So I wanted to go to the Baltics. Every other part of my plan had kind of just fallen perfectly in to place. There were easy, reasonably priced flights or trains to all the places I wanted to go, when I wanted to go. This was not the case to get from Budapest to the Baltics.
The flights were pretty decent from Budapest to Stockholm, however, and even cheaper from there across the Baltic Sea. I visited Stockholm with my class when I studied abroad, and we spent almost a full week there. I felt as though a quick layover would be fine and I could just relax knowing that I had already seen the city. There were only two things on my to-do list: visit this giant museum and sit in a cafe for a while with some hot chocolate.
The giant museum I speak of is the Nordiska Museum, and I had longed to visit its halls from the moment I saw its exterior. You see, when my class visited the city, my teacher went on and on and on about this museum we would be seeing called the Vasa Museum. It supposedly housed a giant unearthed shipwreck that sank hundreds of years ago just off the coast of Sweden. It had nothing to do with our class focus, sustainability, in contrast most of our other activities. It was purely a bit of local tourism.
I really had no idea what to expect with this museum, but she kept talking it up, so my expectations were high. Turns out she had never been and actually had very little clue as to what the museum contained.
As our class of about twenty-five unloaded from the trams and made our way in pursuit of our teacher, a gigantic, magnificent building rose up ahead of us. It was surrounded by some greenery that stood out in stark contrast to its layers and layers of soft beige brick. I was entranced. And finally excited to see this mysterious museum. They say you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but I always do.
Imagine my surprise and confusion, then, when my teacher walks right past the front doors and the rest of the class follows.
I wanted to call out, “Ummm… Hello? The entrance was back there!” But I held my tongue, waiting to see what was going on.
Then, as we rounded the far end of the museum and made our way behind it, there stood the Vasa Museum, a stout dark building with several sailing masts protruding from its roof, in the shadow of the magnificent Nordiska.
My spirits fell a little, and I decided right then that I would visit that beautiful museum behind us when I got the chance. A friend and I tried to visit after we exited the Vasa, but the Nordiska was already closed by then. We did manage to see another wonderful museum in its place, and it honestly was probably a lot more fun than the Nordiska would have been, buy I kept my plan in the back of my mind in case I ever returned to Stockholm.
The same friend and I, along with a couple other girls, were wandering the town a couple days later when I spotted a chocolate shop, and I asked if we could just peak inside really quick. The shop ended up having a cafe and a wonderfully cozy, pillowed staircase for lounging, and we ended up spending nearly two hours there, tucked into our hot chocolates and chocolate cakes with our shoes off.
So that’s all I wanted from my little layover, and I figured one night would be enough to make that happen.
I was a bit disheartened when I landed and looked up directions to the city center. I discovered I had flown into the farthest airport from the city. An eighty minutes drive into Stockholm, and I landed just after three. The museum would well and closed by the time I could get there.
Sad though I was, I had faith in my ability to find a café that would serve me hot chocolate, though I silently cursed my tricky planning. After my disaster with an overnight layover in Athens, I had told myself I wouldn’t do that again. Yet here I was.
I was a bit taken aback, then, when I checked into my hostel and the man behind the counter chirped off, “Elizabeth, eight bed mixed dorm, two nights, yes?”
I blinked. “No. Just the one.”
“It says two here.”
“Uuhhh…” I rifled through my phone to try and find my flight information as he assured me that he could change it to one night if needed. But then, graciously, I found my flight details and confirmed that I was actually staying two nights in Stockholm! My past self was even trickier than I had suspected, and I thanked her internally. There would be plenty of time for hot chocolate, giant museums, and a bit extra on the side, to boot.
The hostel was super cozy. Rather large, with lots of common spaces fluffed with cushions and bright colors that invited guests out of their rooms to socialize. There was even an interior courtyard with lots of sweet outdoor furniture, and as I entered the main area of the hostel, the hostel man asked that I take my shoes off when inside. More homey that way.
I entered my room and was instantly greeted by two Germans, a boy and girl, who had only just met. We chatted a bit, and then the boy suddenly said, “So, myself and some others, a Canadian, are going to do the meatballs. Do you want to join?” The hostel had an attached restaurant, but while most hostel-restaurant pairs featured noisy, atmosphere-free bar spaces, this one actually contained a cozy (yes, I’m going to keep saying everything was cozy) little restaurant that served actual, delicious looking food. Hostel guests were entitled to a discount on the Swedish meatballs during dinner hours, and while I had just snacked on the plane and had no intentions of actually eating much else for the rest of the night, I agreed, glad to have an open offer for socialization from a boy who wasn’t drunk and had no drunk friends in the vicinity (no offense, Budapest).
The girl in our room was also doing the meatballs. Theresa was her name. The conversation was nice and easy, all of us sharing our respective stories on why we were in Stockholm. Theresa had just finished a semester in Göteborg and was doing a little side trip on her way back home. The German boy was just starting a world tour of sorts. He, like myself, had quit his job spontaneously, but, seeming a little more ready for change, had also deleted all of his contacts and cut all his ties. He was going to roam until he gosh darn felt like it, and that was that. The Canadian boy was just on a quick two week holiday from work.
