It's the tourist island!

"Nej" "Jo!" "Nej..." "JO!!" Simon and I argued as we always do, and he seemingly loves... If not for the fact that I feel he encourages my my almost violent desire to take the opposite position of any stance, I would think he regretted teaching me that "Yeah" means "Yes," but "YO!" means an emphatic yes in terms of arguing. I think he was encouraging my bad habit (which he must secretly enjoy) in teaching me that one. I remember Stockholm 3 years ago and the alarmingly silly parallels of Stockholm for me then and now (shown below, me in Greta Garbo Square pretending to be an elephant both times):


This particular trip, Simon chose to take me to a place which had previously scared me off as a "tourist island." I had pridefully boasted having done every single thing one should do when in Stockholm, save for the uber-touristy items like tasting reindeer or visiting the aforementioned island of Gröna Lund. Upon his departure, a Canadian friend I met on the comedically pathetic boat hostel I stayed on took a photo with me in front, asking if I'd ever been. "Of course not!" I replied, unknowing that I'd later return and have a day to remember the rest of my life there.

Simon argued that it wasn't so much a tourist island, but more of a recreation island for Swedes. All I know is there's a boat in a museum, roller coaster, zoo, and more picnicking sunbathers than can be adequately accounted for without taking a 3 hour census.

Simon wanted to have such a picnic and knew I'd need supplies. Having just eased off the vegan kick I was still eager to load up on gurka (cucumber), tomater, vindruvor (grapes), sallad (lettuce), och olika frukte (and various fruits). Unwittingly, Simon packed one of my favorite Champagne bottles of all time, one I had grown rather attached to at Austin's downtown sushi joint, Kenichi. The bottle is called Deutz, and I had more than my fair share (typical). Simon had first tried to open the bottle himself, but I quickly snatched it away. We've got to leave such things to the pro's, and after a satisfying pop and fizz over my left hand, we laid under blankets of sunlight coyly shooing away black-headed geese prodding around in search of snacks. Admittedly, some parts of the small island reaked of geese shit, the hills overlooking boat ways, quaint architecture, and happy joggers made this little gem something I swiftly kicked myself for previously missing. Generally when I mention Stockholm, the first thing I hear former tourists bring up is, "Did you see the boat in the museum?! How did they get that in there?" Which refers to the famously sunken ship which was resurrected from the Baltic and cradled beneath the construction of a surrounding museum. Stuffed with produce, we passed the building and crunched through gritty paths until arriving at one of the largest, most insane looking constructions I'd ever stumbled upon (and later rode). The "Insane" as it were seemed like a fun and daring idea up until the moment my legs were dangling over the edge and I began to question the reliability of the machine's design. 2.5 seconds later? We'd survived and Simon seemed all but hell-bent on playing a game, but relented to let me play ringleader (also typical) and jumped into 4-hour queues for 4-second rides.

I tried to play my usual games of, "Spot the American, Guess Which is Brit?, and Definitely Scandinavian..." only to learn that there is something about adolescent females that throws me off completely. All were healthfully plump, over-accessorized, commanding attention, and had altered their natural hair colors in some way. Oh, Hanna Montana... is it possible your plastic pearls have infected those overseas as well? The most dangerous ride of all it seemed to me was the simple chain swing which seemed to deem my body weight and proportions unacceptable for its aerodynamics and I felt as though I'd surely tip into the water (or worst) onto the ground. I tried to look as brave as my six-year-old counterparts spinning around with me, but admittedly I was a bit scared. I lifted up my iPhone (which was tragically lost on a flight back from Germany) and snapped this photo of a small girl sitting in the rattling chains as we prepared for take-off. Maybe she was as scared as I was? Maybe she was just telling herself she was? Outwardly she perhaps felt as I did, brave and terrified all at once but electrified with excitement at being exactly where she was at that very moment.

In case you wanted more photos from the trip...

...before I add the rest of the stories.

