Walking to Stockholm
Day 1
6 am
I find myself in one of O’Leary’s finest carriages.
By that, I mean I’m sitting in the cabin of a Ryanair plane. The neon yellow hue of the interior jarrs with my lack of sleep. My morning coffee eluded me, and so I feel drunk with stupor, at best unresponsive, at worst violently moody.
I share my row with a slumped figure. A seat between us, he sits with his body pressed to the porthole window. There is no conversation, no pleasantries. This is Ryanair, baby.
7:30 am
I emerge from sleep drowsy and more confused by my environment. My dreamscapes where I played the part of a travelling musician are cruelly cut short. I console myself with the thought that the end of the flight is only half an hour away. Matchbox houses begin to pepper the land below, and suddenly I feel like a toddler looking down on a giant Duplo set.
The shock of the new is unsettling as it is exhilarating.
9 am (local time)
We are herded into a shed of an airport. The unfortunate man infront of me spends ten minutes explaining his employment situation to a stern passport control honcho.
When I step up to the desk I am expecting similar treatment. Instead, he sees the British passport and promptly hands it back to me with a grunt. I nod. He nods. All is understood, and I proceed onto Swedish soil.
11:30 am
A lengthy coach journey propells me towards Stockholm. My seat mate is a brash Australian, who is forever encroaching on my person. He violates the first rule of long haul transport; respect the divide.
What has so far been a drab morning, tempered by my own sullen demeanour, is suddenly enlivened when arriving in Sweden’s capital. The Cityterminalen stands out like a gargantuan piece of flatpack furniture, all minimalist panels and clean glass. Even the tube system continues this theme, less a journey into the abyss than an effortless glide below the earth’s subcutanea.
I arrive at the hotel over 3 hours before my check in is due. The receptionist wears a badge bearing the moniker “It’s nice to be nice”. Stunned by such a potentially profound statement, I stagger up to my room. It too is minimalist, in the true Scandinavian way.
2:30 pm
I wile away my first two hours watching trash American TV.
Finally, it proves too much. Brain addled by a backdrop of spoilt teenagers and ridiculous cars, I leave my hotel to explore the old town, Gamla Stan.
It’s broadly reminiscent of old Paris. Tiled roads, pavement cafes and tall, washed out flats (although sans shutters).
I sit and eat, and let Stockholm pass me by.
