The Baltic - Day 1 - Stockholm 1912

Stockholm 1912 (Or: How I Pulled an Ass Muscle Sneaking into the Olympic Stadium)

5/23/15, “Stockholm 1912”

At sea, MS Victoria, Lake Mälaren, En route Stockholm to Birka

Love and beauty, that was the theme of my 2014 Memorial Day trip, and it seems that it is fast becoming the theme of my 2015 Memorial Day trip.  I am not in love with anyone romantically, and the only people I love in my life are my family and friends, the people who have been there for me decades and the people who can brighten my day with a single text message.  There are some other people of whom I am very fond, people whom I might even say that I love out of that fondness, but the ones I truly and deeply love, it’s the same nine or ten people it was three months ago (five family members, four or five friends).  I don’t need to justify or defend my love for them.  Now, beauty, that’s a more interesting topic.  I have been told that Swedish women are the most beautiful in the world.  That is not an absolute.  It’s more of a percentages thing, but I do not doubt it.  In the three hours since I arrived at the airport, I have seen more more beautiful women than I might see in a week in New York.  I will pause while we dock.

The most beautiful woman I have ever met was in my high school.  I can say with absolute certainty that I could go door to door in every home in Stockholm, and I would not find a more beautiful woman.  Why?  How am I so certain that that girl from my high school is the most beautiful woman in the world?  Let’s look at the numbers of it.  There were about 600 girls in my high school.  There are about 3 billion girls in the world.  The odds of the most beautiful girl in the world being in my high school was literally one in a million.  Alright, beauty is not an absolute.  Narrowing down the age range, we can reduce that 3 billion to about 100 million.  Allowing for theories of Genetic Sexual Attraction, we could even go down to 100 thousand, but it reduces the number at my high school to about 300.  Applying these filters brings the odds to one in three thousand, practically negligible.

What’s the answer to this apparent contradiction?  It presupposes that, at 16 years old, I had an absolute definition of beauty, that somehow she measured up to an absolute standard in a way no one else did.  That is wrong.  It is the other way around.  She informed my very definitions of beauty.  My impressionable 16-year-old self formed a definition of beauty based on her.  That is why I can say, a decade later, with absolute certainty, that I will not find a more beautiful woman in the world.  Granted, there have been other influences, and most of the beautiful women here look nothing like her, but they all have the “northern look” that I mentioned when I traveled to Alaska last summer.  Alright, enough about this for now.

My adventures.  Technically, I haven’t really done anything yet this trip, but I have had quite a series of adventures on my way to my first stop.  It started when I went to board.  There was an error message that said “already boarded.”  Without going into too many details, long story short, they upgraded another passenger to the Plus section (basically the equivalent of domestic Business Class), but they clicked on my name.  They were not able to give me my original seat back.  I was afraid I would be denied boarding.  Well, what happened?  They told the other guy, the guy they originally upgraded he had to take my old seat, and I got the Plus seat.  It was a major boon, and it allowed me to sleep effortlessly en route.  That said, SAS is the worst intercontinental airline I have ever flown.  If you are not in Plus or Business, they charge for a second soft drink.  As it was, I got unlimited free beer and soda (I had one of each).  There were issues with the Wi-Fi, but I just wanted to sleep.  Well, to do that, I needed to get my tray cleared away, but I fell asleep while they were clearing the trays, and I woke up with my tray still there.  Eventually, they came back around.

When we landed, border control was a breeze, just like it always is in the EU.  No forms, barely a line, just a few questions.  Now, what to do?  The Olympic Stadium closes at 8 PM, and it won’t get dark until 10 PM, so I had plenty of time.  The variable was the Viking archaeological site of Birka.  I went to the information desk, and they told me that there was one boat back and forth to Birka.  It left at 9:30 AM and got back at 3 PM.  It was literally perfect timing.  I could then go to Drottningholm, the cemetery, the Stadium, the Royal Palace, and Parliament.  Just like I did a year ago in Tokyo, I took the high speed train to Central Station.  Why doesn’t New York have this?!?  It was the easiest and fastest way to get into town, and it is half the price of a taxi.  I then took a subway to my hotel, and they were able to check me in.

I made my way back to the station and walked to the boat terminal from there.  We were underway before long, and I went down to get my first fika (a coffee and pastry).  After I was done with the pastry, I went up to the deck and asked where I could smoke.  It is chilly and windy, but the smoking chair happens to the one spot that is in the sun and sheltered for the wind, so I can endure.  I lit up my Davidoff Nic Diadema (the Toro having been sold out) and proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close.  We should be at Birka in half an hour, so I will continue from there.

Birka, Sweden

It is abundantly clear where I am right now.  I am in The North.  Despite the 900-year-old churches, the Old Gods still rule here.  It has been clear to me ever since we landed that we are in The North.  The trees at the airport left no doubt of that.  If it were not for the stamp on my passport, I might have thought I was in Scotland, but the Viking ruins here at Birka make it clear that I am in Sweden.  What is it about The North?  What’s the allure?  Why do I constantly travel here?  I wrote about it during the Alaska trip, but the serenity of The North is unmatched.  The trees, the mountains, the long summer days, there is nothing like it in the world.

Now, here at these Viking ruins, it is even more magical.  I can practically hear the theme from Game of Thrones playing, though that might just be me humming it.  There is so much that can be said about The North.  It is not just a geographical location.  It is a way of living.  Why, reader, should Yellowknife, Canada have more in common with Birka, Sweden than it does with Toronto?  Why should Maine be more like Stockholm than it is like Boston?  It is because it is The North.  What is so common across the longitudes that is not found with drops in latitude?  Mayhaps it can be said that culture changes across the longitudes while climate changes across the latitudes.  However, is not most culture based on climate?  On that theory, it should be no surprise to find similar cultures around the world at this latitude, just like the North American tropics have a common culture, whether they are British-, French-, or Spanish-speaking.  I have much and more to say on this topic, but my battery is running low, and I want to save enough power to write at the Stadium.

