This morning went about as well as could be expected – we got up at oh, fourish and got showered and packed for the cruise to Stockholm, which is a whopping 10 hours on a boat.
It’s a cruise ship, and a lot of people take the night trip to get plastered without paying the heavy Scandinavian taxes on alcohol. This leads to a weird juxtaposition of extremely clean cabins (that are being checked into during the day), and the smell of vomit and human waste from the cabins that are still being cleaned. It’s very odd.
Our room (we figured with a baby, a day cabin – very very cheap – was an excellent idea for naps and a home base, and this has turned out to be right. Also, for the truly masochistic, it is a place to watch that stupid Scooby-Doo movie overdubbed in German on the TV station) is not big enough to swing a cat in, but it serves its purpose, and it is clean. That the vacuum WC in the room makes the entire room smell insanely foul every time the door is opened lessens its goodness, but aside from that just-washed Bourbon Street in the morning smell (I’m not speaking theoretically here – Bridget and my buddy Margo, who worked with me on Bourbon street (in a shop, people – the strip bar was across the street (and next door, and down the street, and, well, anyhow…)) could certainly vouch for that strange smelly combination of rotting meat, urine and feces that continously freshly debauched places like Bourbon Street have the next morning.), it’s ok.
The view between Turku and Stockholm is really lovely – it’s archipelago all the way, as far as I can tell (two hour nap with Torsten in the middle excepted), and the forest-covered rocky islands jutting out from the water are impressive.
Torsten seems as impressed as he does with anything new, and I am getting some time to myself throughout the day as a break from the week courtesy of SuperChristian (who is I think immensely enjoying his time with his son, but I do recognize that it is also work to care for him). Torsten has apparently acquired more girlfriends in the children’s play area, which is, quite frankly, no surprise, but still funny.
And Christian is wonderful about getting both Torsten and I out to look at the sea – I have realized on this trip that somehow, in the course of years of reluctant solo travelling, I have become a solo traveller. By this, I mean that when I am alone somewhere new, I try to experience as much as possible, lots of things becoming challenges to overcome my shyness (you don’t believe I’m shy, I know, everyone says that, and that’s fine – I’m pleased to have you fooled), and I’ve become pretty competent at being a solo explorer.
In doing that, I guess I find myself out of my comfort zone exploring with others, although I must say Christian and I have made an excellent travelling team in the past, so it’s not about him at all.
Anyway, he’s good at getting me out of my comfort zone, which also means T gets to see and experience all he can. All good.
But anyhow, I’m a little less outgoing with the baby due to practicalities, and C challenges me to go out and do things with them both, and it’s all very good.
So we’ve spent some time together out on the sea, and I’ve gotten some writing time to myself, and I’m now sitting in a ship bar where an old Swedish dude is doing a passable version of Simon and Garfunkel tunes but slurring the words he doesn’t know, which is what me singing Marco Borsato must sound like, except my singing is less passable 
I won’t tell him I speak native English when I drop him a tip, though. I’m not evil.
Besides, I’ve had two beers, and given that 1) I haven’t really been drinking much since before I got pregnant with Torsten, and 2) European beers have a much higher alcohol content, I am waaaaaay too relaxed for evil mischief.
I think.
(Besides, this guy has had to deal with drunk Swedes carrying their girlfriends through the bar over their shoulders and a guy running through with a shopping cart full of tax-free beer, popping wheelies with it in front of him and singing…)
Ok, so my tipsy butt needs to go through the vomit-scented hallways (ah, so graphic, I know) to meet the husband and the superbaby back at our room – I’m nice and relaxed, so I suspect they’ll be happy to see me.
Gah… these completely plastered Swedes are hilarious. I enjoy my drunken Danish friends, but these drunken Swedes? They scare me…
(ROFL… the dude is now singing Clapton’s “Cocaine”, so it’s clearly time for me to go… the Swedes are getting restless…)
This post is brought to you courtesy of high-alcohol Scandinavian beer.
Professional computer geek and linguist living in Germany, doing infosec stuff and being the freakiest mother ever.
Oh dear, the memories this post revived!
I remember skiing holidays in the west of Austria with hordes of drunken Swedes … you’re so right, they ARE scary!
Have more good times, dear!
Hugs,
S.
If you get to Skansen- the open air museum in Stockholm- an interesting fact: the big church there is the church that my family worshipped in generations ago (that would make it from one of the parishes that I’m from, I can’t remember all the names, but I do remember Malmo). Legend has it that some ancestor carved his name under one of the front pews. When my family was in Sweden years ago Dave tried to find the name, but by now thousands of people have carved their names there.
Grin… well, hopefully, we’ll get a day in Stockholm – we’re actually staying on a beautiful island about 65km from Stockholm with cousins (Ljusterö – see this link for a map of where we are
The question is whether or not Dave carved his name somewhere