Lunch for Frukost

Lunch for frukost. That's we had. Lunch for breakfast almost every day, and I loved it. Having grown in the far reaches of Southeast Texas, bordering bayous and swimming in swamplands, I grew up on grits, gravy, green beans, and one other traditionally trashy staple. Breakfast for supper. The few times my mom would cook, and when I say "few" I mean pizza delivery guys knew us by name (as did McDonald's drive-thru workers), she would scramble up all the 69 cent Grade-A eggs we had, sprinkle them with Colby-jack cheese, pepper them with a vengeance, and make hash browns (pre-cooked of course). This would supplement our smörgåsbord of white bread toast, butter, and jelly (don't you dare call it jam). It was as gross, grossly unhealthy and at the same time, as heavenly good as such artery-clogging garbage might sound. Grease 'n grits, I chomped my way through supper, slurping it down with a near-grainy sugared sweet tea (iced naturally, but to us that was the only type of tea, so no need for specification). I'd swat at mosquitoes, then awaken to a bloated belly and feel both hungry and full at the same time again. Time has passed, and both tears and pounds have dropped from me. I now nurse an unnatural obsession with healthy food and breaking from my invisibly connected past which shows itself through in this one meal.

Having lunch for frukost instead of frukost for dinner (frukost meaning the Swedish word for breakfast). Simon would chop the cucumber, papprakor (red bell pepper), and set out the kanel (cinnamon) to go with min kaffe (always French-pressed). He'd fill the glass bottle with tap water, set lettuce-leaf-adorned plates on the table, and break off just enough knackebrod to keep me both happy and from feeling guilty at the American-demon, "Carbs." We'd eat healthily, lightly, and happily. We'd talk, and sit at a table... Things my family NEVER did! We'd play with Spotify (think of it as a better version of Pandora), make jokes about one another, and slowly work on his delicious, soft bread from the bakery 'round the corner. He'd use his ever practical cheese slicer to make micro-thin films of flavor for that bread and I'd heartily twist both his salt and pepper mill to my heart's content, trying to drench the tomat och gurka in as much sodium as one would need to have a full-blown heart attack by the age of 30.

I write this from the Stockholm-Arlanda airport, but I feel as though I've already arrived back "home." I just thought to myself, "Here," in America, "We rush and rush to do things. We have no time to eat healthily so we get junk food or calorie-laden meal bars, then take 2 hours out of our day for the gym or some boot-camp or that new Ab-Ercize video we got on the Home Shopping Network." We have no time for our friends, spouses, wives, husbands, kids, that book we're writing *guilty cough, those online courses we've been meaning to take, or even enjoying the sanity of our own life! Maybe we should eat breakfast. Simon said the ever-nagging phrase himself, "It's the most important meal of the day," and if like me... you don't necessarily like "breakfast," then by all means just say you're being Swedish, and have lunch.... For frukost.

The Greatness of Grinda

How do you pronounce Skarsgård? It might help if you try getting a bit of knäckebröd stuck in your throat, and don't even think about pronouncing the "sk" like you would in English. When asked what the term meant, Simon replied "It's the Swedish archipelagos!" Then seemed surprise that I needed to know what that term meant as well. Grinda is part of the collection of islands (archipelagos) that surround Sweden, and is proud to offer nothing more than peace and quiet. Their website may boast that it's just one hour from the "madding crowd" of Stockholm, but I'd give it about 2 or even 2 and a half. We queued up for a boat just outside the national museum, staring across the water at the palace as we road out on a cloudy day. One doesn't need to purchase a ticket in advance, just hop on and pay before you hop off. I had a nice Grüner Veltliner shoved in my purse and idly sipped away the swaying commute. We bounced from island to island, depositing families to their tiny, tucked away houses and picking up vacationers like ourselves. The 2 hours felt like 3, or possibly 4 and we were let off at our final destination with a host of soon-to-be-drunk businessmen. We had no idea how to get to where we needed to go, but Simon assured me that there was nothing but our hotel on the island (save for 1 cafe, 1 hostel, and 100 boats). For so small an island, the menu varied enough (traditional Scandinavian of course) to keep me interested and there were enough wines to keep me occupied for several days had I intended to stay longer than just the 1. Our hotel/cabin was decorated in natural wood, bamboo, and then more wood. It was spacious, calming, and posted no door numbers, only pictures of birds and fish that corresponded to the pictures on each room's key-chain. Grinda's Wardhus had that ingeniously simple, beautiful Swedish design to it. No bathtub but a large, smart shower. No television, but a quiet view of little red houses and trees. We wandered on trails, naming flowers and searching for a "Bad" (Swedish for swimming area) so that Simon could "cool off" in what, a Texan, could only describe as frigid waters. Noting the signs which indicated Grinda was home to Sweden's only and most unusual serpent," I was cautious to say the least (think: frightened hipster girl in hot pink Ked's, crunching nervously through a forest looking down the entire time).


