Kalmar – Stockholm
via Linköping et Eskilstuna – 3 trains / 6h36 of travel

Seventh morning. I can’t believe seven days have already passed. And at the same time, I feel like I’ve been away forever. It’s fabulous.

The alarm clock rang early. I had to repack all my things, walk to the station, and allow time to grab a coffee to go. I spend the first part of my train journey relating my adventures of the last three days in my Moleskine notebook. This is an idea that I love, carrying a notebook and pen in my big bag. Keeping this connection, almost archaic I would say, to paper and writing. This notebook that can be bent, get wet, be lost, that isn’t infinite, that can’t be started over and over again, that takes a little time to fill. 

When I look up, my eyes catch sight of forests of birch and conifer trees, lakes surrounded by tall, slender pines and thick, remote houses. We are inland. It is hilly. The weather is fine. I wish I could record everything, keep everything. Every burst of color, every wonder-filled thought, every missed opportunity, when I’m about to pull out my camera and it’s already too late.

I arrive in Stockholm in the middle of the afternoon, under a bright blue sky. Passed the first moment of wavering, that excitement coupled with the slight dizziness of the unknown – you know, when you try in vain to get your bearings while having no idea how the city is laid out – I’m finally heading in the right direction. My base camp will be Gamla Stan, the historic heart of the capital, very touristy but also very central, and therefore convenient.

I haven’t taken three steps down the first alleyway that I can already say it: I’m in love with this city. Something has always drawn me here. I can’t say what. Now, here I am. The blue of the sky is indecent. The shade of the peaceful alleyway where I walk is filled with sunny tones. Reds, oranges, and yellows of the old houses tinge the atmosphere with a warm cheerfulness. It’s captivating.

I check into Castanea, a small hostel that resembles an apartment. It has a maze-like layout and polished wooden floors. Once I’ve dropped off my heavy bag, I head straight out for a stroll. With an ice cream in hand, I explore every corner of the old town, which, despite its tacky shops and slightly crowded streets, still has incredible charm. I then head to Södermalm, the cool and popular neighborhood, to enjoy the sunset on the Mosebacketerrassen. Imagine a rooftop beer garden, fairy lights, and a breathtaking view of the vintage Gröna Tivoli amusement park and Djurgården Park.

Sitting in the sun on the large wooden platform, I am overcome by a strange nostalgia. A nostalgia for a moment that never existed, but which could be ideal. If my friends were here to share it with me. All in all, this does not take away the magic of the instant. The golden hour slowly gives way to the blue hour, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a soft sky. Everything delights me. I’m starting to believe that this will be a constant feature of this trip.

Back at the hostel, I make myself some pasta in the small shared kitchen. It’s cramped and charming, just like home. I sit on a small stool by the open window, one eye on the sky and one ear tuned in to the sounds coming up from the street.

My first real day begins the next day, at Café Krans. Good coffee, good kanelbulle, velvet cushions. Everything to please me. Today is also Midsommar. It is one of Sweden’s most important traditional festivals, celebrating the arrival of summer. I thought it would be picturesque, bucolic, and festive – with people dancing with flower crowns and music playing in the parks… The perfect time to be in Sweden, in short. But I was a little mistaken on that point. A national holiday means everything comes to a standstill.  

From Café Krans, I walk towards Norrmalm. Not particularly fond of this area, I continue on towards Östermalm. The sidewalks are already crowded with families carrying wicker baskets, heading to Djurgården. The girls are dressed in white. Festive mood is in the air.

I am won over by Östermalm. It is a rather chic neighborhood, with opulent buildings reminiscent of the Haussmannian style of the Paris that I love. I come across the Hedvig Eleonora Church, whose yellow exterior gives no hint of the immense blue-gray vaulted ceiling inside. The atmosphere is dark, mystical, silent. A striking contrast to the outside, which is bathed in sunshine and warmth. The only constant, though, is the silence. 

For on this particular day, the avenues are completely deserted. It feels very strange to walk through empty streets. I discover an unknown, secret, rare Stockholm. Midsommar has sucked the substance out of the capital, leaving only its proud and silent shell. Only latecomers and exiles, like me, remain to feast their eyes on the scenery, and appreciate the abandoned scene. Because the show itself is elsewhere. 

After buying a picnic, I head to Djurgården, the park island. Some of the main museums are located on this island – Nordiskamuseet, Vasamuseet, ABBA museum…-
as well as Skansen and Gröna Lund Tivoli. But above all, it is a haven of greenery, with expanses of grass and flower beds crisscrossed by paths, shaded by trees and, of course, bordered by a peaceful cobalt inlet. If you were to wonder where the soul of the city had fled, it is here that it thrives. The atmosphere is joyful and summery: people drink, eat, laugh, play cards, and chat. It’s pretty timeless. 

