Snowy Stockholm

I was in Stockholm over the weekend. The weekend forecast was around minus ten degrees Celsius. Before going, I was told that cold in the Nordics is not the same as the cold in Ireland due to a lower level of humidity. However true, I was bloody cold. For once in my life I was glad to put function over fashion. I bought a warm coat, gloves and hat. I had more layers than a millefeuille.

Stockholm was covered in thick blanket of powdered snow. The air continually froze, adding a of sparkle to the streets. Most of the water in Stockholm’s port was frozen and covered with snow. While it was picturesque, walks were treacherous. The excessive snow makes it difficult to imagine the place during summer months, when nudist beaches are open along Lake Malaren.

I sampled some of the gay scene. On Friday, I went to a gay night called “Paradise”. There were two dance floors. The smaller one played dance and pop. The larger floor played what is called Schlager. Schlager is a type of music that can only be compared to Eurovision music. Imagine a dance floor with nothing but blaring Eurovision music. I only allowed myself to dance to Gina G “Ooh Aah”.

Natives of Stockholm are renowned for their sense of style. Overall, Swedes have a good look. Skinny jeans are mandatory. The men are generally very lean and tend not to be muscled. Quiffs of blonde hair are all the rage. Combine this unique style with above average height and perfect teeth; it is no surprise they are considered a good looking race. After a while, it does get a bit “same ole, same ole”.

Stockholm has a bounty of museums on offer. I visited the Vasa Museum. The Swede’s salvaged a ship, The Vasa, that sank in Stockholm’s port three hundred years ago. It is preserved in a museum with amazing detail. The tale surrounding its sinking must be one of the greatest follies of maritime history. The second museum I was dragged into, Stockholm City Museum, was hardly worth a visit.

Stockholm is by no means cheap. Occasionally, you might notice prices on par with Dublin – a coffee and sandwich for around 80 kronor/€8 – but there are moments when you pinch yourself. A dinner last night at a trendy restaurant “Grillen’” set Boyfriend and I back €140. Unawares to ourselves we booked a table on buffet night. It was expensive considering we served ourselves.

I rounded off my stay with a “Swedish experience”. A boat in the docks, The Lady Patricia, hosts a gay night on a Sunday. The boat had two bars. The smaller bar played Schlager. I vacated this bar quick enough. The larger bar down stairs had a dance floor, which filled quickly. It was the perfect setting to enjoy my eleven euro Captain Morgan and Coke.

This morning, I flew home from Skavsta. Skavsta airport is an hour and a half from Stockholm. Naturally, you can guess I flew with Ryanair. My flights cost me €40 return. Return flights directly to Stockholm cost in the region of €200. An hour and a half on a bus was a small inconvenience for such a cheap fare. I would definitely return later in the year. Those nudist beaches will be worth a look.

Monday’s Weirdo

Why on Earth do the weirdoes of Dublin just feel compelled to talk to me? If I am on a bus and a stinking, wobbly drunk gets on, chances are he’ll sit next to me. When I am on a crowded street, I am always the person who is be approached by odd balls. Most people do not engage. I am not most people.

Today’s weirdo stopped me outside my office. I was walking to Tesco to buy lunch (that turned out to be awful). This strange fellow looked a little like an unwashed, unkempt and toothless Kenny G. He wore a khaki fisherman type hat. He stopped me in my tracks, raised his cane and pointed in the direction of my workplace.

“Excuse me; do you know if there is a phone mast on top of your building?”

I looked along his cane and followed the direction it pointed. “I don’t know,” I stuttered. “Why do you ask?” In my naivety I thought he might be a cooky telecoms engineer that might suggest we put a telephone mast on our three storey office block. Alternatively, I thought he might have been angry that his mobile had very bad coverage. “Perhaps, he is canvassing for a telephone mast to be located on the roof of my office”, I said in my inner-voice.

“I thought there might be a mast on your building. I live in this area and some of my neighbours and I are continually sick with colds and flu. I saw a television programme that implied that long-term proximity to telephone masts can cause illness. I wondered if there was one on your building.”

As daft as I can be at times, I did not dare tell him my desk was not located on the roof of my building. Nor did I think it appropriate to tell him that the building has only been there a few years; it’s highly unlikely he has been subjected to the ‘effects’ of a telephone mast for much time. I definitely did not mention there was no scientific evidence to suggest that long-term exposure to electro-magnetic waves has any form of effect on human health.

Instead of an exchange of views, I backed away in the direction of Tesco.

“Perhaps, you should call the management of the building. Sorry, I don’t know their name.”

“Thanks, I will do that” he called after me.

Daylight Robbery

After a long week of exams, I looked forward to last weekend. I planned to have a party to celebrate end of exams and my birthday. It was the perfect opportunity to catch up with friends, most of whom I had avoided to ensure time to study. Boyfriend intended treating me to the leather jacket I pined after. Was it any wonder I was excited? My weekend was going to be the perfect finalé to a long, arduous few months. Like all good things, they usually don’t happen as planned.

On Saturday morning, Boyfriend and I set off for Dundrum to buy the jacket. Despite suffering tiredness from a Friday night of drinking and dancing, I was excited. I skipped to the Massimo Dutti store with glee. My heart dropped when the store assistance told me the jacket was out of stock. I had fixated on that jacket since my encounter with it in London. It was to be my reward for my laborious few months. Needless to say I returned home from Dundrum disappointed. I consoled myself with the party that evening. I climbed out of the car and opened the hall door. The door swung open. I spotted a small blue card on the small table.

