Skoll! Stockholm Satisfies

Not far from the Parliament building where we watched the changing of the guards. Off in the distance of the left-hand side of the photo, you can see the Grand Hotel where the Nobel winners stay every year. This weekend, the hotel was flying several flags, including the US flag, indicating some of the weekend guests were Americans.

Dear Friends,

"Going to Stockholm in the winter? Oh, you are sickedelic," Inga uttered from behind the wheel of her mini-van, making a sharp turn off of Bruninieku iela. "But I was young once too... and crazy."

Is there anything we can bring you? we inquired.

"Yes," Inga responded. "My passport, my wallet, my purse..."

The memory of Inga's sole experience in Stockholm is unfortunately tainted with the reality of a traveler's worst fear: leaving behind one's purse or wallet, which is to say leaving a sizable piece of oneself. Inga accidentally left her identification on a seat in a Stockholm bus years ago. An easy mistake. We've all been there at one time or another, afflicted by that common bug known as Travel Sickedelia.

Against our urgings not to, Inga insisted on delivering Ali and me to the meager Riga ferry terminal off of Eksporta iela to board the boat that would carry us to Stockholm. The ferry was to disembark at 5:30 p.m., but we noticed that passengers could board as soon as 3:30, giving plenty of time to visit one of the copious bars aboard ship, Inga noted. My neighbor Daniel had warned that the hydro-excursions to and from Riga and Stockholm (along with additional routes to and from Helsinki and Tallinn) are unabashed booze cruises: floating parties on water. "If your neighbors are loud in the night, go get the police on board and tell them. They'll take care of it for you. Just don't go back to your room right away," Daniel advised. "Visit the lounge."

There's something mystical about traveling by boat (booze cruise or not), especially at night, and as the M/S Regina Baltica pittered its way out into the dark Daugava River at dusk, I considered the dream of such a large vessel (admittedly a small large vessel like this one) floating on water. It's a marvel that, in my mind, is equal to the improbability of flight and every bit as extraordinary. With a capacity to carry 1,000, I'd guess the ferry was only half-full of passengers, half of whom were half drunk, all of whom were in some way anxious about the 17 hour excursion ahead.

The interior of the ship was like a three-star hotel, the kind of place that offers the "luxury of a spa" which in reality invariably turns out to be a windowless room, imperceptibly warmer than the rest of the space, open for two hours a night on weekends, requiring a special key for admittance. I suppose I was spoiled by the excessive grandeur of an Alaskan Carnival cruise three years ago (my only other longer-term cruising experience) which sought to fulfill every natural need and unnatural desire and then some. Everything gold on this Baltic ship was not only gilded, but finger-printed and rusty. Carpets resembled patterns and colors akin to the shag at the local bowling alley. Windows requiring more than Windex to give way to a view were plentiful in public spaces, but as we were meandering away from the breathtaking spiraling skyline of Riga through the industrial, coal processing section of the city, there wasn't anything to be seen that would be found in a coffee table book of photography.

That's okay, though, because who sits inside for take-off anyway? We stood on the windy deck until the unseemly Hansa Banka building disappeared into the distance and more water and less land stood before us. Soon darkness fell on us like a blanket, which is just what would have been required to stand outside any longer, so we found our way into the smoggy indoors. It's true, nearly everyone seemed to be smoking, having misinterpreted the infamous line "one if by land, two if by sea," mistakenly applying it to cigarette consumption. The smoke was a miserable sidekick for every star-gazing, country-kicking, oxygen-breathing Midwestern boy on board. (Count: one.)

But better things rolled on ahead: a delightful dinner of salmon (when on sea, eat seafood) in a cozy, smoke-free corner of the ship's clumsy but striving restaurant, a glass of Merlot, and a warm dessert drink composed of Vanna Tallinna, Estonia's slightly more feeble rendition of Latvia's Black Balzams, and ensuing conversation. The ingredients of a good night at sea. By the time we paid for our dinner and stood up from the table -- food was not included in the price tag of our journey, which cost 111 LVL ($200) per person, round trip -- I could hardly catch my balance. Sure, the drinks were good, but it didn't take long to discern that the root cause of my uprooted walking was linked to the rollicking waves on the sea below us.

"Whee!" we cooed, like schoolchildren or cheap drunks at a Friday happy hour. We made our way back to our small cabin. No folded towels from the kingdom of animalia, no chocolate-covered strawberries awaited us. Our little closet of a room was at once spartan and perfect: really, who could ask for anything more than clean linens, dry towels, and a little shelf of a bed reserved just for you? I fell asleep counting my blessings, specifically in relation to not having to fly this trip -- no passport checks, no arriving two hours before departure, no cramped knees, and on and on.

I fell asleep at least ten times that night, rocking like wooden chair in a twister. A little bit frightened. A lot invigorated. A little bit country. A lot rock n' roll.

