From holm to Stockholm: What could have been a smooth transition to Euro-life.

Although Stockholm has a great reputation and shows up in at least one Conor Oberst song, we had never placed it on our wishlist.  The pen of fate however, inked it it in like bookends for our European vacation when the fabled google flights/explore revealed to us that it was  temporarily functioning as a magical portal to Europe, through which travelers could jump across the pond for Kilometers on the mile.  (I like this analogy, but fear it is confusing as my jokes often are.  I am tying to say that our plane tickets were two thirds of the price we would have paid to fly directly to France, or Italy or Spain.)   

Here the adventurers are pictured in their most comfortable travel uniforms.  

Here is a photo of me, the author of this blog.  I love airports. Those are my sunglasses in my mouth. 

The Palos Verdes Peninnsula from the window of our LAX to MIA appetizer flight.

Aside from having my jar of cookie butter confiscated at the security checkpoint, the preliminary steps of our travel day went smoothly. At our LAX terminal I enjoyed a sub par American breakfast (I am using the phrase sub par as I think it ought to be used. Remember that it is very desirable to be under par in the game of golf, no matter what side of the pond your on.) Those were the last morning eggs I would have for over a week. Tear. I recorded some thoughts about the shoes people were wearing, hardly any vans. I did some translating for a nice Spanish woman who was trying to get her work Visa here in the EEUU.  She foreshadowed the joy I would feel when I was reunited with Castora.  

I'm going to sell this photo to the Macintosh Company (Apple) for iPhone Backgrounds.  They want it so bad!  

 

Finnair cares about Health. And portion control. 

This is the first friend I made on the trip.  Our friendship is complicated. Mostly I admire her ability to remain under that blanket for 9 hours, and she does the rest.  

We arrived in Helsinki after 17 hours of travel and less than 2 hours of travel sleep, which we all know is sleep of the lowest and most disorienting quality. Unless you are my brother in law who seems to be gifted with the super power of sleep anywhere.  Maybe he is part Snorlax.  That is a thought journey for another time.  

At this point we were tiered, but optimistic.  The quality of light and the timberline out the windows of the Helsinki airport were familiar enough to comfort and foreign enough to intrigue.  Stef had made it to Europe without the need of the nicely folded white bag in the seat back in front of her.  We found gum for a reasonable price, and apparently the travel notes on our credit card account were correctly entered this time, because the transaction was authorized.  Life was good, and it would remain that way for a time.  

Cultural awareness is great, but lets be real, we travel to fill this bad boy with stamps.

Love the timbers.  

Stef encouraged me to talk to this gentleman, like a mother pulling her child from her knee on the first day of Kindergarten.  It was a success! I asked if he wanted to be friends and now we are!  (That is not exactly how it went, but we do follow each other on Instagram. )

We did it.  We had arrived in Scandinavia and we were feeling good.  Just one more flight to Stockholm! (And then a bus to the central station.  From there it's just a quick ride on the metro and then a 10 minute walk, 15 if you get lost, to the air b&b)  

As suggested by the parenthetical statement above. This is where our travel day got a little too long.  When we arrived at the Air b&b we were exhausted, but dazed and exited and courteous enough to talk to our host for about an hour.  Then we zombie stared into our phones for another 30 minutes, making use of the precious commodity that is WIFI and went to bed and did nothing else that night.  The local time was 11:30 and it seemed as if we had, serendipitously, beaten the modern phenomenon known as jet lag.  Neither of us woke up wide eyed in the middle of the night, except for maybe Stef, but she is not a good sleeper, unless it is the morning and her alarm is going off, then she is bomb AF.  You could say that she is the antithesis of Justin, my brother in law. Remember him?

In the morning we got up at cockerel and headed out into the suburb outside of Stockholm.  We found a fun bakery with coffee, pastries, and the few Swedes we met who didn't speak English.  It was very difficult trying to figure out if the coffee pot with the orange lid was decaf.  The word for caffeine and coffee are very similar in a lot of languages.  This was the type of experience we were looking for.  