“Look at that!” I said. “There’s an Oyster Card on the sideboard. That will come in handy for the tube this weekend when we are in London.” I walked ahead of Boyfriend into the kitchen. The light was on. I thought nothing of it.

“Eh, Stephen …” Boyfriend called. “Did you mess around with the contents of the sideboard in the hall?”

“Of course not,” I exclaimed. “Why would I do that?”

I walked into the kitchen. The kitchen cupboard doors were open. It looked strange. A cold chill ran down my spine. Ohhhh, it looks like we had a poltergeist, I thought.  I continued to assess the situation. My housemate had recently moved out. She was due to come back and collect some personal effects. Wow, she did a really thorough search of the place. The cogs in my head whirred. When I think back, everything seems to have happened in slow motion. I surveyed the kitchen; the window was open. Boyfriend was still in the hall cursing profusely and rummaging through the white, wooden unit.

“What the fuck happened here?” I heard him yell from the hall.

“You might want to come in here,” I called from the kitchen. He arrived by my side and looked around. “I think someone broke into the house while we were out.”

He stared in disbelief. “No way! No fucking way.”

He left my side and ran to the bedroom. I remained in the kitchen with a rock in the pit of my stomach. He roared and shouted. I looked in the kitchen cupboards. Things were moved. An impostor had rummaged through our things. I scanned the dining area. Many items were disturbed; a cupboard that stores alcohol was open; a bottle of aftershave was in a new place; letters were open; and CDs were knocked from the rack. An eerie, cold feeling swept over me. Boyfriend returned to my side evidently stressed. He rubbed his forehead.

“You should see the bedroom. They’ve gone through everything. The laptop is still here and your camera is on the table. They don’t appear to have taken much. How did they get in? Was the kitchen window open when we left?”

“I don’t think so,” I replied, straining my memory. Had it been open? Was I to blame for this oversight? I asked myself. Guilt accompanied the rock in my stomach.

“How the fuck did they get in?” he asked in a bemused manner.

I went upstairs. I tiptoed and checked nobody was still in the house. I peeped into our bedroom. It was by far the worst of all rooms. Every wardrobe, box and personal item had been ransacked. My passport lay on the floor. My tax credit certificate and payslips were strewn around the room. It made for an upsetting sight. The mental image of some dirty knacker going through my underwear drawer and personal documentation made me sick. I couldn’t bear to remain there. I went down stairs and took a cross legged position in the living room. I remained there for almost an hour. The reality of the situation gradually sunk in. I felt light-headed and nauseous. I called friends to cancel the birthday/end of exam celebrations scheduled for that night. I recall having a few conversations.

Boyfriend called the Gardaí. Together we waited for their arrival. Now and again, Boyfriend returned to the bedroom to perform a stock take of missing items. We also played Nancy Drew by attempting to figure out how they gained entry. I walked about the house in a state of numbness. It were as if floated on a cloud of total disbelief. The Gardaí eventually arrived. They were dressed as by-standards. In reality, they were dressed like individuals from a lower socio-economic background. Their appearance leant towards characters that were more likely to rob a store than uphold justice in a community. Boyfriend walked them around the house, directing them to the various injustices. They looked at the kitchen and asked if any food was missing. Apparently, it was not uncommon for intruders to steal food. They knew of one case where an intruder had even cooked a meal in a house. Boyfriend led the Gardaí to the bedroom. From downstairs I could hear them talking. I still hovered on my cloud, which by now had taken me into the kitchen. I re-examined the evidence again. I checked the open window and contents of the food cupboards. I looked into one of the cupboards and noticed something was missing. I became panicked. I ran to the hall.

“Boyfriend, Boyfriend” I shouted.

The Gardaí were at the bottom of the stairs beside the hall door. They looked at me a little wide eyed.

“Eh, I think your friend wants you” said one of the men.

I beckoned Boyfriend to the kitchen. One of the Gardaí followed him.

“What is it?” Boyfriend asked in a surprisingly calm manner.

I pointed to the shelf of the cupboard. “Look! The flour is gone. They took the baking flour.”

Boyfriend laughed. “It’s OK. I moved that last week.”

“Oh!” I answered a little stupidly.

The Garda remained in the kitchen. He neutralised the awkwardness; “We can remove any bakers from the list of possible culprits”.

“I suppose,” I said, while looking down at the floor. I felt a bit stupid.

The Gardaí departed and told us a forensics team would call in a couple of hours. Before leaving, they figured the intruder(s) had jammed the hall door open with a screw driver. The intruder opened the window in the kitchen as an escape route. Boyfriend and I spent the rest of the evening waiting for the forensic team, or forensic man as it turned out. He dusted down many surfaces with a black powder in search of finger prints. He spilt some on the wooden flooring of our bedroom. The black powder stain is very difficult to remove. The worst thing about the experience is that nothing appears to have been taken. The only item that was stolen is our feeling of security in our home. Since Saturday, Boyfriend and I have spent a few sleepless nights in the house. I realise it will get easier with time. It truly is a horrifying experience.