Postcards from Stockholm

By AM Thursday, December 2, 2010

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It was our first trip to Sweden. As we soared in over Norway, gazing out the window of our Scandinavian Airways carrier we marvelled at the sheer preponderance of fjords and rivers that crisscrossed the terrain. Bleak and desolate it nevertheless beckoned with its offer of unremitting solitude.

From the air Stockholm looked massive, almost like flying into London I remarked to my wife. But the difference in population is immense, London having about four or five times the populace of the Swedish capital.

Like New York, Stockholm is built on a series of islands or archipelagos as the Swedes prefer to call them. 12 in all I think, linked by interconnecting bridges. In prison I frequently received postcards or photos of the country’s beautiful lakes but had little idea just how central water is to the topography. For a short time during the blanket protest, before a vindictive screw stole it, a postcard from Sweden was the one dash of colour in our cell. So it was with some reflection that I found myself sending postcards to people held in Maghaberry and Portlaoise from a city where so many were mailed to me.

We had been forewarned in advance that Stockholm was an expensive city and it turned out to be just that. A pitcher of Margaritas to go along with our evening meal cost about €50. Everywhere, prices made rip off Ireland look cheap and value for money by comparison. A cold city, it had no Iceland mentality; nothing there to equal buy one get one free.

Stockholm is a very clean and tidy city and seemingly well organised. Trams, taxis, planes and buses all seem to be on time. Restaurants are invariably packed. Capital of what is said to be the most secular country in Europe, there were few churches that I saw. A religious bookshop beckoned but I didn’t enter. I already had my fiction for the journey, the third of the Stieg Larsson trilogy.

We called it our honeymoon, the first time we had actually got away together without kids tagging along and fighting every step of the way. Our last trip together sans what our friend Angela calls ‘the midgets’ was to Madrid. Even then one managed to stowaway in her mother’s womb. As much as we love them, we found that a touch of absence makes the heart grow fonder!

We spent a lot of time walking including a two hour Stieg Larsson tour. On foot is the best way to acquaint with a city. The late David Ervine preferred to holiday in cities rather than resorts. He wanted to see how people lived rather than how they holidayed. There is much to be said for that. The ersatz composition of resorts limits knowledge of a country visited. Once in from the cold streets of Stockholm, we would collapse in the warmth of a spacious and well maintained hotel room, grateful for the small mercy of not having to separate the fighting midgets.

We were hardly in the city 24 hours before we ran into a scam merchant. He was a taxi driver and seemed not to have been Swedish. Most Swedes we spoke to had reasonable English but this chancer hadn’t a word of it and relied on excitable gesticulations to make his point which was basically that I had broken something disembarking from his taxi. He most likely kept the broken piece in the cab and cellotaped it back on to catch the next tourist he thought was gullible enough to fall for his ruse. My wife sought to calm him with a larger than normal tip whereas I felt a hefty tip on the end of his nose more in order.

Con men like this weasel are regulars in many foreign cities. I experienced it in Amsterdam one evening when a taxi driver who claimed to hail from Morocco took myself and a former republican prison on an elongated route to our flat. When he asked for his ridiculously inflated fare my friend tossed the standard 15 guilders in his direction, telling him in no uncertain terms that we were onto his scam. He threatened us with the cops to which we invited him to take us to the station. A new departure in our lives but the cops were Dutch, not British. That ended the exchange.

Obviously I do not know the cultural or ethnic backgrounds of the people who traversed Stockholm’s streets but it seemed very much a white European city. It was certainly not Malmo to the South of the country where there is much social tension between many Swedes and the immigrant population and where more than a dozen foreign nationals have been shot there this year alone. Few people of different skin colour were on view in Stockholm, unlike Dublin, London or Amsterdam. The only two beggars I came across were not white and it struck me that immigrants, if that is what they were, might experience a difficult time in the country. If the food and drink prices were an index to go by, then it would take a considerable amount of hours on the streets, cup in hand, to make enough for a bed for the night. Ending up on the street is not a safe option. The Swedish climate is not one that would guarantee a response to a wake up call after a night spent roughing it.

Back home, and the kids are fighting.