I almost did a Claire in the bathroom this morning. The doors in the flat don’t always close properly and, if you have stability issues like me, you tend to lean up against walls and doors. Be warned that doing so in this flat, could see you sprawled out on the floor of the kitchen.
I managed to survive this particular death trap so, after Mirinda woke up and spent a while counting the different spots of lichen on a tree 400 metres away using her new eye, we headed out in search of brunch.
Midsummer Eve is a lot like Ascension Day in Stockholm. It took a long time and a fair bit of walking but, eventually, we found a café where we managed some refreshment. We then headed for the Tunnelbana.
Getting off at Gamla Stan, Mirinda left me on a bench and went for a wander, finding an essential mug and table runner. Obviously, the mug was for the flat so we can both have a hot drink at the same time. The table runner…well, it will bring the kitchen together, so it is clearly essential.
I sat for a bit, enjoying the sun, then noticed a craft beer place not far from my bench. What a good opportunity, I thought. There’s only one thing better than beer and that’s craft beer. My foot is quite sore at the moment, so it was a case of hobbling down to the perfectly named Barrels Burgers and Beer.
I sat and nursed a beer (or two) and watched people as they came and went. Like the very loud and super bass-voiced chap who didn’t want his cold hamburger and the German gentle giant who ordered beer and fries and sat, smiling all the way through them. The couple who wanted to sit inside, so the waitress handed them a couple of menus, they went inside and were gone for ages before coming back out and walking away saying they didn’t want anything. I mean, the name of the place quite clearly says what they’re selling.
Eventually, Mirinda arrived and had a burger and a glass of rose before we headed out, by bus, for Mosebacke Terrace. Originally, we wanted to go on a Stromma cruise with food and dancing on an island, but it was seriously oversubscribed. We were on a waiting list, but I think it might have stretched up until next year.
Mosebacke Terrace was having an event with the usual, traditional singing, dancing and ritual business with the flower decked pole so we decided, that’s where we’d go. It was handy that it was close to the flat and we figured it would be a lot less crowded than Skansen. Though, once we arrived, I’m not sure that it was. There were lots of people. Lots of kids. Lots of people adorned with flowers. Women in matching summer dresses.
Sadly, there weren’t any traditional outfits but, the atmosphere was perfect. As was the beer. I thoroughly enjoyed a glass of First Mate Missing made by Brutal Brewing. Oddly, the only other option on tap was Heineken. Obviously, I wasn’t having any of that.
When the singing started, it was glorious. And loud. I noticed a lot of people putting fingers in ears as they walked past the stage. Still, when the frog song came on, it was all about the singing and actions.
A lot of people were mouthing all the songs so, taking cues from them, we joined in, though we were actually singing gibberish.
It was great fun and we thoroughly enjoyed our limited view. Mine was further limited due to sitting down. Sadly. Lucky Mirinda was standing up and, given her new super vision., saw a whole lot more than I did.
Eventually, the traditional songs ended and families started drifting away while the serious business of professional drinking to loud club music started. We sat for a while, but then decided we should return to the flat for a bit of a rest before dinner.
Given we had Peruvian last night and Spanish the night before, we figured it should be French tonight. So we walked down to a lovely Bistroteket and had a delicious dinner. I’m not sure if we can manage a different national cuisine for our whole stay but we are planning to try.
One disturbing thing I found on the walk back to the flat were the no parking signs which, it seems, are name dependent. My dad would have been a tad annoyed discovering that he, and everyone else named Fred, could not park in certain places, at certain times.
What kind of nameist nonsense is that?
