I'm on a BOAT!!!

11:15am, Uppsala, Sweden, 25 December 2009

Well...not exactly. It would not be the complete truth to claim that, as I write this post, I am 'on' a 'boat'. Or any kind of water craft, for that matter. Where I actually am is sitting at my desk in my room in Flogsta on Christmas morning, pondering just how bad I have been at keep this blog up to date. Obviously there is a limit to what I can cover here, especially given my rather long-winded writing style, and the fact that some things are better not committed to the inter-webs...but even so, I think I've posted perhaps six times in 18 weeks? Not so great...

But I have had these notes lying around for about 6-8 weeks now, so perhaps it's time to turn them into something constructive. Or something to fill some time before Icky Matt makes French Toast in any case.

So, I'm on a Boat. Or rather, as we have discussed, I am not. But I was! In fact, since arriving in Sweden I have travelled on no less than 5 boats! Except that strictly speaking, one of those was twice on the same boat. Does that count? Oh, and I also took a trip down the Fyris River on the King Carl Gustav way back in September. That was out and back...one or two boats? Any rules regarding number of boats should be applied consistently, I feel. And then their were two trips on the Djurgården ferry in Stockholm...but I have no idea if it's always the same boat, and anyway those trip were 5 months apart, AND in different directions, so that could easily count as two and...

*ahem*

...I feel I've gotten bogged down in unnecessary details. I've been on a number of boats, some of them were very big boats, the kind you can use to cross seas...like the Baltic Sea, or Östersjön ('the East Sea') as it's called in Swedish. And that was actually the point of that lead in – I have visited three of Sweden's cross-Baltic neighbours by ferry in the last 2 months, and I would like to share some of my experiences with you all.

Riga, Latvia: 29 October – 2 November

At Swedish universities, it is common that rather than taking four or more subjects ('courses') concurrently as we tend to do in Australia, students instead take their courses intensively and consecutively, spending 4-5 weeks on each one, taking an exam or completing a major essay and then moving on to the next course. As there are no centrally mandated start and end dates for each course, gaps tend to appear between courses. This was the position I found myself in over the long weekend between my Swedish Economic History exam (Thursday morning) and my first lecture in Comparative Welfare States (Tuesday afternoon). Crossing the Baltic to visit beautiful and atmospheric Riga, the capital city of Latvia, as well as nearby Kuldiga/Goldingen (the town in western Latvia where my Mum's Jewish ancestors migrated from in the late 19th century) seemed like too good an opportunity to miss.

Excited, I began rounding up friends to take along – but Simon had no money, and Jonas had no time, and Matt had just been somewhere and Inken was about to go somewhere, and Mike had his girlfriend visiting him from England. Of course (being both an engineer and a northerner) he said he'd much rather come with me than have to cuddle and talk about his feelings...but I wasn't willing to be responsible for that. And so only Lucy was free, and (after soup lunch at VG and a quick stop at a supermarket for Pringles and Kanelbullar) we set off together for Stockholm and the ferries to Riga.

Thanks to Lucy's mad organisational skillz we made it to the Silja Line terminal at Frihamnen, a little to the north-east of central Stockholm, with time to spare. After dealing with the surly young woman at the check-in counter (who seemed personally aggrieved that not just one, but BOTH of us wished to pay for our journey) we scanned our boarding cards and made our way out along the passenger bridge, the ferry looming huge and motionless in the water to our left. Our cabins were on deck two, which as it turned out was below the entry deck, both the car decks, and the waterline; a part of the ferry where tight stairwells and cramped corridors twisted into dead ends peopled by bands of drunk, seedy Russians in spandex and tracksuits, where watertight bulkhead doors sealed behind us when the ferry got under way, and where brown portable-classroom carpet, beige linoleum walls, flickering flourescent lights and constant yet irregular machinery noise served as a constant reminder of our station in life. Still my cabin was quite comfortable (even if it did on my arrival contain two naked Lithuanian men) and in any case Lucy and I spent much of the 18 hour journey exploring the rest of the ship. We wandered in the duty free shop listening to the alcohol bottles vibrate against one another, watched the full moon rise over the Baltic from the upper deck, took in the evening's free entertainment (drunk Russians falling over a lot while trying to dance/walk/climb up and down stairs) and ate some of our haul of Pringles, sandwiches, pastries and chocolate in an alcove near our cabins.

The next morning we climbed to the upper deck to get our first view of Riga. Passing the outer channel markers quickly, we entered the mouth of the Daugavapils with hordes of seagulls diving and swooping in our wake. The wide brown river looked oddly beautiful in the morning light, its banks choked with all manner of post-Soviet industrial debris; decaying factories, silent smokestacks, abandoned cranes, empty slipways and rusting cargo ships listing gently in their berths. Twenty years ago Riga was one of the Soviet Union's most important ports, ten years ago it was the rising economic star of the Baltic states, enjoying its new-found freedom for all it's worth, and now, amid the latest financial crisis, it seemed all but abandoned. The light and subject-matter were certainly quite extraordinary, and I took lots of photographs, but the grim grey concrete flats which rose out of the morning mist beyond the docks and warehouses served as a reminder of the human cost of the changes which had created this landscape. And gazing up at the ultramodern cigarette lighter-shaped Swedbank skyscraper which stood opposite the ferry terminal, it was difficult to assess what kind of changes were ahead.


Lucy and I spent our first morning in Riga as we would much of our time – in happy yet fairly aimless wanderings. We took a wide circle from the ferry terminal down to the old city via the architectural treasure-trove of Elizabetes iela and its surrounding streets. We took in the grand mansions of Embassy Row, the fearsomely blockish Soviet-built government offices, the fantastical facades of the Art Nouveau houses which Riga is famous for, the picturesque grandeur of the Russian Orthodox Cathedral and just about everything in between. We wandered in grand parks where I imagined shady Cold War dealings going down and Lucy dived into huge piles of autumn leaves (which she spent the rest of the trip picking out of her hair) and we both marvelled at the strains of accordion music wafting between the trees. The gentle arch of Elizabetes iela brought us eventually to the eastern edge of the Old City. Crossing the wide avenue in front of the railway station, we bravely crossed under the railway viaduct to the 'wrong side of the tracks', headed for the Riga Central Market.