I am now going to follow this anecdote down a path that will wind back toward the blogs subtitle.  Come with me.  This interaction with the orange rimmed coffee pot was by far the most difficult language issue I dealt with.  The Swedes speak phenomenal English as a whole.  We met a waiter who swears she had never been to California, but could have fooled Lauren Conrad herself.  She even displayed an adroit and appropriate command of curse words, something many Americans are still working on.  The language barrier didn't exist in Stockholm and this did make it feel more like holm.  Furthermore, the people of Stockholm look like me to the untrained eye.  I was about to say that there were more blond-haired people around than I am used to, but I went to Cal Poly SLO and grew up in Yucaipa and now live at the beach so, well, it wouldn't be true.  But I clearly didn't stand out as I would in say France, or Italy, or Spain. Furthestmost, Stockholm is a clean city with wide boulevards, clean sidewalks and, little graffiti, it is the hallmark of pleasant, the poster child of Nordic Socialism. We were being eased into our travels with the eloquence that one of Fitzgerald's protagonists would have insisted on, and none of the agony you would expect karma to bring along with the prize of six hundred dollar round trip transatlantic flights.  Everything was bra.  (which means good, and is one of the 12 Swedish words I know) It was better than bra.  

Drinking our hopefully caffeinated coffee, we walked down another wide clean street toward the metro which would take us to Gamla Stan, Stockholm's historic old town.  We got off a stop early so we could walk across a bridge and experience one of the city's defining characteristics, the water.  It was a good choice.  Soon we were walking up the cobblestone scallops of medieval streets and pausing in plazas to kiss or listen as the summer voices and laughter of elementary school girls fell on us like a playful rain. We accidentally wandered up a famous alley, eaves dropped on a tour guide explaining the Reformation, and made idiosyncratic observations about the layout of the stones or the design of signs in the street.  

Perpendicular cobbles and a cute girl.  Do you think cobble stone is connected to a shoe maker being called a cobbler.  What about someone who makes shoes on blackberry street?

I saw these buildings on a postcard so we took a picture with them.

Cute children soften our hearts.  When they wear veils and vests we have to call a medic.  

May also be famous.  

Vans alert! Cha bra. This couple was from Finland.  I guess there is some up and coming skate culture there.  

Megan Maurer told me this was instagram worthy so I made it extra large.  Are you okay with that compromise Meg? I would have captioned it: Anywhere you go, I'll follow you down. Or. . . I'm the map x7 #DiegoampersandsDora

I guess Stockholm felt like it didn't have graffiti more than it didn't have graffiti.  

This felt Americana to me.  I just googled "New Deal Industrial Paintings" to confirm that.  You should too.  There are some gems.  

Holding hands when you cross the street is a Marxist plot to subvert Capitalism. Is the pinkish color of that building coincidental? How about the shape?  Looks to me like that thing Jay-Z does with his hands. 

 

Feeling hungry at an appropriate time (Take that Jet lag) we made another loop around Gamla Stan, this time through notably larger tourist clusters.  We skipped a place with nice tree and ended up at a place that served American Brunch.  Watch out! Tourist trap. It turned out to be great and offered me my second experience with Swedish cuisine.  It was decidedly better than the meatballs I ingested at the Costa Mesa Ikea.  Oh yeah, our Air b & b had the same cabinets as our house.  

Notice the arced cobblestones in the background.  

Our air bib host showed us a great view point and I paid Disneyland prices for an Ice Cream.  

Is it okay to compare yourself to James Dean?

Should I have mixed up the layout? 

After this our host took us to a great place overlooking the water for a Fika which is typically a drink and a pastry.  It was okay.  

I am getting a little bored with the chronological nature of this blog so I am now going to tell you how we ended up at a super hip restaurant with a Michelin star.  

A Modern Retelling of John Henry

Stef found a hipster city guide that featured a place called Oaxen Krog & Slip.  We then had a competition to see who could find it the fastest.  Stef searched for a Wifi Signal to skitch on as I started profiling passersby.  As Stef navigated the terms and conditions of a hotel login I found someone who spoke good English but was just to old to care about our destination. Stef's google maps was loading. I spotted the perfect pair of twenty somethings. One of them had heard of it! He pointed in the direction of the sacred spot and I glanced back to see Stef's hand mimicking his like a shadow. The steam engine had won.