The next morning, our breakfast was included and I was surprised to learn that at Grinda, like Simon, they had lunch for breakfast too. It was your usual pastries, cracker bread, boiled eggs, yogurt, granola, jam, but then the Swedish add-on's of spicy mustard, red bell pepper, salted meats, cheeses, cucumber, and tomat. I consumed more than my fair share of coffee, tea, and watermelon then set out with Simon's camera snapping what I thought to be artistic photos of utterly astounding island. Soon we had to go and hiked through the woods to the other side of the island to await whatever ocean craft would swing by next. I got bored, and therefore mischievous (bad habits of mine) and decided to sneak down to the water to see if I could so much as stand in it. It went as well as you might think, but I must admit, the high summer sun did something to my southern skin that made the neither salty, nor sweet Swedish sea water feel as though my legs were being licked with cold breath. I remembered that I still had some small boxed wine I purchased at the Systembolaget in my purse, tiny, Italian adult juiceboxes really, and decided to use the Baltic as my own personal wine chiller. We weighed the wine down with rocks and I threatened to swim halfway across the sea if needed should a large boat's wake pry it from our makeshift refrigerator. The boat finally came, the sun refused to leave, and I fell asleep on a deck chair, once again, sleeping on Simon's shoulder.

Kungsholmen

Simon planned and prepared (and possibly prayed) that my trip would be a good one. Kungsholmen was part of that plan from the start. Boasting several "kitchens" in a single space, it's like a 5-star place meets a mall food court. That idea sounds just as terrifying to you as it did to me, but stay with me on this one. When not penned up in the Swedish winter (which I naturally assume is all other weeks save Midsummer) the people rush to be outdoors in any way, shape, form, and for any reason that they can imagine. I had always heard of "Sun-worshiping Swedes" but didn't truly grasp the term until now. If a cafe has outdoor seating? They're there. If there is an unoccupied patch of grass in the city? They're rolling up their pants and sleeves to bake in it. Situated on the water facing Södermalm, Kungsholmen is neither outdoors nor in. It's indoors when you want it to be, but outdoors otherwise. The ceiling is a patchwork of colored sticks, painted wood in the heated tropical colors that inspire the near-East cuisine. It's Asian? It's Swedish. There's sushi? But also beef. Do you want wasabi? Perhaps caviar and mayonnaise? It's beautiful, and the staff can't be beat service-wise (this is coming from the most difficult of difficult-to-please, mind you). Maybe it was the Champagne talking? Maybe it was the delicious food and kind waiter? Maybe it was the fact that Simon probably paid his rent in our small dinner? I say it's worth it, if not for the cuisine, just for the breathtakingly beautiful walk there (you pass some very famous, historic Swedish sites along the boardwalk lined with boats). Get there before sunset, but don't leave until after, unless of course, you came during Midsummer. That means you'd leave at 3 a.m., and that would be madness.

Mariefred for Midsummer

There's waking up on the wrong side of the bed, and there's waking up having fallen off the foot of the bed into a dustbin filled with dirty needles and feces. That's how I awoke. Disgusting? It was, but that's how I felt. Having traveled for about 21 hours (including airport time) and sleeping for almost none, I was awakened at the crack of god-knows-when to board a subway to a train to a steam train. The steam train was a tourist novelty that our half-English, half-Swedish friend insisted upon taking. It was located in a village miles from any bathrooms, convenience stores, and human life... save for a very angry old drag queen (I'm not making this up) who crept out of his house to yell at small childen, "Det ar min blommar!!" Apparently he had flowers, they were his personal flowers, and the Midsummer-dressed children wanted to pick them. He was not amused by this.

Between weary scowls and complaints as to taking every form of travel save the ever sturdy camel, our steam train finally arrived. I attempted to compensate for the lack of sleep on Simon's shoulder, finding myself jarred and my head wrecked against a wooden wall every two seconds. Lucky for me, I could hardly notice the pain of my travel worn head being pounded against hard surfaces because I was too busy recovering from the constant ear-piercing shriek of the train's whistle. Our friends couldn't be more amused, and I couldn't have been more ready to murder a group of people as then. Needless to say, I did not put my best foot forward. We finally stopped (THANK GOD), and ordered some traditional Midsummer dishes, all of which involved herring and some sort of mayonnaise. Apparently in Sweden all holidays, including Christmas, involve some sort of herring and some sort of mayonnaise. Together.