The market is one of the outstanding highlights of Riga, filling five huge old Zeppelin hangars the Latvians bought from the Germans for the purpose in the 20s. They are connected by small intervening buildings and passages, and Lucy and I wandered through each in turn, taking in the sights, sounds and smells of the market, which were different in each hangar because each houses a different sort of produce – meat in the first, followed by deli goods, then bread, pastries & cakes, fruit & vegetables and in the final hangar, fresh and preserved seafood of all kinds. The whole complex is at least twice the size of the Queen Vic Market, perhaps larger, and spills out into the surrounding area – even in late autumn with the daytime temperatures under 3 degrees, the hangars were surrounded by stalls selling flower arrangements, fruit & vegetables, knitted goods, handbags, knives, luggage, hats, lingerie, pet food, pastries and just about any other commodity you can think of. The narrow aisles teemed with people – overwhelmingly locals doing their regular shopping – and the noise and colour and energy of the place kept us entertained for at least a few hours. Lucy impulse-bought a pomegranate the size of her head (“They just look so inviting!”) and I managed to make a middle-aged Latvian lady understand that I wanted a few slices of some kind of smoked ham. We bought some pizza rolls and pastries from a rather surly girl in a corner bakery, and next door Lucy also got very excited to discover a stall selling little deep-fried pastries she calls 'Piroshki' – apparently a Russian delicacy on offer in her own beloved Adelaide Central Market. Riga is approximately fifty per cent Russian, so it's likely it was the same thing.


We returned triumphantly to the Old Town and, after some trouble finding our hostel 'The Naughty Squirrel' (we had walked past it at least twice without seeing the tiny sign) we climbed the four flights of stairs and rang the bell. We were greeted by the smiling bearded face and pleasantly surprising Australian accent of Jarrod, who runs the place with his Latvian girlfriend Ieva, who checked us in and gave us a quick run-down on Riga. Stowing our bags in the room, we settled down to enjoy a late lunch of market goodies, only to be interrupted by Jarrod, who uncorked a brown earthenware bottle and poured us two generous shots of the local speciality 'Riga Black Balzams' – a vile tasting brown viscous concoction which we later learned is made from grass (picked on 46 different days of the year) and a secret recipe of over 200 herbs, seed and oils, all drowned in vodka for that 45% alcohol taste we all love. It was apparently created as a health tonic in the mid 18th century, and according to legend cured Catherine the Great of a mysterious sickness. I can only imagine it has remained secret for so long because no one else in their right mind would want to produce the stuff. “Aw sorry mate, I probably ruined your lunch!” Jarrod apologised, going on to tell us how much the locals love the stuff, so much so that in Winter they can be seen in cafes all over the city, pouring shots of it into their coffee. Still someone must drink it – while walking around Riga you are never more than 200m from one of the 'Latvias Balzams' alcohol stores which make their living selling the stuff. The pomegranate was much tastier, although opening it was somewhat of an issue – I got some decent purchase with my pocket knife, but soon got a bit impatient, applied too much force and the thing exploded in my hands, showering myself, Lucy, the table, our lunch, the kitchen, and the Germans sitting at the next table with juice, bits of pulp, and tiny scarlet seed pods.

Recovering from our shock we set out into the evening streets of Old Riga. Listed by UNESCO as a World Heritage Site, the Old Town is a melting pot of architectural styles influenced by the many invaders that have made this key Baltic port their home away from home over the centuries. Fragments of medieval walls built by the Swedes stand should to shoulder with the Teutonic castles, German guildhalls, Russian cathedrals and (mercifully rarely) Soviet office buildings, constructed between the every style imaginable. The spires of some of the city's many churches can be seen from anywhere you stand, and give Riga an impressive skyline uncluttered by modern skyscrapers. More prosaically, Lucy and I were thrilled to discover that the twin joys of espresso machines and opening hours which extend past 5pm have made their way to this weird little corner of the old Inner Empire, even if they are yet to penetrate our own dear magic land on the far side of the Baltic. To celebrate this find we had a Riga Coffee (like a Vienna Coffee but with Balzams) at one of the ubiquitous Double Coffee stores (it's the former Soviet Union's answer to Starbucks – but actually good) and were surprised to discover that we didn't immediately regret our decision.

Crossing the river into a newer part of the city, we made our way across one of the city's many parks to Elizabetes iela in search of a restaurant called LIDO which had been recommended to us at the hostel. Despite our initially slightly dubious reaction to the prospect of 'Buffet-style chain restaurant serving traditional Latvian food', we realised only shortly after walking through the door that we had in fact struck gold. Huge pans of fresh cut chips sizzled before our eyes as a friendly chef in a white hat and apron directed us to grilling meats of all kinds, delicious shish-kebabs, potato pancakes, bowls of sauces, salad bar, drinks and desserts. Tossed between Germans, Swedes, Poles and Russians (not exactly the continent's finest chefs) Latvian cuisine typically features a lot of pork, cabbage, potatoes and dill, but this was so fresh and delicious that we happily stuffed ourselves (for about 4 Lats each – around AUD$8.80) and rolled gently back to our hostel through the evening streets.

The following morning we headed out early. With an assignment looming in her Geology course, Lucy was leaving on that afternoon's ferry, and I had planned to spend my last day tracing my roots in Kuldiga. Alas we soon discovered that the Sunday buses were too slow and infrequent for me to get there and back without missing my 5:30pm ferry back to Stockholm, and so I had one more day to spend in and around Riga. We set a course back to the market to collect more bread, pastries and fruit to sustain ourselves, before a little souvenir shopping among the knitwear-purveying babushkas whose stalls huddle around the edges of the market halls. “Baaaaah” one tiny old woman burst out, her fingers curled like horns beside her head as another rather dumpy one furiously mimed hand-knitting. Lucy was impressed by these attempts to cross the language barrier, and bought herself some cosy mittens and some purple mohair socks.

We had heard about a free walking tour of Riga from a poster in the hostel, but we had a little time to kill before it began so we wandered up through the Old City again, this time to have a look at the Anglican Church. Built for the small British ex-pat community in Riga in 1857, it was constructed on a shipload of real English soil brought out for the purpose. Lucy and I made a video for our British friend Simon, who we thought would appreciate the minds behind that endeavour.