Emerging from the complete darkness of a windowless cabin, Saturday morning ushered in vistas galore. The water of the Baltic, now calm and as blue as the sky, complemented the islands of Sweden on which the coverings of coniferous forests softened the jagged outlets of rock. Picturesque and colorful homes appeared among the trees as brightly and naturally as berries tucked into the crannies of a bush. Needless to say, Stockholm made a good first impression.

"Enjoy the Utopian-ness of it all," one friend wished me before going, not without a hint of warning in his voice. Stockholm calls itself the Capital of Scandinavia -- an audacious claim, yes, but based on my short visits here and yon, an accurate one. The cost of living and visiting is high -- but thanks to the gracious welcome of Glenn and Kathy, American PhDs and Fulbrighters from Riga, now spending the remainder of Glenn's sabbatical in Stockholm, I was largely unhindered by the prices of things. No hotel cost: Glenn and Kathy's spare room in the Wenner-Gren center, a conceptually terrific and well-executed living complex for international scholars, was perfect. Though we snacked out and about the town, Kathy's home-cooked meal -- Miss you, Mom! -- moose stew on rice, simmering in an apple cider broth, complimented by Princess torte and Easter semlor from Annika's bakery made for mouth-watering meals that were easy on the wallet and extra good on the belly.

Stockholm is largely comprised of waterways and winding roads -- and much to the surprise of anyone who's come from Latvia or Illinois -- hills! The architecture of Stockholm, while not dissimilar from that of Riga -- after all, the cities aren't that far apart in age -- pales in comparison to the Art Noveau exquisiteness of Riga. But the city, in other ways, bumps Riga right off the map. For starters, it's clean. (If I saw any graffiti at all, I don't remember it.) It's healthy. (I was beginning to think joggers didn't exist in Europe.) It's tourist-friendly. (Was that a random, just-because smile the middle-aged woman stepping off the timely city bus gave me?) In fact, it's friendly for all. (Beeping crosswalks, textured sidewalks and ramps make Stockholm a leader among its European counterparts in terms of handicapped accessibility. Riga's uneven puddle pavement is enough to make anyone feel handicapped. And while Stockholm has recycling down to a science, Riga is still learning about dumpsters.)

Do I sound critical? Forgive me. It's just that there was sunshine in Stockholm. There was so much joy in visiting Kathy and Glenn whose personalities and lifestyles can only be described as sunny and warm. And there was the feeling -- I've been saying this all year -- I could fall in love with this city, too.

Two museums enhanced the time in Stockholm. A Friday excursion to the Vasamuseet (Vasa Museum), the only must-see on Glenn and Kathy's list of suggestions, left me feeling blessedly small and young and land-locked. The museum itself was literally constructed around the Vasa -- the beautifully constructed warship that unfortunately went the way of the Titanic long before the Titanic, in 1628. For three hundred years the ship was preserved in the muddy bottoms and relatively salt-free waters of the Baltic, only to be salvaged in 1961. The work of preservation is on-going, and I had the feeling I was stepping into a living, breathing workspace -- a far cry from the stale air of so many museums.

On Saturday, the Historiska museet (Museum of National Antiquities) whisked us away back to the good ol' days of prehistory. We viewed an ancient bowl, simple and chaste in design, who's common name, skoll, gave rise to the hearty word of "cheers" still used in modern day Sweden. A stunning "Gold Room" exhibit touted the gold and silver riches of the Middle Ages. We marveled over Elizabeth's jewelled reliquary, constructed to contain her skull. In spite of her short and regal life, Elizabeth of Hungary did good for humanity, including establishing a hospital in Marburg, Germany. She was canonized in 1235.

Of particular interest to me was the Vikings exhibit which gave special consideration to the people's intermingled conversion of traditional faith to Christianity, from Thor to God. (Also of note, contrary to popular belief, Viking helmets did not often include horns.) Finally, we toured the current temporary exhibition detailing the life and death of Otzi the Iceman, the five thousand year old man whose body was recovered in the Alps in 1991. We saw more than you'd ever want to see of the old fellow, right down to his underwear. Only thing missing was Otzi himself, who now rests comfortably in his museum home in Italy. Not a bad place to retire.

Having said our farewells to Glenn and Kathy and, at least for the time being, to Stockholm, back on the boat Ali and I watched the county shrink in the growing distance. How do you know which way to look when standing on the deck of a boat? Watch the scenery gliding by on one side for a minute or two and turn around only to discover the other side looks completely different.

In the darkness, we wandered back inside of the boat that was even rustier and smokier and chintzier than the last one. Just before 11:00 p.m., we decided to check out the commencement of DJ Sly's "awesome" dance party. On the hour, as promised, Mr. Sly himself clicked off the jukebox song (Donny Osmond's technicolor rendition of "Any Dream Will Do"), flipped the switch on the miniature mirror ball, and unleashed a pulsating medley of dance music, unbeknownst to either of us. Smoke wafted in from the small casino room, where I couldn't help but notice the machine titled "I.C. Money" was blinking the brightest. It's proselytizing efforts were not in vain; a fleet of would-be sailors darkened the already dim corridor, swaying with the tide.

Stockholm may be shiny, but Riga, after all, is home.

Yours,

Tim