Travel Writing
Stockholm Syndrome
On a drizzly November afternoon we set out for Sweden. Stefan (the hubby) and I thought about driving to the airport and leaving the car at the airport parking. Driving is a darn easy job for me these days. Couple of years back when GPS was freshly seen on the shelves of handful of doohickey stores and a few gutsy gadget inquisitors was testing them out I joined them. Previously a timorous driver, I now cruise through the interstate routes, catching up with the occasional change of radio stations as the car radio goes out of range from town after town. I love it, and do not get lost any longer. But Stefan and I ditched the idea of driving to the airport and instead chose the yellow line, the Q train, since we were only two blocks from the station and had little luggage. Aboard the plane we survived the airline rations and the parody of pretend night, morning and then almost pretend breakfast as if we had a whole evening, night and morning all in seven hours. We landed in dappled cloudy, dim Stockholm. On the bus to central Stockholm I spoke with Anneli, Stefan's sister who had been all keyed up and anxiously waiting to see us. In Stockholm central, enmeshed in a drizzle, I started to feel more alive. Magnus, Stefan's business partner, came to pick us up in his Porsche, cursing his friend's dog rolling around inside the car with its wet fur. We headed for Sodermalm where Stefan and Magnus have their office. I was told by both Stefan and Magnus several times that Sodermalm, previously a working-class neighborhood, was now a trendy area. The roads were clean, very clean, and dark, without any sign of the sun. I was told it was dark just because it had been a week with thick clouds. I wondered if I had stayed for a month would it have turned to be a month-long bad weather. The sleek Porsche smoothly glided through the coiled roads of Stockholm. Stefan and Magnus generously offered that I should drive Magnus' Porsche during our stay in Stockholm. I had to decline since I only like being behind the wheel of my American-made Ford. I was ready to take the train and use my legs as much as needed. Leaving Stockholm's trendy (Manhattan like) area we entered another island. The scenery here was absolutely different; blue water, sailboats, modern boats, then another island. Archaic majestic architecture abounds wherever you set your eyes. This is Gamla Stan, the old town. We stayed at the Hotel Reisen, next to Kungliga slottet , Sweden's baroque royal palace built in the 18th century after the original one was damaged. We were the King's neighbor for the night! I had read somewhere the old town is the place to be if you want to experience the town's pulse. In a few minutes I started to feel the pulse under my feet with blisters as I struggled with my otherwise comfortable boots on the 13th-century old cobblestones. Here in this medieval town, streets are not smoothed by tar, asphalt, bitumen or concrete as in New York. If you looked down from there you could see the alley going down between the ancient buildings, some dating back to 13th century, overlooking the road below and then the bay and a little of a big sail boat. A small candle in a glass bowl went on burning on the cobblestoned alley right outside the closed door of a pub. Who knew why it was left out there. I had never seen an un-attended fire, even a small candle, outside in the open in New York. In the subsequent few days I saw, pleasing to the eye, open torches almost everywhere in Stockholm. I thought it was because of the cold weather and old stone buildings while most New York structures were built with extremely combustible materials. As I marveled, Stefan corrected me and said it was because Stockholmers are not as litigious as New Yorkers. It was puzzling! Our alley led us to Stortorget, oldest of the several public squares in Gamla Stan. Stortorget (the big square), which is the oldest square of Stockholm. Around this the medieval urban conglomeration gradually came into being. During summer this place holds demonstrations and street plays. During Christmas, makeshift stores offer handicrafts, and traditional food. Right on that square is the Nobel museum. We enjoyed a round of glögg (a warm drink with almond and cinnamon in it) served with ginger cookies. I did not fancy it too much last time I had in New York. But this was poles apart and perfect to warm yourself in a damp chilly afternoon. A little more walking and I saw the Tintin shop. Ah, if only I were here years ago when I was a doting devotee of Tintin and Captain Haddock comics. Yes, true, all I learnt about life, I learnt from Tintin! A small man in black clothes stood by the yellowish old wall of Soder bankhuset (southern bank house) holding his black sunglasses, looking upwards. Carefully observed, it turns out to be a statue. This is the statue of Swedish author, artist, composer, song writer Evert Taube. He wrote the most celebrated anti-fascist anti-war poem in Swedish. My limbs were aching from the plane ride and now my legs felt 10 lbs heavier. I was literally dragging myself. I was in pain yet in an idyllic bliss. Once, during the next 10 days as I frenziedly followed Stefan around, I jokingly asked him if I had the 'Stockholm Syndrome' (named for the psychological response sometimes seen in an abducted hostage, in which the hostage shows signs of loyalty to the hostage-taker, regardless of the risk in which the hostage is placed). Stefan responded by saying that he was going to show me the bank where the expression 'Stockholm syndrome' originated. The syndrome wa named after the bank robbery at Norrmalmstorg, where bank employees, held hostage, became emotionally attached to their captors and defended them during the ordeal. The term 'Stockholm syndrome' was coined by the criminologist /psychiatrist Nils Bejerot, who assisted the police during the robbery. For the next 10 days we went from Gamla stan to Åre to Anneli and Gustav's Nordic paradise, then a Viking line majestic cruise ship Cinderella through the archipelago to Öland (an island of Finland), ending the journey with a stay enjoying the warm hospitality of Mr. Aziz and his family at his Bangladesh ambassador's residence. Mr. Aziz's handsome Albanian chauffer looked more like a character from one of the Pink Panther movies. Watching the big Bangladeshi flag confidently flying outside the picturesque house, I felt content. But that is another story, for another time.
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