The walking tour began at noon below the clock tower of the St Peter's Church, and was lead by a short young woman of about our age with bright reddish-pink hair and a lemon yellow beanie. She was a local, and shows tourists around the 'off the beaten track' parts of her city for the tips she can collect in her hat at the end of the tour. She started by leading us over to the Central Market – Lucy and I felt a little smug for having already ventured over here – but soon we moved off into the area beyond. Known locally as 'Little Moscow', the run down inner suburbs to the south of the central market are inhabited mostly by the city's large Russian population. Struggling to keep up with our guide's breakneck walking pace and shooting photos from the hip in the bright Riga sunlight, we wove past Riga's 'other' central market – “Here you can come to buy 10 sacks of potatoes at 3am in the middle of the winter, no questions asked” our guide explains – and down streets which, so it seemed to me, captured perfectly the impact of Soviet and particularly of Russian culture on this city. Standing at one intersection waiting for a light to change, the four corners housed a tumble-down wooden house which looked to be straight out of Tolstoy, a Soviet apartment bloc in pebble-crete and rusting metal, an intricately carved yet rather decrepit wooden Russian Orthodox church with babushkas praying fervently at a small shrine by the gate, and the towering 50s edifice of the Academy of Science, known locally as 'Stalin's Birthday Cake' for the plans to top it's 108m height with an enormous statue of Old Joe to celebrate his birthday. Luckily for Riga's citizenry, the old bastard carked it just before it was completed, but the hammer & sickle symbol can still be seen near the building's top – something which chafes with many Latvians.

Our next stop was the Jewish memorial, beside which stands the remains of the Great Choral Synagogue, which the Nazis burned to the ground with around 300 Jews locked inside. I found it a chilling experience – the realisation that this peaceful tree-lined street in a quiet corner of Riga had seen something so horrific, and worse, that that had been only the beginning of the suffering and slaughter that would follow for Jews under the Nazi occupation. Carved into the columns of the monument are the names of Righteous Gentiles (mostly Latvians, but a few Germans and Russians too) who risked their own lives to save around 250 Latvian Jews by hiding them from the Nazis, though this number seems tiny however in comparison to the more than 30,000 Jews who had lived in Riga before the war.

Next stop on our tour was another market, this one distinctly seedier and well...distinctly more illegal-looking then those we'd seen so far. Crammed into a vacant block between two run-down wooden apartment buildings were a hundred or so stalls piled high with every conceivable variety of suspicious goods: car stereos, electric motors, mobile phones, electric and hand tools, car parts, old Soviet uniforms, medals and badges, old clothes, shabby children's toys...the place would have made the set dressers from any post-apocalyptic movie hang their heads in shame at their inadequate attempts at recreating a dystopian junkyard society. Needless to say, we did not take photos – anyone with a pile of car radios approaching two meters high doesn't want his picture taken – but our guide informed us that the place was technically legal...only the dozens of men and women with their eclectic bundles of junk that we had walked past on the footpaths outside were genuinely on the wrong side of the law. As if to illustrate the point, less than twenty minutes after arriving we returned to the street outside to find them all gone, the only evidence of their industrious sub-legal commerce the single toothless old man frantically piling rusty drill bits into a sack, goaded on occasionally by a couple of Latvian police constables.

From there on the tour got faster and faster, our guide apparently attempting to break the land speed record for guided walking tours. Among the buildings we hurtled past were some fine examples of the Art Nouveau architecture Riga is famous for, some interesting buildings in the Latvian National Romantic style – “Rocks represent strength of Latvian people” our guide informs us – and one very grim structure which was formerly the KGB headquarters in Riga, where the Soviet secret police tortured and murdered many Latvians during their nearly five decades of occupation. We did manage to end on a brighter note though – outside a beautiful Art Nouveau theatre (now a boutique cinema) which stands near the Freedom Boulevard – one of Riga's major arteries and a considerable improvement in name over its earlier incarnations: Stalin Boulevard, Lenin Boulevard and Adolf Hitler Boulevard! At the foot of the street, before it enters the Old City, is a wide open square by the banks of the canal in the centre of which is the Freedom Monument, its guard of honour watching over the carpet of flowers and wreaths at its base. During the Soviet occupation, it was illegal to place flowers here, and those who did were often carted away by the KGB, but still the Latvians would come, in the depths of night if necessary, just to lay their flowers for freedom.

After a little souvenir and postcard shopping, we climbed the hill in Bastion Park for a view of the Old City through the autumn foliage. After a pause to snack on a few more of our Central Market pastries, I walked Lucy to her ferry in the growing dusk. Her boat looked considerably grander than the one we had come out on, and sure enough within fifteen minutes of her disappearing up the escalator in the terminal my phone chirped: “Holy crap. Classy boat! Everything is shiny...taking lots of photos!!!” I returned to the city along the waterfront, taking photos of the Daugava at night as I went. The brightly-lit sky blue Riga trams seemed to fly across the darkened river, the bridge that carried them all but invisible against the black water behind. It was Hallowe'en, and as I walked back to the hostel the streets of Riga were rather like a scene from Blade Runner: a faint mist rolls in over the city, flickering neon signs silhouette decaying Soviet tower blocks, topless young men wearing animal masks scream as they dash between the trees, wizened old ladies sell flowers under flickering flourescents by the side of the road, women in transparent plastic coats and men in grubby overcoats lean on lampposts, a tiny Napoleon darts out of a side street laughing maniacally before plunging into the park on the other side of the road. Some shish-kebabs with bacon-wrapped potatoes and a large pile of chips with dill sauce from LIDO grounded me a little, and I stumbled contentedly back to my hostel to sleep.

My final day in Riga was perhaps the least interesting. With my plans to visit Kuldiga foiled by inadequate Sunday buses, I took in some more of the sights in and around the Old City. I visited the hideous black box which is the Museum of Occupation, which gave a fascinating and detailed account of the Nazi and Soviet occupations of Latvia during the twentieth century and the struggle for an independent state with a minimum of romanticism, even acknowledging the role of Latvian collaborators in the events of Holocaust and the Soviet periods. The descriptions and recreations of the Gulags many Latvians were transported to were particularly chilling. I also retraced part of the previous day's blisteringly-paced walking tour in order to catch a few photos I had missed, spent a while back at the Jewish memorial and the remains of the Synagogue, and checked out some of Riga's architectural landmarks: the Cat House (which has a cat for a sundial and an amazing Art Nouveau facade), the Three Brothers (the city's three oldest medieval houses, which are conveniently located beside each other), the Neo-Gothic Guildhalls and the huge red brick Gothic cathedral (the largest in the Baltics, which sits more than a meter below street level because the streets around have been raised so many times in the intervening centuries). I visited the small but interesting Jewish Museum and was rather disturbed by the extent to which the people in the old photographs looked like my family...there is clearly a 'Baltic Jewish' look which is quite distinctive. Finally I took one last happy wander through the Art Nouveau district, this time chancing on a few streets of incredible buildings that I hadn't noticed before. With my camera batteries finally extinguished from all the architectural goodies, and a backpack full of pastries to sustain me in the 18 hours ahead, I headed for the ferry terminal and the voyage home.



To be continued...

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In Part 2, Ben explores Helsinki and Tallinn, so stay tuned!

Onfjords and Upfjords...