Naturally, I settle into Swedish time and sit down on the grass. I snack, read, and listen to music. It’s so hot that I even end up putting on my swimsuit—could I be coming back from Sweden with a tan?!

Back at the hostel to charge my phone and update my travel journal, I come across Meghan, an American. She strikes up a conversation with me – she’s traveling alone, as I do – and we quickly decide to have dinner together. A simple plan, but one that turns out to be more complicated than expected: every single place is damned closed. We ended up in a brasserie north of Södermalm, where the warm welcome and slightly festive atmosphere cheered me up a little. That, and mostly a Moscow Mule.

We talked about everything, with the intensity that comes with those fleeting encounters. The evening continued on the quays of Gamla Stan, in a welcome cool air. In front of us, old sailboats bob on the black water, and trees stand out against the purple sky.

For my second breakfast, I give the restaurant on the chestnut tree square, which I can see from my dormitory, a try. Meghan recommended it to me, and I can only thank her. The kanelbulle is divine. Soft and plump, moist, balanced, with perfectly crystallized sugar. When I dip it in my latte, the combination of coffee and cinnamon on my taste buds is mesmerizing. It’s by far the best I’ve ever had. 

It’s deliciously warm outside, and through the open windows you can hear good music and the hissing of the percolator as the coffee flows. I could stay here my whole life. 

Like most major capitals, Stockholm is brimming with museums, and there are many on my list. I start with the Moderna Museet. In addition to the permanent collection, which combines paintings, photographs, videos, sculptures, and various other creations, the museum has a large space dedicated to architecture. With the help of models and texts, visitors can discover the link between Swedish architectural evolution, politics and sociology… Fascinating. Special mention also goes to the museum shop, where I linger in despair at the number of beautiful art and photography books that I won’t be able to take home with me.

I take advantage of being there to have lunch at Café Blom, the museum’s small restaurant. A haven of peace, which offers one of the best pastrami grilled cheese sandwiches. It is also where I try a Punschrulle (a specialty made with biscuit, chocolate, marzipan and liqueur, which will give you diabetes instantly, but is still very, very tasty). 

I spend the afternoon at Skansen, the huge ethnological museum park. Here, you can stroll through the past, among reconstructed villages, houses, and workshops. Every detail has been recreated with extreme care, and despite the stifling heat, I take great pleasure in observing all this precious decorum.

I was about to leave, but Midsommar being what it is, the festivities continue. That’s how I naturally find myself listening to Swedish songs and watching tourists dance in circles around a pole, performing bizarre choreography. I filmed them, for posterity.

For the first time since I arrived, I’m enjoying a water taxi ride. These trips across Stockholm are a real treat. I take the time to write a few postcards and chat with some elderly Germans who are surprised to see me writing postcards, then I’m on my way again. I’m heading to meet Damien, a friend of a friend, for a quick swim.

It’s that Stockholm has Långholmen, a beach island west of the city. It has a small stretch of sand, a forest, and lots of places to relax, enjoy the sun and take a dip in the sea. That’s exactly what we do. The water is a little chilly, and I can’t go in any deeper than waist-high, but what an incredible feeling! And to swim after a hot day, and to swim… in the middle of the city. I love it.

We stay well after 8 p.m., enjoying a sun still warm and generous. Damien explains to me that in winter, people skate in this exact same spot. 

The evening continues with pizza, then a drink on a barge. I walk home, happy to stroll under a midnight sky that is still blue, a twilight that never ends. 

On this third day, still as splendid as ever, I continue my cultural program with a visit to the Nationalmuseum – in other words, the museum of fine arts. The building alone is sumptuous. Its frescoes and moldings, its wide centuries-old staircases, its white marble statues bathed in light with moving delicacy. The collection, organized chronologically from the 16th century to the present day, features paintings, sculptures, furniture, crafts, and even everyday objects as we move into the contemporary era. I appreciate this playful, completely open-minded approach, which is quite unusual in France.

I spend the rest of the day exploring Södermalm. As soon as you leave the busy main streets, you immediately feel the hipster and alternative vibe that permeates the neighborhood. A few terraces are open, but to my disappointment, many shops are still closed. After enjoying an excellent salmon rillettes wrap at the Urban Deli Nytorget delicatessen, I head back up to the Mariaberget viewpoint. This long, pleasantly shaded wooden walkway offers a wonderful view of the island of Kungsholmen. There are still lots of flowers, a warm breeze, and those familiar scents that waft towards me on the wind. The colors are bright and soft at the same time.

In the evening, I meet Damien at Fotografiska, the museum of contemporary photography. It’s almost 10 p.m. when I leave, under a sky painted in shades of purple. It makes me want to stay outside forever. Which is what I do, in fact. I stroll through the quiet streets of Gamla Stan, hoping that this melancholic and charming Sunday will never end.

