Sweden

The far more prominent cousin of Denmark, renown for Ikea and also the Nobel Prizes, Sweden seemed a far sterner and sober place, where, behind the modern exterior of Stockholm one had the feeling that important and purposeful things were being accomplished.  Like any heavily commercialised city Stockholm appeared more professional and distant, a no-nonsense sort of place with no room for frivolity.  Even the weather seemed to be conspiring to achieve such a goal, with sunny skies all day in order for us to carry out some serious sightseeing. 

Hence, everything we did seemed a lot less exciting, a lot greyer even though the incandescent Swedish sun that dazzled my eyes made everything a lot more vivid and colourful, something like what happens when you spray an apple with nail varnish to make it shiner.  Particularly intriguing was the morass of Swedish flags that fluttered it seemed from every rooftop, door, window or rubbish chute, as though we were in the wake of some Swedish September 11th.  But because flags make everything so much nobler, including back alley comic porn shops or abortion clinics, I could not resist taking pointless photos of flags in a variety of settings, as though they were some curious blue creature with yellow stripes.  Many a photo was ruined by this obstinate beast refusing to distend its full glory and instead hang limply in a heap which was all very disappointing.

This could only be a momentary distraction from the serious sightseeing that we were doing, visiting museums of obviously great credence and substance like of 300 year old sunken vessels, historical Swedish culture, Nobel Prizes, scientific achievement and the cosmos, weighing as heavily on me as the leaden muesli at breakfast.  Having absorbed what must have been a significant portion of the bedrock of Swedish society at large I felt this immense burden composed of the innumerable museum display labels that I had read all day, having my head shrouded by a miasma of hefty political and philosophical notions spiralling into hundreds more profound questions, which is hardly part of a wholesome, gentle holiday.

Such a tangle, like all others, could only be straightened out by having a delicious dinner somewhere.  There was no shortage of what we had in mind that we wanted to try out, not in the least the internationally renowned Swedish meatballs, but being a consummate meat eater, also other exotic meats that did not inevitably end up tasting like chicken.  Because food writing is often just a whole bunch of tasty adjectives strung together and is easily interrupted by a sudden urge to go inhale a whole bag of potato chips, you could say that the singular dish that summed it all up was a heaping serving of crisply fried, glistening, vermillion curls of bacon reclining upon a butter sauce replete with soft onion, like a disc of fading sun framed by the skies of dusk. 

Similarly, we were at the sundown of our trip, and as the colour evaporated languidly from the streets outside the window, I attempted to sum up what Sweden had been, with its much maligned welfare state and socialist policy, perhaps something like a scientist seriously absorbed in his work, being something that he believes in, trying everything, waiting for some day when everything will come to fruition and a Nobel Prize be awarded to him.  But even if it wasn't, he would still deserve immense respect for his courage and industry.

(lack of resolve and fading memory delayed this for nearly two weeks)