10am, Storlien, Norwegian-Swedish Border, 19 August 2009

It's Wednesday morning, and I'm sitting on a train at the border station of Storlien. The pretty young woman in Norwegian Railways purple who checked my ticket as we left Trondheim has left the train – from my window seat I can see her from my window seat chatting to the driver of the returning train – and in her place a skinny blonde girl with orange fake-tan glow and a mouthful of chewing gum has boarded our tiny red train. As she draws nearer, double-checking tickets from the Swedish side of things, I see that her navy blue polarfleece vest bears a familiar logo...Connex. No, it's not a nightmare...Nabotåget, the “neighbour train” which I am riding, is operated on the Swedish side of the border by none other than our own dear Connex. Or at least an entity with the same name...

Globalisation brings strange reminders of home to this corner of the world: “Genuine Australian Made Ice Cream” in Brussels (apparently we're renowned for our ice-cream...), an Aussie accent cutting through a crowd in the narrow streets of Stockholm's Gamla Stan, a rack of Yarra Valley reds in Copenhagen Airport duty-free. But Connex in a mountain pass in Scandinavia? Who'd have thought it...

My week in Norway began in the city of Bergen, on the Western Fjords. This fjord-side town of a quarter of a million is Norway's second largest city, and probably its biggest tourist centre; in summer it throngs with tourists come to see the UNESCO World Heritage listed medieval buildings of Bryggen and the incredible coastline of fjords and islands that stretches for miles in every direction. The predominantly wooden Norwegian cities have a distinct tendency to burn; the entire town, with the exception of a handful of stone buildings (mostly churches), burnt to the ground in 1702, and there have been other major fires since. Today the buildings are mostly eighteenth and nineteeth-century structures; regal constructions of stuccoed brick and stone lining broad avenues in the centre, pretty wooden buildings huddling together along narrower cobbled streets as the city rises steeply up the sides of its surrounding mountains, where the flecks of red, white and yellow houses can be seen nestled among the trees. The steep, tree-covered slopes, the blue sky and the green waters of the fjord give, by encroaching so close to the city's core, a sense of closeness to nature, allowing the visitor a feeling of both openness and security; a broad vista and an enveloping snugness. The city is blessed with plenty of parks, gardens and pedestrian squares (often built as firebreaks), the air is fresh and tinged with seaside saltiness, and (thanks to those tree-covered hillsides) the drinking water is delicious.

I have noted in my few weeks in Scandinavia a tendency to odd museums: a museum of matches, a museum of herring can labels, a museum of penises, and even a museum of those tiny glass bottles you get in hotel minibars... Bergen's offering in this field is the Leprosy museum, in a genuine old leprosy hospital near the railway station. Norway has the dubious honour of having had one of the world's highest incidences of leprosy – possibly exacerbated by its coastal geography and high levels of foreign trade – and the last of the lepers at the Bergen hospitals (there were several) passed away only in the middle of last century. It was an interesting place, but terribly sad; the suffering of these people would have been very great, not only their physical pain and disfigurement, but the fact that they were locked away from the world, and from a real life, with no hope of treatment.

Bergen is also the home town of Edvard Greig and Ole Bull, and I was lucky enough to arrive during the annual Greig Festival. My second night in the city was spent in the Korskyrke (Church of the Cross) enjoying a concert of Greig songs for soprano, interspersed with some of both his and Bull's lighter piano works, and a very interesting commentary on Greig's life and works by both Soprano and Pianist. I don't think I've enjoyed a concert quite so much for a long time...it is a pity that the Norwegian lyrics probably make these songs less accessible to most singers, because the Greig's melodic writing for the voice is superb to listen to.

On my second day in Bergen I rose early, and wandered down through the crisp morning air to the harbour, where I boarded a ferry to the tiny township of Flåm at the head of the Aurlandsfjord, an inner branch of the mighty Sognefjord. This magnificent natural wonder in the longest fjord in the world, cutting inland 204km (almost halfway to Sweden!), at its deepest point over 1300m deep, and lying between mountains over 1000m high. The glacier that carved it left behind perhaps the most breathtakingly beautiful natural scenery I have ever experienced. Steep green slopes rose majestically toward snow-capped peaks; massive grey cliffs plunged hundreds of metres into blue-green water as smooth as glass except where our wake disturbed it. Here and there tiny red farmsteads clung impossibly to the high slopes, and occasionally quaint little hamlets revealed themselves huddled into a cove or bend, or climbing the face of a lush green valley. From the plateaus above us, waterfalls tumbled from their glacial sources down almost sheer escarpments, or cut narrow gullies so deep into the face of the mountains that they could be see only for a few seconds as our boat passed by.

Despite biting winds from our ferry's passage, and the heavy summer rains, I remained on deck as long as I could stand it, taking photographs or just staring out at the incredible scenery that unveiled itself anew with each slight bend in the fjord, from time to time thawing my icy hands over the ferry's heat exhausts and venturing into the cabin only when my I could no longer bear the cold. Huddling over the chocolate Hannah bought me before my departure I gazed out of the windows, wishing for the first time on this trip that I had worn warmer clothing.

Arriving into Flåm at lunchtime, I left the ferry for the trip back into Bergen via the famous Flåmbana railway. The Flåmbana is a remarkable work of engineering: the cute little green train climbs over 860m in just 20km, at a maximum grade of 1:18, through nine tunnels and over three bridges to Myrdal station on the mainline between Oslo and Bergen. All this is achieved with regular electric traction; Flåmbana is no funicular and there are no lines or cogwheels in sight. The rugged beauty of the Aurlands valley is spectacular, particularly the wild waterfalls and the views through the “windows” cut into the sides of the mountain tunnels near the top of the valley, but nothing could compare to the fjord journey I had just undertaken.

My last day in Bergen was spent exploring Bryggen, the UNESCO World Heritage listed waterfront shop/office/dwelling/warehouses of the medieval Hanseatic merchants. For anyone totally in the dark on the Hanseatic League, they were a kind of trading guild of northern european cities controlled by German merchants and centred on the city of Lübeck in what's now northern Germany. They operated out of hundreds of cities around the Baltic and the North Sea, and controlled key trade links and commodities between ports as far afield as Iceland, Portugal and Russia, but they had just four principle Kontore (offices) outside Lübeck itself: London, Bruges, Novgorod and Bergen. The league began operations in 1159, and reached its peak in the mid-14th century, gradually dying away in the mid-16th century as the power of the region's states (notably Sweden, Denmark and the German principalities) increased. The Bergen Kontor was founded in 1360, and for over four centuries controlled the vital trade in Norwegian stockfish, exchanging it for the grains that Norway's harsh climate could not produce. Something of an anachronism in a new Europe of nation-states, it operated until 1754, some 85 years after the last formal meeting of the League.