Having endured over 40 days as a vegan (and arguably anorexic) it was a fight to get me to eat it, but a joy to endure the fat suffering. I drank no less than 5 gallons of water realizing that in comparison to my Swedish friends, the relentless Texas heat had taught me to replenish my thirst continuously. Much to my dismay, our meal caused us to miss the ever-famous "SmåGrodorna" song, but my disappointment quickly dissipated with the arrival of our steam boat (yes, Simon's friends were really into steam travel this day). We leisurely ate and drank our way, salmon and punschrulle all the while, passing up island after island until we arrived home. Stockholm. It had been a sleepy, white-wine soaked day dotted with families and little girls donning flower wreaths in their hair. A good day. En glad midsommar.

The Champagne Bar

I'm at least 7 floors above Slussen overlooking gay party-boats, edges of Gamla Stan, and the seemingly endless waters of a Swedish coast. Island by island, Södermalm is perhaps the best (or at least a personal favorite). Shortly after the aforementioned catastrophes of connections bouncing from Austin to Oslo to Stockholm, I was here at last . Simon had a special surprise for me, and after breathlessly climbing what seemed to an American as an endless number of stairs, we arrived.

It was white and simple, what little "embellishments" were mere accents to the plain charm of a quaint bar that opened up into what appeared to me as also a plain, simple, and quaint balcony. My first step outside of the door was welcomed by sea breeze, not sweet, not salty, but the inexplicable "langom" I kept hearing of. I wasn't overwhelmed with seagulls and wind, nor beaches, nor any hint at the aroma of fish. Just sweet, clean air gently tousling my travel-weary tresses and gently tugging at our cotton textiles. Simon was no longer at my side but I was too high (both in physical distance from the earth and also from the enjoyment of our view) that I hadn't noticed until he suddenly reappeared with two gently fizzing champagne flutes. Moet & Chandon (the French kind, the real stuff) seemed to dominate both this and, as I would soon discover, other bars all over Sweden. Studies prove that there are upwards of 10 million bubbles in each glass of champagne and each brushed the tip of my nose and soared to my head making me happier to bathe in the sunlight. Everyone around wore sunglasses and sandals, welcoming the brilliant rays (apparently a fleeting experience in Stockholm). I felt home, I felt happy. I hope we go back.

The actual journey.

I'm at the Oslo airport and within 10 minutes of arriving there I saw more fit people in an airport than I've seen in the past collective 10 years. I'm starving, and all around me people are drinking beer and white wine, artfully dissecting salad with both their knife and fork in that way Scandinavians tend to eat. I'm straight up fingers and forks in the states, even arm and sleeves when lacking a napkin (I did not just admit to that, did I)? I want a snack, and I'm still so proud of my new vegan stint that I can't bring myself to succumb to the delicate Norwegian salmon rolled out before my eyes at every turn. I go to one of those airport convenience shops, the one's with magazines, books, comedically (though unintentionally) horrible greeting cards, and refreshments. Combing through row after row of flavored sparkling water then landing on "Lemongrass," I can't help but notice a shop girl busily stocking children's meals next to me. These "kiddie packs" or "barn bags" if you will (barn means child) have an apple, veggie filled baguette, and even a stuffed animal inside.

I can't believe my eyes. I have come from the land of magical, Disney-princess in a cardboard box that is turning soggy from the grease of fries as a kid's meal! I look for the adult choices, tragically not springing for the 3" tall stuffed cow, and also not wanting to appear strange (not just yet anyhow) I take stock of the other options. I can choose from 2-packs of 3 different kinds of apples, fruit salad, actual salad, candy, or a bag proudly displaying the word “ROTTER!” It’s a bag of carrots, delicate, small, fresh, peeled carrots.