Oh, and the meatballs were delicious. “Better than IKEA, I promise,” the hostel man had said. I couldn’t argue. They were extra coarse and meaty, and the sides were drool-making. Sides included mashed potatoes, homemade lingonberry sauce, and pickled cucumbers. I’ve recently become obsessed with pickled cucumbers. (Not to the point that they actually turn into pickles – the kind that are still obviously fresh cucumbers and have a sweet, light, tanginess that just makes everything else taste ten times better when paired up.) I paired my meal with a raspberry soda, and by the time we were done eating, everybody had remarked with a serene satisfaction how full they were at least three times each.
After dinner, the boys went off to skate (there are several winter ice rinks in Stockholm that are free to skate if you bring your own, and our hostel had a huge bin of skates to borrow for free), and Theresa and I pretty much went straight to the sauna after digesting for a bit.
Yep. You read that right. This hostel had a sauna. Girls only from 7-9. When we entered, we were alone, talking freely, and several others joined us. We were a bunch of chatterboxes! In every other sauna I visited this trip, the room was a silent box of sweat, but this chatty box of sweat was so much more enjoyable. We took turns cooling off under a casual bucket of water attached to the ceiling that you tipped out by pulling a cord. It was cold, but it felt so good after being in the heat.
Still no rest after that though, because Theresa had met a girl the little common space outside our room, and they planned to have tea together. I was kindly invited along. The girl was from Amsterdam, and it’s killing me that I can’t remember her name! We sat and chatted for a good hour or more about travel and life, and we told stories from our past. I think my highlight story was of the Egyptian man who asked if we could “sleep while hugging” shortly after waking me from a dead sleep to ask if I would go clubbing with him. I don’t think I’ve written that blog yet… Haha. I’ll get to it one of these days. I told that story because the Dutch girl said this was her first time staying in a hostel. I hope the good impression from our cozy stay will stick with her more than my little one-off horror story!
At one point in the evening, four girls came out of their rooms, all wearing the same t-shirts, black with white block letters, labeled “Bunda Buddies” on the front and “Stockholm 2019” on the back. I asked what Bunda was, and one of the girls said, “It means butt,” right as another put on a smirk and patted her behind. “We dance, so we use our bundas,” another said, as they all broke out in laughter. They asked us to take their picture, and as they were arranging themselves, one remarked, “Oh, you’ve got shirts, too!” to myself and Theresa. We both said no confusedly and then compared shirts. Black with similarly styled and colored letters. We laughed, and once the girls had gone, I asked if we could get our picture taken, too.
Too cute.
The next day, I set off in the sunshine to explore a bit. I had light layers on, but I still kept my warm winter coat. The Swedes, however, seemed to think the sun signaled the coming of spring, and many of them were running around in nothing more than light puffers.
I was headed to Gamle Stan, or old town, but I was distracted briefly by some pretty churches. The first was nice, but the second was grand, and as I entered, a kind-eyed man behind a desk off to the right said hello before rattling off for a while in Swedish. When he finally said so much that I realized I probably needed to know what he was saying, I asked for English, and he told me I was allowed to take pictures and use the flash. Then he asked where I was from. Then he talked some more. Then he asked more questions. Then talked some more.
I found myself drifting closer and closer to him as I realized he was settling into full-on conversation mode. I didn’t mind. I could stop smiling just because of how adorable he was. Eager to learn about me and my trip and eager to tell me about himself and the church. (He was also a bit of a silver fox if I’m gonna admit it, but in more of an adorable way than in a Pierce Brosnan kind of way.) When I told him that I had visited Taiwan, he lit up (somehow more than he already had been) and told me his wife was from Taiwan. This lead to another five or ten minutes sharing stories about Taiwan and him telling me how he met his wife. Finally, after at least twenty minutes of chatting, with a few other visitors trickling in and out without much more than a mid-sentence nod from him and a click of his counter, a man entered to grab a set of keys from him. Before long, the man was playing away on the organ from up above, and it became hard to hear each other. He apologized and said the man was practicing for a concert that afternoon, and that he should probably go eat his lunch.
“But I will tell you a secret about the church,” he said as a final goodbye, standing to lean towards me over the wide desk. I leaned in conspiratorially. “You up there, it is the rise of Christ.” He pointed to the massive swirl of sculptures above the alter, Christ at its center, and I nodded. “If you go just to the right of the alter and stand underneath and look up, it looks like he has a hairy chest!” He let out a bit of an excited laugh at sharing this wonderful secret with me. “Because of the dust that collects!”
And with that, I left him to his lunch and he left me to my hairy-chest-viewing and organ-listening. Hahaha. Quite the character.
I stopped off at a 7-11 to grab a semla bun, basically a whole wheat, giant cream puff with almond paste that is special for the time leading up to Lent. I had seen them in practically every bakery. It was delightful. I’m fairly certain the Danes’ fastelavnsboller is modeled after this and for the same time span.