Monday. Second-to-last day in the capital. The trip has gone by quickly, and yet at the same time, it hasn’t. I’m doing a lot, but I’m taking my time. Always. As I promised myself, I’m giving Östermalm a second chance, now that it has regained its vitality. I start with breakfast at Stora Bageriet, a bakery that is as beautiful as it is delicious, albeit a little expensive. The tempting selection of Smørrebrød is worth noting.

My real goal, however, is to explore the market halls. This is a must-see in the neighborhood. Dating back to 1880, the red brick building with its remarkable architecture is barely a taste of what lies inside… Between the impressive metal structure, the old wooden stalls, the magnificent counters, the profusion of food, and the warm, bustling atmosphere, it’s hard to know where to look first. I wander around for a long time, regretting that I can’t eat there, but also glad that I don’t have to make a choice, as everything looks so delicious.

Next, I have an appointment with the Vasamuseet, the museum of the shipwreck. I wasn’t sure I wanted to visit it, being more interested in old paintings than marine life, but it seems to be a must-see. Once again, the Swedes have managed to surprise me. First of all, the entire hull is on display, in an impressive state of preservation – it dates back to 1628! The visit itself is extremely interesting, fun, and animated with all kinds of objects. I can confirm that it’s a must-see. 

After the visit, it’s time for a fika break. Needless to say, it’s a custom I quickly got used to. I do it at Skroten Café & Skeppshandel, a small fisherman’s café tucked away not far from the water. On the terrace, with my egg and caviar sandwich, a slice of cake, and unlimited filter coffee, I just savor life. 

I end this pleasant day with another swim, this time up to my shoulders. I walk back along the quays, cook myself a small meal at the hostel, then lie down in my bed, which overlooks the chestnut tree square. Through the open window, I hear singing and guitar playing. Discreet applause. Bursts of laughter. The sound of forks on plates. A soft murmur.

For my last day, I set my alarm clock. It’s excursion day. Because in addition to the islands that make up the heart of the city, Stockholm is also a vast archipelago, which requires a little more time to visit. With only one day available, I chose Vaxholm. It takes about an hour by boat to get there.

The town center is small but full of charm. I discovered a pretty old port, flowered houses and a small artist’s studio behind a red-framed window. The beautiful beaches are located at the other end of the island. Not having much energy left after more than 10 days of traveling, I set out to find a little spot near the harbour. And I find it. A large, smooth rock where I can let the cool surf lap at my legs.

Lying there, watching a seagull fly over me, I feel melancholy. I think about the wonderful moments I’ve spent here. Stockholm has more than lived up to its promises. It was my dream for so long, and now that it came true, I feel like I have to mourn it. It’s strange. It’s as if too much happiness can be painful. So many times over the last few days, I have felt that I am exactly where I am meant to be, that nothing better could exist anywhere else at this very moment. I learned, I experienced how simplicity could be so profound, so true. And now I’m starting the second part of my journey. Already. The days seem so long, and the weeks so short, time passing so quickly. It’s hard to accept.

Back in town, it’s around 4 p.m., and I’m feeling tired. I thought I’d rest a bit, but I can’t. It’s my last afternoon here, and I can’t spend it indoors. I look on the hostel’s board of recommended places for the best ice cream shop in the neighborhood, and head down to Stikki Nikki. Two scoops of peanut butter/café latte that make my day. I enjoy them on the waterfront, watching for the last time the sailboats that I love so much.

I spend my last evening at Trädgården. It’s one of the capital’s most popular clubs, open-air, hidden under a bridge. I admit, I wonder what I’m doing there all alone. It’s early, the atmosphere is more beer and bocce than dancing, and I can’t see myself going up to talk to people. But at least I would have dared. And I would have seen the place.
I’m about to leave when a guy smiles at me and asks if he can sit down. The softness of his voice contrasts with his imposing physique. He comes from Sudan. He fled via Libya, crossing the Mediterranean, leaving behind his family, his brothers and sisters, to whom he was (and still is) close. Sweden has always been his dream destination. He has been living and working there for several years. He is happy and sad, uprooted but filled with the strength of the living, of the courageous. Full of a determination and a sense of self-sacrifice that force my admiration.

We stay there, talking for at least two hours. He hasn’t seen anything of Europe yet, so he asks me questions about my trip, hostels, trains. I tell him about it, and it’s as if a whole new world has suddenly opened up to him. I encourage him to follow this path of discovery.

We part ways a little after 11 p.m. I walk home, replaying this conversation in my head, this encounter that was unexpected, to say the least. The surprising invisible hand of life.

[To read the first episode of my Sweden train trip adventure, head here!]

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Playlist of the trip