Sweden Sailing - Day 5

​Where is Royce? Click to Sail Along ⛵

It’s 7:30 on Tuesday morning.  I am sitting next to a marble column holding up what used to be the outer wall of our hotel in the Vintergarden, a three-story atrium, built in the late 1800s that has since been enclosed.  There is a brunch laid out across four massive tables displaying everything from pickled and mustard herring (I tried both) to shots of blueberry juice.  This would rival the famous Sunday brunch at the Broadmoor.  I showed up to this white glove affair in my pajamas.  Idiot. 

Today is my last day on land for awhile.  We report to the boat this afternoon at 17:00.  I’m a little nervous and excited, anticipating the adventure that lay ahead for which I’ve dreamed about the better part of a year.  But first I have an entire day’s worth of Stockholm exploration to unpack from yesterday.  I believe I left you at breakfast.  I’ll pick up from there… 

The walk to breakfast was a half mile jaunt along cobblestone roads that branch off the waterfront.  Waterfront really doesn’t explain much, as this entire city is built on an archipelago of islands.  In a car, you could cross a dozen bridges in as many minutes.   

I was told to head over to the “old city," which is across a bridge in front of our hotel.  The island houses the royal family palace, parliament, one of the oldest churches in the city, and is a spiderweb of narrow cobblestone streets dating back a few hundred years.  It is every part old world Europe.  En route, I happened across a massive church, the Hedvig Eleonora, named for Sweden’s queen from 1636-1715.  The church was consecrated in 1737.  One would be hard pressed to find anything that old in the US.  This was just parked along my neighborhood walk.  

After passing my hotel, and snapping a few photos of the façade—the Grand Hotel dates back to the 1800s (modern in relation to some of its neighbors) and is as architecturally striking as any building downtown—I crossed the bridge leading to the palace.  All three entrances to the palace, where I learned the royal family no longer lives but works each day, are guarded by a soldier who stands at attention, marches about at very choreographed times of the hour, and poses nicely for the throngs of tourists snapping photos.  Eager to explore the old town, I passed on a ticket into the grounds, but learned a little about the structure before moving on:  Built from 1697 to 1760, the palace serves the monarchy today in the king’s duties as head of state, which include counting his fortune, hosting balls and slaying dragons.  All in a day’s work. 

I spent the next hour getting lost along the multitude of narrow streets dissecting this old city, frozen in time.  One humorous chink in the historic armor was the TGIFridays under construction and coming soon.  One can’t stop capitalism with iron gates and ramparts, apparently.  I made the mistake of entering one of the scores of shop fronts selling authentic Swedish wares and was almost talked into a wool tunic perfect for my daughters, should they get lost in a snow storm on the set of Frozen 3.  I politely thanked the elder woman helping me, and wished her luck in visiting her grandchildren she hasn’t seen in a couple years (they live in North Carolina—with their wardrobe of unusable authentic wool clothing grandma has sent over the years, no doubt). 

Back at the hotel, I had lunch, coffee and then headed back to my room to don my robe for the spa treatment I had booked on reserving my room.  Not one to turn my nose at the opportunity for a good rub down. I have plenty of experience at some very nice grottos back in the states.  I would put the Grand Hotel up against the St. Regis, the Ritz, the Phoenician, the Four Seasons, and any number of off-brand spas I’ve visited in my lifetime.  I mean the Swedish massage was invented here!   

With 45 minutes to spare, I put the Jewish triathlon to shame.  I spent time in the sauna, the warm water pool in a candlelit grotto, sat in the reclined stone seat in a hot tub fed by one of Sweden’s freshwater lakes, steamed, and then rinsed off in the rain shower before sitting down to finish my book.  Could this get any better?   

To my disappointed surprise, I wasn’t greeted by Elsa or Anna when it came time for my massage, but rather Nassau, a Greek male masseuse.  There must be a mistake, I said, for I ordered a, um, female masseuse, no disrespect.  Apologizing, he said that there were none available, unless I wanted to rebook another day or time.  Ugh.  So much for my Swedish fantasy coming true.    

After a shower to rinse off the massage lotion and any lingering remnants of man hands, I dressed and stopped by concierge to get a recommendation for a happening spot on a Monday night.  Astoria is a great new place, the friendly Swede at the front desk shared with a smile.  I walked back in the direction of breakfast, beginning to master my Stockholm geography even if I couldn’t pronounce any of their damn street names. 

The next several hours were spent at Astoria with my new bartender friend, Thomas.  (Picture enclosed) Hailing from France by way of Thailand, I learned that he was the byproduct of a French diplomat mother and Thai father.  What brought you to Sweden, I asked.  His Norwegian girlfriend, of course.  Duh. 

Thomas took me on an adventure of the palette (and liver), from a tuna gazpacho soup to the best halibut I’ve ever tasted,  paired with wine, vodka, St. Germain, tequila, coffee, Champaign, and more tequila.  By the time I left at 10pm, I had offered he and his girlfriend lodging in Denver when they visit, toured the entire restaurant, learned of his postponed engagement, surprise 2-week trip to Korea, and his love of Japan.  Stumbling back to the Grand, I was pleased at how much of Stockholm I had experienced in 12 short hours.  Had I run into Sven and Olaf on the way back to my little palace, I wouldn’t have been surprised.  Though, after all that liquor, I’m not convinced I didn’t have a spirited dialogue with a talking snowman on my walk home. 

And that brings me back to stumbling into the grand ballroom this morning in my PJs, still a little off balance from last night.  Nothing some fresh fish, coffee and…swedish pancakes(!) couldn’t remedy. 

It’s 8:38.  Might be time for this day to get started.  My friend Alejandro said he’d be landing and downtown by 13:00.  I think I’ll do a little family shopping before he arrives…now if I can only find that old woman with the wool tunics… 

---

---