I stumbled upon an outdoor market and tried to buy some raspberries before running away once I heard the price (about ten dollars for a small basket). Oh, and I got some more pastries. Mini chocolate croissant was sooo good.
I made it past one of the free ice rinks, and signs surrounding it proclaimed that you could borrow a down jacket if you got cold while skating. Okay, Sweden. Okay.
I found another church (love the red) and the opera house.
When I crossed the water (the Stockholm archipelago consists of some 30,000 islands — yes, thousand!!!!), I was delighted to find lots of ice and plenty of swans.
I paid a visit to the Royal Palace and caught the tail ends of the changing of the guard.
It was funny how empty the square was just ten minutes later.
I saw the inside of the Royal Chapel, and I don’t remember if I stepped inside last time. It really was quite beautiful.
I did a little bit of shopping and tried to not buy any of the super expensive Dala horses, though the ludicrous pricing made that one a bit easier than it otherwise would have been.
And then I foooouuunddd my haven. Chokladkoppen. I don’t know what the second half of that word means, but I’m, dear, dear friends with the first, and I tucked inside the dimly lit interior with a smile already plastered to my face. I ordered a hot chocolate and got cozy (something so easy to do in Sweden), and within a couple minutes, a giant bowl of hot chocolate was placed before me.
Haha. Uh… I guess they don’t do mugs here, and I am not complaining! Chocolate soup?? Can you do weekly delivery???
The chocolate was so rich and creamy, helped in part by the large dollop of fresh whipped cream placed on top. I ate the first two thirds with a spoon, quite literally like a bowl of chocolate soup, and I think I may have unconsciously broken into my happy-food dance more than once.
Do you see the cream?! Do you see the froth?! I can’t. It was so good. I just can’t
But I did, eventually, make it outside to do some more wandering and shopping in cute little Gamle Stan.
This below is the narrowest street in the world, first from the bottom, and then from the top.
After a while, I would my way out of the old streets and back across the water, making my way leisurely toward Nordiska.
I found a big church that seemed to house a café, though I could not find any food service to pair with the dozens of perfectly set tables. It also had a tiny church playhouse, and I, of course, thought this was adorable.
Not long after this, the Nordiska Museet loomed over me! Eeeep!
Oh, and the best part? The museum is free on Tuesdays. (It was a Tuesday.) Muahahahahahaha.
The main hall was beautiful, and children were partaking in carpet curling, tromping around on wooden skis, and dancing to music with flashing disco lights.
The collection, which I honestly had no clue about, ended up being a bit of an ethnographic history of Sweden. Lots of little scenes played out behind the glass with fascinating descriptions telling a story of the past. I don’t usually like this kind of collection, but I think I was just so content with my day that I found everything extra interesting.
There was a nice view from the upper windows.
And they even had a little exhibit on semla buns!
They also had a few people around, carved from wood and dresses in period clothing, but they were so creepy, and I was honestly scared they were going to come to life whenever I had to walk past one or lean over one to try and take a photo.
I think I’ll save you from most of my museum pictures, haha. It’s probably for the best.
I lazily exited and spent quite some time enjoying the sunset.
And then, when I grew cold and hungry, I shuffled my way back.
I had the meatballs again, this time for one. I thought of asking Theresa if she wanted to join, but I didn’t see her until much later, and it turned out she didn’t get home until after the discount period was over, upon which she fell promptly asleep. You see, the main purpose of her Stockholm stopover was to spend all of Tuesday on an organized skate of one of the lakes in Stockholm. That’s right, she spent the whole day standing on and skating around a layer of ice covering up a big ol’ bowl of water. No thanks! She loved it, though. Somehow, there was a group of boys from India on the excursion who had never before stepped on the ice with skates, and they actually managed to stay mostly upright with the help of poles. Madness, I tell you. The pictures looked gorgeous, though, and I didn’t blame her for being so tired afterward.
I, on the other hand, still had enough energy left to jump in the sauna for a while, and I had this, too, to myself.
Yep, I was enduring some pretty high temps!
Theresa and I woke very early the next morning to catch a bus to the airport. After chatting a bit, we had discovered that our flights were just half an hour apart, and this time from the closer airport, so we arranged to take the bus in together. The bus ran rather infrequently in the morning though, so we had to take an extra early one, at 6:30, since the next one wouldn’t make it in time for our flights.
We had a right awful time trying to find the silly bus at the station. The platform was tucked all the way up in a tunnel with no signs, and we ran to it frantically when we finally caught sight of it at about 6:29.
We said our goodbyes after security when she had the privilege of free lounge access, for the first time ever, and I did not. She said she felt bad for leaving me, but I was not about to deprive a sister of lounge access. I wandered a bit, bought a semla bun for the road, and hit the skies soon enough.
To the Baltics!
Vänliga hälsningar/ best wishes,
-Lizzy-wa