Bryggen (which means “the wharf” in Norwegian) was a city within a city, where the Hansa merchants, their journeymen assistants and the “boys” who served them lived a life that faintly resembled monasticism, if a monasticism dedicated to wealth-creation... There were no women allowed (although the row of brothels behind the wharf tells another story), they ate together in a Schøtstuene (a sort of dining room/meeting hall), spoke their own language, lived by their own laws, distributed their own punishments and followed their own customs. They payed little or not tax to the Norwegian Kings (whose castle was only a few hundred metres up the road), who tolerated them only because they controlled 80-90% of the stockfish trade and without them, Norway would struggle to feed its population.

Before catching the night train to Oslo, I spent my final evening in Bergen warming my hands on a hot chocolate and watching the sun set over Bergen. From the lookout on top of Mt Fløyen, accessible from the heart of town via the very steep Fløibanen funicular, I watched the sun drop achingly slowly into the water beyond the outer islands, tinting the clouds with beautiful shades of pink, orange and purple as below me the lights of Bergen twinkled in the twilight. I rode the funicular back down into the city in the gathering darkness, and found my slightly space-age train awaiting me in the cavernous interior of Bergen's bluestone station.

After a sleep disturbed partly by the unfamiliar motion of the train, but mostly by my highly addictive copy of World War Z: an Oral History of the Zombie War (is it weird to assess each place you visit not only for aesthetics, tourist appeal, friendliness, etc...but also for likely fate given a Zombie Apocalypse?) I blundered bleary-eyed from my cosy compartment into the crisp Oslo morning. As the tourist office was closed at this ungodly hour of 8am on a Saturday, I made myself a breakfast of sorts out of the food I was carrying: packet waffles from Trina, chocolate from Hannah, and fresh strawberries from the Fiskmarkt beside the harbour in Bergen. The friendly young woman in the tourist office looked at my askance when I asked her for directions to my hostel: “That's not even in Oslo” she said, raising her eyebrows. “You'll have to catch a bus for about 15 minutes.” Her voice betrayed more than a little incredulity at what was in her eyes a horrendous commute.

Once I had my things safely stowed in the rather cheerless hostel room, I returned to the city centre and, on a whim, caught a ferry out to the Bygdøy Peninsula, intending to visit the open-air Norwegian Folk Museum. The weather had other plans, however, and as the rain churned the surface of the Oslofjord I made my way between the puddles to the Kon-Tiki Museum. Thor Heyerdahl, anthropologist, explorer, seafarer and all-round adventurer, was a Norwegian, and this museum is a tribute to his exploits, his scientific achievements, and his firm belief that people of different cultures can work together for a better world. On the side of the museum is a quote of his which I liked:

Borders?
I have never seen one.
But I have heard they exist
in the minds of some people.

I found the exhibits on his expeditions to Easter Island particularly fascinating, especially the video of the local people demonstrating how the famous Malcolm-esque statues might have been cut, shaped, and moved the vast distances required. After lunch I dashed through the puddles to the Norwegian Maritime Museum – an afterthought in many countries, but in Norway something central to their history and way of life. The place was immense; some highlights for me were the “Supervideografen” panorama film of the beautiful Norwegian coast and the temporary exhibition on “boat refugees” which featured Australia (deservedly, given that Tampa was a Norwegian ship) in a less than positive light. There was a whole building full of coastal boats of various types, and an entire floor of model ships which put me in mind of Joe's house – I imagine that if Steve lived for two or three more centuries, he would create this place.

With fairer weather on my second day in Oslo, I was able to return to Bygdøy and visit the Folk Museum – a sort of medieval Norwegian Sovereign Hill made up of genuine historic buildings taken from places all over the country. They're a interesting things actually, another Scandinavian museum phenomena: there is one on the island of Djurgården in Stockholm, and another in Trondheim, and (according to Wikipedia) perhaps a dozen more in various spots around the region. According to my tour guide, they were mostly put together around the turn of the century as part of Norway's resurgent nationalism and the widespread desire to break the union with Sweden. For some reason, the nationalists decided that the inland farming peoples were the “most Norwegian”, and although they made up only a tiny part of the population their habits, costume, dress, language – and in this case, their houses – were given a privileged position in the national psyche. In many of these isolated farming communities, life had gone on unchanged since the middle ages, and so the nationalists inadvertently preserved much which was of great value.

The place is fairly large, but the highlight for me was the beautifully carved stave church. They were apparently constructed in the most amazing way: all the pieces were cut beforehand, and then put together like a huge 3D jigsaw puzzle. In the choir, our guide pointed out runic carving beneath the painted tableaux of the Last Supper. Consisting of prayers, thoughts, quotations and instructions, their origin is something of a mystery, as only the priest was allowed in the choir. The engraving on the door of the sacristy is plain enough though, above the high step below it reads: 'Do Not Fall Down'. Other highlights were watching folk music and traditional dancing, eating the sweet, flat lefse fresh from the griddle and dripping with butter, touring an apartment building with apartments done up to represent different periods in history (including one decorated as Ibsen's Dolls House) and visiting the quirky and slightly terrifying exhibit on Norwegian Dentistry down the ages...they really do have a museum for everything up here...

My last stop in Oslo was the Viking Ship Museum, which houses three ships – and their contents – uncovered in burial mounds around the turn of the last century. One, the Tune Ship, is quite badly broken up, but the other two, the Oseberg and Gokstad ships, are in remarkable condition, looking almost as if they could set sail any day now. Important Viking leaders were buried in their ships with all the supplies it was thought were needed for the journey to the afterlife. While grave robbers had stolen the most valuable grave-goods, much remains today: beautifully carved carts and sledges, tent poles and pegs, buckets, tools and cooking equipment, needles, combs, cloth...and of course the skeletal remains themselves. I think when I put the photos of this on Facebook, my mother the Viking Studies student will be here on my doorstep within three days...

The following morning I boarded a train heading northward to Trondheim, Europe's northernmost Catholic pilgrimage point, and the last stop on my own pilgrimage. The train journey was long – my “cheap” cut-price ticket (399 NOK, around $80 AUD) meant two changes and an eight hour journey – but the views were often beautiful. Norway has something of the “toyland” landscapes I described in Sweden, but they are tempered by a wildness in the natural beauty that seems less prevalent on the other side of the border. On the second train of the day – between Hamar and Røros – my neighbour attempted to strike up a conversation. As he was both unable to speak much English and (I suspect from other passengers' glances) something of a “train crazy”, this proved difficult. That his topic of choice was comparative literature made things no easier...

