Arriving in Sweden, Land of the Midnight Sun

STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN -- June 13, 2006

I pulled the pillow even tighter over my head, which was now face-down in my sleep-sheet-covered mattress, trying desperately to hold on to the thinning threads of sleep that seemed to be snapping all too quickly as the sun began its early ascent.

By the amount of daylight pouring through the window, I would swear it must be pushing 7 AM. But a brief peek at my watch confirmed a shocking revelation: it was three hours earlier than that. How could that possibly be, I asked myself, still groggily trying to push back into sleep mode. And then I remembered how the sun had seemed to burn until midnight last night. How even then, the sky remained a deep shade of blue, but far from the depths of midnight I am so accustomed to. I had watched it out the window of Sohail's flat, engrossed by this natural oddity, this day without end that prevailed over the skies above Stockholm as midsummer approached.

And now, with a slow bobbing motion, the Gustaf af Klint, hostel-boat and my home for two days, rocked me back to sleep, my eyes growing heavier even as my stomach registered the subtle movements of this aging ship in the waters harboring Gamla Stan.


Today had been a fascinating mix of old-world beauty, endless summer sunshine, shocking budget revelations, and enjoyable company. I arrived at Stockholm's central station early afternoon and, determined to meet my meager budget while traveling through the cash cow that is Scandinavia, I began the long walk to my hostel, Gustaf af Klint. The sun was bright and strong, and working my way south along the main street, I smiled at the sight of the slender, pointed steeples of cathedrals and buildings more vertical than horizontal.

I shared street corners with Swedish women so beautiful, I felt like an ugly packpacker weighed down with my fleece jacket and filled-to-the-brim backpack, my hair hoisted off my neck with a tortoise-shell clip, and my cheeks rosy as my forehead beaded with sweat. Yes, these Swedish women, tall and slender, hair so blonde it could almost pass for white, were beautiful.

So it surprised me when a Greek-Indian fellow by the name of Sohail, who had been admiring the sea view, struck up a conversation with me as I passed by. We spent the next hour trying to track down my hostel, which turned out to be on the other side of the harbor. But I didn't mind the detour; the harbor, lined with colorful ships, and the smell of seawater were a welcome treat.

After stashing my bag, Sohail showed me to a little Italian place with excellent thin-crusted pizzas where I ate heartily, while an oscillating fan blew its cool breath across my hot cheeks.

We spent the afternoon walking the streets of Gamla Stan, Stockholm's most scenic -- and ancient -- quarter. Warm-toned buildings and cobblestone lanes brought a robust character to this little island, attached to the surrounds of greater Stockholm by a series of connecting bridges.

Later that evening, we sat in the shade of a great cathedral, spooning cranberry ice into our parched mouths. The sun's rays were strong, even for such a late hour. And finally, after a warm, home-cooked dinner and a long gaze out at the midnight sunset, I managed to find my way back to my creaky bed and gather enough shadow in the corner of the dorm room that I could convince my body it was time for sleep.

~Melanie 6/13/06