The whole Scandinavian part of the world has always been appealing to me, ever since that multicultural event at Pasadena Academy when I was in grade nine where some guy from Norway had me from hello. Which, in Norwegian, would actually be “hei.” Although he spoke in English, so it would just be hello with a Norwegian accent.
But I digress. Also, I clearly know where Stockholm is; I’m on a computer that’s connected to the Internet. Again though, I digress.
Harlow is about 1,300 km south-west of Stockholm
The rugged coast carved by an unrelenting ocean, the isolation from the rest of the world, the intimidating rush of the sublime . . . everything I know about Scandinavia I can actually equate with Newfoundland, and maybe that’s part of the reason why it’s so appealing to me. Gros Morne National Park, except on a much wilder, more exotic scale.
What I do know is that Stockholm is nearly 1000 years old. It’s the capital of Sweden, and is actually the most populated area in all of Scandinavia. Not too bad. It’s also a huge archipelago, nestled up alongside the Baltic Sea, and home to some 2 million people in the whole metropolitan area.
Unless I’m wrong (and, since I looked this up to make sure I’m right, I don’t know why I included that disclaimer), it’s also the farthest east of Cape Spear I will have ever gone. And north, incidentally.
I booked my tickets last night on a whim, because I wanted to go somewhere (even if they speak a different language and have different money from the rest of Europe and I know nothing about it). They were the cheapest I could find on Ryanair, so I went for it, on the assumption that at least a couple of other people would join me. More than a few ended up trickling in this afternoon after class, when Lor and I went to the computer room to look into booking a hostel. That ended up being an ordeal; turns out, no matter where in Europe you’re going, even if it’s the most populated city in Scandinavia, you should still take care of your accommodations more than four days in advance. Scotland might have spoiled me, since we got a huge room for so cheap in Edinburgh; that wasn’t happening this time around, with the cheapest room costing about $40 a pop.
Plus, as soon as we found something that sounded like it would work, someone else showed up and bought a plane ticket, while accommodations literally disappeared in front of our eyes. Somehow, we managed to book something semi-legitimate.
At last count, there are 10 of us flying out of Stansted Airport on the 6 am Friday flight. It wasn’t too long ago that I wrote:
“I always feel bummed out, starting a trip before the sun comes up; I know that’s a first world problem that’s too petty to even mention, but it really does mess with your internal clock and plays tricks with your mood.”
Considering it’s a 45 minute trip from Harlow by bus, and we ought to be there around 5 am, Friday morning might be one of the most contradictory days of my life. We’re seeing The Tempest the night before in London, so I don’t even get the chance to go to bed early – in other words, I’m going to start the day in a foul mood (read: if you say, “Hey Ryan, your mood is awfully foul today!” I may have to kill you – don’t take it personally), but likely end up ok in freakin’ Stockholm, Sweden. Just the same, a power nap in our hotel – Hotell Västberga – might be in order once we arrive.
The rest of the afternoon – still balmy here in the UK, not like that dose of weather St. John’s is apparently getting right now – was spent finishing up theatre reviews (I have a new, pretty good philosophy: I write a quick review, think “Hey, that’s half-decent, all it needs now is a final revision,” and realize, you graduated in April. Print) and writing a satire sketch huddled around a Mac and some pints at the Crown. Heineken was our muse on the way back from Scotland last weekend, and even though myself, Harry, and Alex thought Mary Walsh was going to completely condemn the piece we ended up writing, we ran through it unrehearsed today and it ended up sounding somewhere between fine and pretty good. Revision time tonight – why mess with a winning formula?
For a week that’s supposed to be relaxing, compared to last week, it’s not exactly shaping up that way; we’re heading into London tomorrow afternoon, taking a tour through Samuel Johnson's house [ETA: this is actually taking place on Wednesday, my bad. On Tuesday, we're heading to the British Library]. He was the dude who wrote the first English Dictionary back in the 18th century, and I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that that tour is going to be about as interesting as that could possibly be. Maybe, just maybe, he ran a secret underground amusement park/circus on the side, but I've seen the brick of a work that Life of Johnson is, and this is the cover:
Let the good times roll.
Let the good times roll.
After that, we’ve got Mike Leigh in conversation at the National Theatre, which from what I understand is the director speaking intimately to an audience about his work and fielding questions. That should be more interesting that the dictionary tour – although, any chance to walk around London is still pretty sweet.
I don’t know where I’m supposed to find time to work on an oral presentation for next week, but I think it comes back to the aforementioned philosophy of good enough. I could always stay home on Thursday night, I guess; The Tempest only stars Ralph Fiennes as Prospero, not a big deal.
Apparently he was in some movie, too
The hell with it. Mary looked with doubt at our satire group this morning, and I watched that doubt dissolve as we winged it and got far luckier than we deserve. Lightning might very well strike twice.
Worst case scenario, I pull an all-nighter this time next week. I might have graduated in April, but I haven’t forgotten how to do that.
Cheers,
rb
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