The obesity crisis in my part of the world seems to make a bit more sense given that if stranded back in any of these sorts of airport shops at Austin-Begrstrom or even Newark I’d have been given a wall of king-sized candy, Coke, and Us Weekly. Around me I realize that the answer may not be as clear cut and simple as I had originally thought. Healthy looking people are queuing up at the Pizza Hut kiosk and yes, they’re drinking Coke’s (save for the other half which is the beer-before-noon crowd, and my kind of people). So maybe it’s not that they make such great choices but at least have good choices? Case in point my “vegan” in flight meal from Austin to Newark was a cheeseburger, roll, and potato chips (obviously not vegan as requested and definitely not consumed by me). My actually vegan in-flight meal from Newark to Oslo was much better, but that’s just because they had a 110 calorie vegan cookie and $4 French champagne bottles for sale. In America do we make such bad choices because we are rarely afforded the opportunity to make good ones? All of this Scandi-praise aside, I must confess a few annoyances in my travels thus far. First, the screaming child who kept throwing her stickers at the English businessmen next to me and trying to climb over the seat on top of us (alternated by bouts of crying) did not sleep until the flight was over, then the lay out of the Oslo airport…. Rather, the signs saying “Flight #220 is at Gate: 41” (then 38, then 59, then 21, 56) even changing minutes prior to boarding. Trust me, in writing this, my laptop has been slammed shut and I’ve taken off running more than once after some Norwegian words were quietly muttered on an intercom and I noticed all of my fellow passengers were gone.

In closing? I've finally arrived. Seen a sports bar, a 'Champagne Bar' on the 7th floor of a familiar building, and my favorite Sodermalm fashion spot, "Monki." It's Midsommar in the morning and fresh reviews on this fabulous place:

Day Before Departure

I'm leaving tomorrow, and my stomach dips with that top-of-the-roller-coaster anticipation that one gets before flights. The two monstrosities that erupted on my face last week have now been reduced to neon red marks above my lips as if bitten just below the nose. From a distance it would appear I'd recently recovered from cold sores, but in reality it is just a combination of acne and nerves. I still haven't completely packed and in an attempt to dodge the painful time and money which checking baggage involves, have chosen both a small suitcase and large, hideously brown shoulder bag I was given at work. So far the suitcase contains a power converter, underwear, and a large Jeffrey Campbell box containing these very shoes:


I know what you're thinking. "You're going to a country of cobblestone and contstant walking and you're bringing wooden platforms that resemble cement blocks used by the mob to sink bodies?" The answer is yes, and I suspect that cement blocks perhaps would be more conducive to forward motion. Realizing this potential blunder, and wanting to have someone talk me out of this great idea, I approached Simon, convinced he'd argue against me. "I know they take up my entire suitcase and I know they might hurt, but they make my legs so pretty!" He suprised me by saying that he understood, but to make sure I brought flats as well seeing as, "I have learned that when your feet hurt... I hurt too." I stopped to think about exactly what I was doing, not just mindlessly packing for what might make my American ass look smaller, but why I would so obviously choose to suffer?

After my usual hour in the gym this morning, I started to really question why I would want to pack those bulky heels and began realizing some of the cultural differences between American and Swedish women. Here I was slaving an hour of precious, all too little time in a confined space on some cardio machine so that I could put on delicate torture traps that would prohibit me from walking. Somewhere in Stockholm right now, there is a businesswoman in classic flats strolling a few kilometers to the subway and probably coming to same caloric impact as me. Lost in thought as I cycled downhill towards my office (I actually do have a more European approach to transportation than most in Texas), I pushed the thought further recalling a recent conversation with Simon in regards to my trip and my previous travels through Scandinavia.