With just one full day in Trondheim I rose early, and walked along the ridge line through the pretty wooden houses of one of the city's hillside suburbs. I eventually reached a park, and cresting a hill found myself gazing out over a large expanse of grass to a solid, impressive-looking Festning or fortress surmounted by an enormous Norwegian flag. From the battlements I had a fantastic view of the town; the curving arcs of the River Nid winding out into the Trondheimsfjord, the surrounding hills and valleys and directly beneath me my next destination: the magnificent Nidaros Cathedral. The massive stone structure – sitting as it does somewhat apart from other buildings in a green and tranquil churchyard – conveys an aura of power and majesty, soaring upwards toward the heavens in the bright August morning. It's enormous, intricately-carved West Front stops even the modern viewer in their tracks, leaving them to stand rapt in awe and to contemplate the effect that seeing this structure might have had on a medieval pilgrim.

Entering the gloom of the Cathedral from the harsh light outside, the very “Gothic-ness” of the architecture dominated my thoughts. While the excellent tour guide pointed out the rougher Norman and Romanesque features of the lower parts of the transept, the overpowering effect of the cathedral was unmistakably Gothic: huge scalloped pillars towered upwards to pointed arches, supporting a groin-vaulted ceiling of great intricacy. In the walls of the aisles, stained glass in dark medieval reds and blues told the stories of Old and New Testaments to queuing pilgrims waiting to see the jewel-encrusted shrine of St. Olav, patron saint of Norway, and take the waters at his holy fountain. The shrine itself was stolen by the Danes and melted down to make their Crown Jewels, but Olav is still buried here somewhere in the cathedral, the location unknown because the Danes did not want their barely-subjugated Norwegian vassals to have a religious rallying point. As I leave the cathedral, the huge semi-precious stone in the centre of the West Front's rose window casts a heavenly red glow over the forest of columns in the Nave, the early-afternoon light catching the tableaux over the entrance, warning departing pilgrims with its depiction of the Last Judgement. The remainder of the day was spent wandering in the town centre and in the museums of the nearby Archbishop's Palace: I visited the Royal Coronation Regalia, the palace and cathedral history exhibits, the Rustkammaren (Military Museum) and the Norwegian Resistance Museum. The moving Memorial Hall listed the names of over 1300 Norwegians who died just in this county, Trøndelag, in the five years of occupation.

I've been in Norway for just seven full days – not nearly enough to explore this wild and beautiful country – and now I'm forced to turn south and head for Uppsala, my home for the rest of this year. I bring my journey to an end with somewhat mixed emotions. On the one hand I wish desperately for more time, particularly to push further north, perhaps even go as far as Nordkapp and gaze out over the Arctic Ocean towards the top of the world. On the other hand I feel relief that I can settle down, have my things around me in comfort and security, not have to worry about how long something will take to dry or what foods will pack well or whether it is safe to leave a valuable item in my room. And of course there is also the excitement of starting my exchange, with all the experiences and possibilities that brings.

It's Tuesday, so that must have been Belgium...

12:50pm, Copenhagen Kastrup Airport, 11 August 2009

I'm sitting in a cafe at Kastrup Airport south of Copenhagen, picking at my leftover wedges, listening to “Rocket Man” on the PA system, waiting for my flight to Bergen (on the Western fjords of Norway) and trying to collect my thoughts on the last twelve days. In that time I've visited five different cities: Copenhagen, Malmö, Brussels, Bruges and Antwerp; I've met many new people; I've taken over one thousand photographs; I've attempted to speak Danish, Dutch, French and Swedish (none of them with much success, although as always my pronunciation of the four words I can remember is just lovely) and I have turned twenty-three.

Forgive me, vicarious travellers, for not posting anything sooner, but I think from that brief summary you might be able to gather why I haven't!! It is difficult to start...although I boarded that train in Stockholm just twelve days ago, it feels like much longer...

My X2000 high-speed train to Malmö left Stockholm's grand Centralstationen at 7:21am and very quietly (at least from the inside) rocketed south through the Swedish countryside. The scenery was slightly unreal...like something from a chocolate box or a children's book, and the relative silence of the train as it hurried along only added to the impression of something fantastical. Thick green pine forests broken at intervals by lakes – sudden shocking expanses of silver water – giving way further south to fields of waving yellow grain, and all of it interspersed with cute little red and white half-timbered houses, barns and summer cottages. I spend the journey nibbling at my food supplies, writing postcards, staring out at the countryside and reading Silence of the Lambs to counteract the impression that I had crossed over into Toyland.

In Malmö I had a picnic beside the canal in the sunshine – sharing my slightly squashed strawberries with a overly-friendly bumble-bee – before decoding a Swedish ticket machine and boarding an Øresundståg to Copenhagen. The Øresund Bridge between Malmö and Copenhagen must surely be one of the most astonishing works of engineering in the world, an eight-kilometer bridge and undersea tunnel carrying road and rail traffic across the Øresund between Sweden and Denmark via an artificial island just off Copenhagen. The bridge is 7.8km long and 204m high; this connects to a 4km artificial island, which itself is the beginning of a further 4km undersea tunnel to the Danish mainland. I took advantage of the tremendous views on offer by falling asleep, only stirring when the train slid into Køpenhavn H and disgorged me and my bags into the startling Danish sunlight.

Totally disoriented, tired and sore from my stupid shoulder bag, I blundered out into the centre of Copenhagen, and proceeded to write the whole place off as ugly, dirty, noisy, cluttered with too much ugly 70s high-rise and basically inferior to Stockholm in every way. I flounced down to the hostel I'd booked, City Public Hostel on Absalonsgade, and immediately had my disappointment reinforced. It appeared to be school which was closed for summer and hastily retro-fitted as a hostel. Everything had a partly institutional, partly temporary feel, and it wasn't even cheap.

By the next morning, Copenhagen was beginning to look much rosier. It was still not as pretty as Stockholm, but a good night's sleep, a shower and a shave, and a lobby full of friendly Aussies (from Geelong, no less...) do wonders for one's open-mindedness...