After I got off the ship, I went straight to the gift shop, finding the Plaque along the way.  I couldn’t decide what to get at the gift shop, knowing I would make a better decision once I had seen the site.  It has been raining on and off, but I am now actually quite warm in the sun.  There was a guided tour of which I wanted no part, so I waited it out.  I lit up a Churchill and went to see the reconstructed houses.  That was when it hit me, the magic of where I was.  Wait, holy fuck, I’m in Sweden.  With all of my travel, sometimes I forget that just 24 hours ago I was asleep in my bed in New York.  Now, I am at an ancient Viking archaeological site half a world away.

I took my pictures at the reconstructed village and then wondered around a bit, hardly seeing another person.  I made my way back to where I saw the tour group, but I wasn’t sure what was there.  Where these burial mounds?  If so, I didn’t really care who was buried there, just the fact that they were Viking burial mounds.  This adventure will consume half of my day and give me a tight schedule for the rest of the day, but it has been well worth it, and it is the perfect way to start off the trip.  I headed backed down the hill and found a nice bench, where I proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close so that I can head back to the VC and get some food before we make our way back to Stockholm.  I will then go to Drottningholm, where I hope to find my replica, the first WHS replica of the year that I will be able to put on my desk.  On that note, I’ll close.

Stockholm, Sweden

This is it, the big moment.  103 years ago, perhaps in this very spot, after Jim Thorpe won the Decathlon at the Games of the V Olympiad, King Gustav said to him, “You, sir, are the greatest athlete in the world.”  Thorpe’s response?  “Thanks, King.”  I am literally sitting where history was made.  This not just my 17^th Olympic Stadium.  This one is special, but it almost didn’t happen.  It was not the first Olympic Stadium I’ve snuck into, and it might not be the last, either (Melbourne, Athens, I’m talking about you).  More on that later.

After I closed, I went back to the VC, where I got my lunch.  “What did the Vikings eat?”  Pulled pork and beer, apparently.  That’s what I had.  I then lit up my Radice and got on the boat when I was done.  I fell asleep before we left port, waking up as we pulled into Stockholm.  From there, I took an overpriced taxi ride to Drottningholm Palace.  Everything there was overpriced, admission, souvenirs, everything.  In fact, pretty much everything is double or triple in Stockholm what it is in New York, except lodging.

Drottningholm was quite magnificent, and I had a Punch as I walked around the grounds.  I then took the boat back to Stockholm, less than half the price, though the ride was longer.  I went to Central Station (again, why is there not a direct high-speed train from GCT to JFK?) and transferred to the metro, getting off by the stadium.  I noticed three things.  First, there were people inside, a good sign.  Second, it looked abandoned, a bad sign.  Third, it would be relatively easy to hop the fence and sneak in if need be, a good sign.  I did not say easy.  I said relatively easy.  I walked around and saw no way to get in.  The ticket office was closed.  Then I saw some fans from the soccer match.  They said the stadium was closed, but he offered to help me hop the fence.

Jackpot!  That is how I got in here, and he treated me like a minor celebrity, coming all the way from New York to see the Stadium, introducing me to all of his friends.  He showed me the VIP box, where King Gustav sat, and that is where I went and where I proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close so that I can enjoy a few more minutes in the stadium.  Besides, my battery is almost dead (what else is new?).

Actually, I have a few more minutes.  This trip is about two things.  The 1912 Stadium (here now) and the 1952 Stadium (Monday).  Nothing else matters, nothing else is important.  Every other WHS, every other site is a bonus.  The two stadiums are the purpose of this trip, and I have now gotten half way there.  Holy fuck, I just realized something.  Let me just think, if I give myself credit for Antwerp without setting foot inside, I can say that I have been to every Olympic Stadium prior to WW2.  Let me just double check the other (Melbourne 1956, Sydney 2000, Seoul 1988, Beijing 2008, Rome 1960, Athens 2004).  Yeah, and then there is Antwerp 1928(?) and London 2012 that I have seen from the outside.  That’s it.  Each one has its story, each visit special in its own way.  Okay, on that note, I’ll close.

I suppose there is not much left to write about this entry, though I suspect I will need to heavily edit it before I publish it.  When I tell the adventures of today, it will lead with, “I tore an ass muscle sneaking into the Olympic Stadium.”  What did I do to help with that pain, which made walking no easy task?  I went to the sauna, of course.  After that, I took the metro to Old Town.  The receptionist at the hotel thought the shops would be closed.  She was wrong.  I found the main shopping street, and there were still a few shops opened.  I got everything I needed at the first shop, including, of course, the flag pin.  I still can’t fucking believe I forgot the Germany flag pin in 2013

Anyway, it was a short work from there to Parliament, to the Royal Palace, to the Viking restaurant, where I went for dinner.  If I thought that that day couldn’t get any more magical, as I was waiting for my table, a group of people started singing “Dancing Queen.”  I was soon seated, and they announced me like they might announce a guest at a royal ball.  I walked to my table with the dignity that was to be expected of the occasion.  Everything looked completely authentic, the tables, the settings, the glasses.  I ordered a mead and some venison, both delicious.

Afterwards, I took the metro back to my hotel, where I took a quick nap before I lit up a KFC and uploaded my photos.  That done, I proceeded to write to this entry, which I will now close so that I can edit and publish.  It’s just past 7 PM in New York, so it should be before 8 PM when my East Coast readers see it.