"I like to go to the grocery stores and look at everything, trying to see what they have that we don't and vice versa. I like to try to see if that's the reason they're healthier than Americans." Simon replied, "What did you find?" I found that Europeans, Swedes in particular have a fair amount of vegetables and small-portioned frozen meats, cheap wines, and aisles and aisles of sweets whereas Americans, apart from the Whole Foods crowd which I am a card carry member of, go to big box stores where 24-packs of lunch portioned potato chips and oversized bags of popcorn dominate. The sweets, also occupying more aisles than they should, all shouting that they are 25% bigger and contain 1/3rd of the fat. It would appear to me that Swedes say, "Have a biscuit, a small one, but make sure it's a nice on and you enjoy it." Then leave it at that, and know better than to have another... and another... and another. The American approach seems to be, "Why pay $4 for a truffle when you get a box of reduced fat chocolate Swiss rolls with a few lower fat grams!" It's obvious to me that if I put the same effort into obtaining said, brilliant truffle that I am likely to eat that and stop and savor that bitch until the dark chocolate finally dissipates, unadulterated from my tongue. It's also apparent (speaking from experience here) that if left to my own devices with a "reduced calorie" box of anything, I'm unwrapping every individual wrapper until I'm left in a mess of crumbs, plastic, and shame headed right back to the gym to lose a few more hours of my that I didn't really have in the first place, not to mention hours that could have been devoted to actual enjoyment. In the typical fashion that anyone who's ever dealt with any sort of eating disorder deals with impending meals, I analyze, I stress, I estimate calories, and try to preemptively negate them with a run. Am I going about this the wrong? Is my American sensation for "More! More! More!" consuming time with consumption and the compensation of such? I want to find out, and try to take this trip slow. I want to eat a slice of prinecssatorte without going to caloriecount.com and searching for a Gold's Gym later, while stil being able to zip up my pants. If the Swedes can do it? Why can't we?

So I had this food column in Austin once but,

I'm not your stereotypical Texan, and Simon isn't your classical Swede. His hair isn't blond, his eyes are not blue, and sadly for him I am by no means a cowgirl. I live in Austin, he lives in Stockholm, and though I seem to have grown quite (in)famous for my hedonistic enjoyment of food, wine, cocktails, and general indulgence here... I figured why not expand and taste what wonders what might lie over there? I have traveled and dined extensively, but never taken the time to write or even adequately explore the treats that stretch north of the usual American tourist latitudes of Berlin and Paris.

3 years ago, trip 1

It's been a long time since I've had my first taste of Sweden. It's been almost as long since I got my first taste of truly fine cuisine. I was a Swedophile long before a oenophile, and well? Now it's time to combine the two. To go back to Stockholm, a city I saw all too briefly just once but immediately loved, and try to grasp the true meaning of "Fika." Lounging on my dirty, carpeted apartment floor this morning idly chatting with Simon over Skype I asked him, "What is fika?" I knew the paper-answer which would be that it is to sit with loved one's and have coffee and maybe some sweet breads, cookies, or biscuits and talk in the afternoon. I had heard of it from other Swedish friends, and they all likened it to being as Swedish as little red houses, that strangely painted horse, and the Vikings. Fika is a true representation of the culture of Sweden, they say. It is hard to see how something so common as coffee and sweet morsels with family or friends (or as Simon tells me even co-workers in public offices) would be something one could attribute to a specific way of life, but I can tell there's something there and and I want to understand it. So I asked Simon a follow up question, "What makes 'fika' fika?" He paused and hmm'ed and with his usual cautious approach to words, "Fika is a gathering. It is collective. I used to not think of that way, but I read that in Sweden we are collective. We reach decisions over fika even. We want everyone in the group to have a say." Ah, those Nordic near-socialists... "Maybe fika is a coming together, perhaps?"

My eyes sparkled with their usual mischief and I replied, "I want to learn what fika is really about." So here I am. A few days shy of my flight to Stockholm. Sure, there's more to the tale, and my story with Simon and this trip is much more involved than a potential travel blog on the ways of life, restaurants, and overall dining in Sweden. For now, dear friends let me say that Sweden is more intricate, wonderful, and even beautiful than our American travel shows have thus far displayed. Case in point, my beloved Bourdain on "No Reservations." Since telling, or rather showing Simon this blog he has retracted his statement as "Mostly bullshit," but had no other answer to offer. Swedes think that fika is uniquely Swedish and impossible to explain in so many words which is not surprising for a culture not quite fond of ever using many words, or at least very slowly and carefully selecting the few they do. I guess it's up to me to find the right ones.

I leave in just 3 days, my stomach is already in knots and my decision to try out 30 days as a vegan (which has spilled into 35 days of a thus far indefinite period) has me questioning just how much or what I'm willing to try. I have to swallow my seemingly fadish American diet and/or beliefs and swallow the whole smorgasbord of princessatorte, lingonberry jam, pickled fish, potatoes, and even beer as well. Okay, so maybe me swallowing alcohol isn't too much of a sacrifice? Good thing I bought new running shoes today. Unless I want to look like a "fat American tourist" on sight, I'm going to need them.