I spent the day wandering in Copenhagen, and once I got out of the centre, I found it much more attractive. Having been a bit sad to leave Stockholm on the verge of its apparently very exciting Pride Week Parade, I was surprised to find Copenhagen hosting the World Out Games. There were dykes and drag-queens and gay Nordic men in tiny shorts and angel wings as far as the eye could see. I felt bad for every gay person I know for not being there...it was some party! Feeling rather out of place as a straight man, I climbed up a church tower (around 390 steps) for a fantastic view of the city, walked along the canals looking at cute wooden boats and wandered through the rather sad remains of the “Free Town” of Christiania. Once apparently a thriving commune, it now resembles the Royal Melbourne Showgrounds if that was taken over entirely by aging hippies, dodgy carnies and drug-dealers. So a bit like the Royal Show then, but without the cows. I visited the Christiansborg Palace complex in the center of town. This is the seat of the Danish Parliament (which I couldn't find), and was in the past the Royal Residence. After being burned down and rebuilt for the third time (with no incarnation last more than about 50 years) the Danish royals apparently gave the whole thing up as a bad job. Now they use only the Royal Reception Rooms, which I had a guided tour of. They are very beautiful, and have a library straight out of “Beauty and the Beast”. I also thought I saw Mary & Frederick (HRHs) in the gardens nearby with their little princes, but not being an avid reader of New Idea, I couldn't be certain...

My second day was even better. I made friends in the hostel lobby with an Englishman named Tom, and together we caught the train up to the palace/fortress at Kronberg in Helsingør. Never heard of it? Yes you have. In English we call it Elsinore, and it's the fictional home of Bill Shakespeare's Prince of Procrastination, Hamlet himself. In real life, it was a symbol of Danish power and a practical weapon in control of the entrance to the Øresund. From the cannons on top of the walls, it was easy to see how the incredibly narrow straight and the prevailing winds could be used to force ships into the range of the guns and thus extract the “Sound dues” demanded by the King's treasury and the salutary dipping of the topsail demanded by his sense of self-importance. For anyone getting bored by the history, I also looked at the gorgeous carvings in the chapel, explored the very cool, almost pitch-black catacombs under the fortress, and (for the Gilbert & Sullivan fans) learned what a Ravelin is. It's a sort of defensive island within a moat, between inner and outer gatehouses. Now I just need to discover what the hell a Mamellon is, and I'll be the very model of a modern Major-General...

On returning to Copenhagen, I had one last walk through the city, checking out Castellen, the city's fort (still in military hands), the Little Mermaid (terribly underwhelming), the Danish Resistance Museum (terribly sad, but made me feel good about humanity), the Amalienborg Palace (a palace in the round...) and the University quarter. Then I headed to the train station where, after a few false starts (Danish trains apparently don't work in the rain) I crossed the bridge to Malmö, this time actually taking in the magnificent views of the Øresund.

There is apparently a saying that runs “When one is tired of Malmö, one is tired of life”. This could be considered a slight overstatement. A good breakfast smörgåsbord, a light drizzle, a plate of reasonably-priced meatballs, a twisted skyscraper, a collection of interesting museums (helpfully all in the same place: the Castle) and some amusing Welshmen are all very well, but hardly left me ready to write to Dr. Philip Nitschke...even when you throw in the vintage tram, the walk in submarine and the nocturnal animal house with its cute sugar gliders. Still, I had a reasonably entertaining time given that I had only one day to explore Sweden's third largest city.

Of course, I had only one day because I was spending my twenty-third birthday in Brussels with one of my oldest friends. Yes, you did forget my birthday. (Unless you didn't of course, thank you to those people, who are staying in the will). I was offered a bed (or a floor, at least) for as long as I wanted, and in the end I stayed for seven nights, leaving early this morning.

“What on earth does one do for six and a half days in Brussels?” I hear you wondering. “We didn't sign on for vicarious travel to the dullest capital city in Europe.” (feel free to suggest/share stories of duller European capitals in the comments below, by the way)

Fear not friends, for Brussels is the kind of town where having a local guide opens doors to a much more exciting lifestyle. And, while I lacked a true local, I did have perhaps the greatest Francophile and Europhile ever to come out of the ANU, my dear old friend Trina. My seven nights on Trina's floor (actually...six nights, and one on her friend's bed with about five other people in advanced stages of unconsciousness after a crazy housewarming party – actually the only one who didn't sleep on that bed was the hostess – she slept on the couch!) were actually an absolute godsend, and I'm sure I overstayed my welcome, although Trina insists not, and even gave me waffles to take on the plane with me...I'm nibbling on one as I write this...

This post is already far too long, so I'll have to just give the absolute highlights of the week. Firstly, a big shout out to any and all of Trina's friends who I met in Brussels, especially Rowan and Maaike, who were both so hospitable and asked only for foot massages and dirty secrets about Trina in return. On my birthday I wandered through the Art Nouveau wonderland of the Musical Instrument Museum, with its rooms of bagpipes, accordions and talking drums, its marvellous seven-belled valve trombone, and other instruments so weird I couldn't identify them (especially not with labels in Dutch and French); then Trina and I ate cake in her kitchen and we drank beer and ate fantastic choose-your-own-adventure stir-fry in Place du Chatelain. The following day for lunch I ate frites from the Best Little Frite-house in Brussels (reference entirely for Josh, who would love frites) toured the European Parliament building, which was fascinating to an EU novice like me, and spent the evening drinking mango juice and smoking strawberry shisha in a flat overlooking the Red Light District. Maaike provided binoculars for entertainment – I think I saw some guys break into a car...

I made two trips to Flanders on Trina's railpass: the first to Bruges, the second to Antwerp. In Bruges (hehehe) I wandered into a little church and sat listening to an organist practicing, before chatting to an ancient Benedictine nun who asked me (in Dutch, German, French, and eventually English) if I played the organ and then confessed that she had (at approximately 85) started learning so she could play at Mass! I took a boat cruise, ate more frites (which are freiten here, and God help you if you accidently say bonjour or merci...), climbed a belfry, ate a ridiculous amount of chocolate and walked all over town taking an absurd number of photographs. In Antwerp I explored every facet (pun for you sir) of the intruiging Diamond Museum, marvelled at the Brabant-Gothic meisterwerk of Antwerp's enormous seven-aisled cathedral (with its many excellent Rubens'), and ate delicious waffles with melted chocolate from a stall in the remarkable turn-of-the-century train station.

I saw the grand and beautiful high-baroque and high-gothic guild halls of Grand Place, the nineteenth-century elegance of the Galleries St-Hubert, the proto-fascist exuberance of the Mont d'Arts and the Gothic splendour of Notre-Dame d'Sablon. I wandered aimlessly through picturesque gardens, reading, writing postcards and eating ice-cream in the shade of grand avenues of oaks . I ate chocolate-coated strawberries so good that Trina and I agreed they were an adequate replacement for sex. I drank at least 6 different types of beer (not a lot for Brussels, where one bar has over 3000 different types), rode the filthy but surprisingly efficient underground trams and metro all across town for free, because nobody pays in Brussels (the city can't be bothered paying for revenue enforcement...too much like hard work), played “never have I ever” in a bar at 2am and partied in the open air outside the enormous Palais de Justice.

