think both "I could never have made that with my own hands" and "I could never have thought of that", followed by "I wish I could/had though". To me, that is true art.