As I walked back into the range of the borrowed Wifi, Stef and I both had a feeling in our heads that is often on Jesse Mountjoy's face.  Continue and I bet you can picture it.  We had simultaneously realized that the restaurant was in a park where we had spent the last 2 hours of our day. And the park was over a mile away.  Can you see Jesse's face? All the visual indications of a laugh without any of the sound.  Head tilted back, turned slightly to the side, chin tucked.  

This is not the face, but I can't miss an opportunity to show you guys this one again.  Zoom in if your browser is into that.  

We were able to appreciate this Irony because we had the sure fire cure for travel mishaps; Love.  And BIKES! Yeah we rented city bikes and it was one of the best decisions we made.  Pedaling our mechanical ponies we were able to discover an intensity yet un-found in Stockholm.  Commuters charged around us at break neck speeds, shouting Swedish warnings as they approached and waving as they passed with only their neckties in the wind.  We eventually found our groove and cruised out to a serene green space where the pace was slower, the allergens more abundant, and the love for ABBA more pure.  We shifted through the mild hills of this park getting a low impact leg exercise that all airplaners want and need.  

Here is Stef humoring me by trying to censor Heracles with her position in the shot.  Her patented "this is slly" head tilt defeated the purpose.  

And then as you know, we left the park for our directions competition only to return for a Dinner from the 4th dimension (Heaven).

Oaxen Krog & Slip was like a successful privately funded space expedition to discover new planets in of our solar system; the ship is the food, the planets are taste buds, and the chef is Elon Musk.  And the sun turned out to be the Michelin star. 

We had no trouble getting reservations because it was a weeknight and we showed up to eat around 8:30 (20:30).  As we sat their pondering each gentle texture and spice, we truly experienced the Nordic daylight hours for the first time.  The sun seemed to pause on the horizon, illuminating the windows of houses across the harbor in a prolonged ethereal kiss.  In this moment a small gear in me started to turn.  And that small gear turned another and another.  The centripetal force of the midnight light would not let me sensibly return to our lodgings.  It called us to a ledge where we leaned and kissed. It marched us along yet another wider cobblestone lane to a 7-11 with cheap beer and candy. It taught us a dance, let us borrow a skateboard, and from our lips it drew the Hallelujah.    

23:00 ish

Without the night to hide you a tourist might film you making out.  

Candy was a key.  

THPS

Oh my.  00:45.  We still hadn't slept.  This is not the sun coming up.  It was still lingering somewhere out there at 12:45am. 

Finally we returned to our bed and slept. For 26 minutes we slept and then we were off to Paris.  26 minutes of uninterrupted sleep.  Because the subway wasn't running at 3am and the RyanAir bus schedule didn't fall in our favor and an 8am flight requires you to arrive 7am. 

2:50am

This lady from Germany had regular sized Mini-kicks.  

Stockholm was a daydream, a clock, a quality and quantity of light.  It was a familiar color, seen through a new set of eyes.  And its invitation, like the sirens song sent us back into the sea of irregular sleep.  I wouldn't change how it all played out, but I know someone who might if he or she had the chance.  

Stockholm could have been the perfect orientation, the ideal space to acclimate and recharge our batteries for the city of Light, but it would not be ignored.  It demanded our attention and we agreed. It had trapped us, fooled us, held us captive, but we liked it. At night still ,my brain wanders through the streets there in the dusk that is dawn.    

I have more stories to tell, but will have to make them shorter.

See you soon maybe,  

The Benevolent. 

 

Do You Like My Shoes? I Do Not Like Your Shoes.