Indeed the only downside of the entire trip has been that Brussels Airlines managed to shred my bag somewhere between Copenhagen and Brussels. The poor thing looks like it's been dragged across bitumen all the way from Denmark...they have offered to repair or replace, but how the hell am I going to get one in Europe. I have bought a strap to hold it together and am hoping it all holds out until Uppsala. If need be I'll ship it to Australia and send the bill to Brussels Airlines ]:-)

This post must end here, it's already too long. I'll try to update a bit more often in the future...but I can't promise much. Next stop, Norway!

PS: There are photos coming...I just forgot the cable...

EDIT: I fail at technology...photos will happen, but probably not until I'm settled in Uppsala...which actually isn't that long. Thursday, hopefully...

One Week In

10:30pm, City Public Hostel, Copenhagen, 31 July 2009

It is now 6:30am in Melbourne, Saturday August 1. One week ago today I was sitting with my family, my girlfriend and my best mate, getting ready to board my flight. Just one week, but it seems like an eternity. I am now sitting in my third city proper, and my (quick finger count) eighth including all stopovers and flying visits. Today has been a day of travel, communication, rest and planning, but tomorrow I launch into Copenhagen, the city I have found myself in almost by chance, even as my current plans veer still further from the original itinerary. But I should return to the beginning.

After a long flight Melbourne – Sydney – Adelaide – Singapore, I arrived at the delightfully simple Changi Airport to be greeted warmly by my Uncle and Aunt and whisked back to their apartment in Mandalay Road (via many of the island's landmarks, if Simon's running commentary was anything to go on). There I showered, changed, and was taken out for Vietnamese food. The food was quite reasonable, the night air a pleasant thirty degrees, but the highlight was probably the reaction of the restaurant's patrons and staff to the enormous rat that darted along the overhead latticework about two-thirds of the way through the meal. Simon's cry of “Oh, a Tarantula” had me flat against the opposite wall long before he had corrected his assumption.

My short stopover in Singapore continued along similar lines, a sort of guided tour/running commentary from Simon, interspersed with suggestions from Ly, sumptuous feasts of Asian and Colonial cuisine, and diversions to purchase an Armani suit, an electric blue handbag and a stack of books almost as large as my travelling baggage. One of these went to me; Simon of course refusing to let me pay for anything despite repeated assurances of how marriage and unemployment are driving him to destitution.

The tome in question is now my most prized possession short of Joe's music box, my external hard drive and my much loved teeny puter: World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War. I have only read a little, but it is a triumph in the fine tradition of Studs Terkel, who wrote the definitive oral history of WW2. Apparently published in 2006, how this gem has escaped my browsing is a mystery.

My plundering of Singapore's literary resources completed, I journeyed onwards, and (skipping all the exceedingly dull parts in between) I found myself stepping through a set of glass automatic doors onto Swedish soil. Or Swedish floor anyway. Arlanda Airport and it's zippy yellow connecting train are a breeze (silly bloody Melbourne Airport), and I was soon strolling north on Vasagatan, delighted by even this rather ugly part of Stockholm and immediately regretting my choice of a shoulder bag in combination with my backpack. There is simply no method for comfortably wearing both together. Lesson for future travels, I suppose. Although I suspect the best thing would be to have no permanent daypack at all...

Yay, new packing goal!

I was delighted to find that the hostel I had booked, CityBackpackers in Norrmalm, was everything one could hope for. It occupies the ground floor and basement of a delightful eighteenth-century building in the Swedish neo-classical idiom, complete with yellow-washed plaster, white and marble trim, round corner towers and a peaked, well verdigris-ed roof. The facilities were modern, yet sensitive to the building's heritage, the large central courtyard and public areas were attractive and cosy, the security was top-notch, the staff helpful and friendly and freebies included: wireless internet, sauna, 2hrs bike hire per day and all-you-can-eat pasta. There was also a sweet little cafe and the offer of a bike tour of Stockholm, which I accepted enthusiastically.

I can't possibly list everything I saw and did in Stockholm...even in three and a half days there was much too much, and still more than a weeks worth of top notch stuff entirely unseen. I could probably get another four days or so out of the things I've already had a look at, to be honest.

Personal highlights included wandering through the narrow cobbled lanes of Gamla Stan, the old city, and it's neighbouring island Riddarholmen, particularly the cathedral Riddarholmskyrken and the unexpected and utterly delightful vistas which revealed themselves with every twist and sag and lean of the medieval buildings, streets and alleyways. Unexpectedly pleasant also was pushing up through the 1960s ugliness of the Centrum (all the more horrifying if one stops to consider what must have been destroyed) to the beautiful heights of Norrmalm, including the breathtaking City Library and the Observatory hill, where I saw a wild rabbit darting among the trees in the heart of the city. Wandering the foreshore of any and every aspect of Lake Mälaren, exploring the green spaces and and bobbing boats of the old naval island of Skeppsholmen, or riding the powder-blue vintage tram to Djurgården, Stockholm's pleasure garden; all have their own joys.

I visited the National Museum, which features pre-twentieth century art (no Hermitage certainly, but some very fine and well-known Rembrants and some fabulous Rodin bronzes) and a fantastic temporary exhibition on Swedish design from 1900-2000. I spent hours in the Vasa Museum, which houses an almost perfectly preserved 17th century warship raised from Lake Mälaren in 1961 after 333 years on the bottom. I rode a bottle-green and gearless Scandinavian-style bicycle through much of the city to the tops of the cliffs at Södermalm and on to a picnic in the park on the picturesque former prison island of Långholmen. I spent several happy hours among the scale models in the Architecture Museum, enjoying it's clear and articulation explanations of the evolution of Swedish design, housing, town planning, and public and private architecture. I took guided tours of the City Hall, where the architecture echoes Byzantium and Venice, and of the Riksdagshus, where the Swedish system of “consensus building” politics that first drew me to study here goes quietly about it's business, and I watched the changing of the guard at the Royal Palace. I ate ice-cream in the shadow of the royal cathedral Storkyrken and sampled fried, crumbed herring in the sun beside the locks.

I don't think I've ever fallen for a place quite as much in such a short space of time. “The Venice of the North” is more than worthy of its title.

Tomorrow I will see how Köpenhavn, “the shopping harbour”, compares. But I don't have much hope that anything can beat the beauty of Stockholm.

Look out for pictures in the near future...As you can imagine, I took over 5GB of photos, and I need to pick just three or four to illustrate this...