Hello Reader, 

Most of my blog posts have been parodies of some sort.  On the other hand most of my blog posts haven't happened.  Numerous are the trips that I have taken notes and pictures for without ever opening Google's blogspot app.  There was the time that Stef and I traced the Mayer's engagement road trip in reverse.  Remember that one? At every turn we quipped, "that's hilarious, that's going in the blog." But it didn't. There was the time we lassoed the west coast and its National Parks with one big 4,000 mile flick of the wrist.  It was glorious.  It was noteworthy, even blog-worthy, but it never made it to the world wide web because I never had the time.  I never had the time to pull off a blog of the scope and scale, the caliber and quality, that somehow tumbled together here with my inaugural Nick Maurer Biola Day post. That was my Magnum Opus, despite the few times I forgot to capitalize I, and you should probably just read that again instead of continuing here.  You could also read this post which is related and probably a better use of your time.  

Did you enjoy it? The Jim Caviezel joke right?! Or for those who followed the other link: How funny is it when the focus dissolves ever so slightly into a personal rant?  

Now that you know what i'm capable of, please know that I am not trying to recreate my former glory, or that of the open letter to the PD Eastman hat bitch. I am only  trying to be who I am now and not let the perfect be the enemy of the good.  I am setting sail into the seas of mediocrity with the blissful reassurance that anyone reading this already loves me unconditionally (shout out to Jesus out there in the 4th dimension charging you kindle fire so you can stay up to date on my progress as a human and a writer. Second shout out to my earthly father for finding my blog when you were googling one of my friends and then encouraging me to write again.)  

My prospective and tentative themes for this trip's blog were shoes and or F.Scott Fitzgerald.  I quickly dismissed the latter upon realizing my lack of a decadent vocabulary, or a quality thesaurus for that matter, to supply me with words like gormandize, obsequious, or appurtenance.

So shoes. Or so I thought. I had just bought some new Old Skool Vans, which one of my students deemed cool enough to be called J's. (A term used to refer to any "fresh" shoes. The phrase is derived from Jordan's which are arguably the freshest noun in the universe. [Universe is the correct term. My source is Space Jam]). 

Maybe my theme for this blog should have been "Confusing tangents that make some people giggle and others stop reading my blog forever." 

Returning; These Vans had me thinking about footwear.  I observed the foot coverings at my school during the last week of the school year and noticed the overwhelming monopoly that Vans has on the Middle Class Middle school demographic here in Southern California.  I'm talking:

Red Vans, Blue Vans, Vans with Checkers, Vans with Stripes, 

Vans on Skateboards, Some on Sidewalks, Some on pipes.

Big Vans,  Small Vans, Vans with windows, Vans without

Some unnoticed, some with CLOUT.

Vans that are Phone Cases, Bright white shoe laces, Vans on Athletes, Vans on Geeks, 

Vans lookin' dirtball, Vans on Fleek. 

Vans on Daniel, Vans on Ellen, Barefoot Vandals, Vans Magellan (remember those Dr. Scholl's insoles commercials? Are you Gellin'?)

Vans that seem to circumnavigate the globe, VANS, VANS, VANS, no DCs, Adios, Osirises, or Globes.

Vans everywhere.  

Do you like my vans? I do not like your Vans.  

It seemed like that is what Europe was telling me. 

I do not like your Vans.  

And I don't think they are a cool marker of your southern California progeny (take that Fitzgerald).  And they are available here, and most of us choose not to buy them.    

I guess I had made an assumption that the whole world was into vans at our historic moment. I assumed for a hot second that my narrow experience was the world's experience.  Isn't that how it is? (A google search for "name for problem when people assume others lives are like theirs" informs me that my mistake has a name.  The False-consensus effect.  Don't make my mistake, for the sake of the earth, and our country, in this political climate, don't do it.  

I also suppose that I am hyper-analyzing because I am having fun writing, and conjuring, and sculpting some character in me that is not the me we know, but might be. So if you want a no nonsense report of our trip to Europe, call me and lets have lunch, don't keep reading.   

In the end shoes won't be the theme of my blog, or maybe they will, I guess we will have to see where this goes when I figure out how to upload pictures.  Thanks for coming along on this journey with me.  The plat principal, (got you again Fitzgerald) of our journey will be published soon.  That is if I don't get overwhelmed by my own expectations after all, or called, like John Muir, to the mountains again.  It is summer.    

Au revoir, 

The Benevolent.