Category: Europe

As Theresa alluded to in the last post, the first island we went to was Moja. It also happened to be the largest, furthest away from Stockholm, and most populated island we went to (though certainly not any of the above for the entire Swedish archipelago). It was a combination of these three things that made it my favorite of the trio of islands we visited.

The island was large enough to contain three freshwater lakes, which were advertised to us as “warm, you can swim for at least 10-15 minutes in it” a notion we found laughable after touching the water with our hands. But what appealed to me most was the sense that this was a small community. In fact, it was many small communities, with collections of 20-30 houses in villages dotting the island. There were no roads to some, only a path through the woods to a different harbor, a different jetty. Where there were gravel roads, ATVs or bicycles were the vehicles of choice, we saw only two cars and our host at the hostel lamented they were becoming more common.

Around 300 people lived there year round; there was a school (up to the 9th grade). A local youth group showed movies and hosted dances at the dance hall and and converted their youth center into the hostel that we stayed at. At church that was built in the 17th century on the south end of the island, the cemetery contained the graves of several generations of Moja residents.

While fishing was once a primary industry in the archipelago (and likely for many of those whose graves we passed), today, only one man makes his living fishing professionally out of the whole of 30,000 islands. He lives on Moja and his family runs Wikstroms Fisk restuarant. The menu changes every day based upon what Mr. Wikstrom is able to catch. We dined there and while simply prepared, the fish was delicious, fresh as can be.

All of these things really culminated in a very pleasant experience. The rain and the dreary conditions even seemed to add to the atmosphere, the idea that islands like this are supposed to have weather like this. All in all, I’m glad we spent the most time on Moja as it really had the most to offer.

Jutting up from the waters of the Baltic, off the coast of Stockholm, are more than 30,000 islands, rocks, and skerries. Collectively these two-billion-old rock formations make up the archipelago, a favorite holiday retreat of Swedes. Only a few hearty, independent, and ultimately extremely flexible souls live on these islands year-round—many populations number in the tens, populations that reach into the hundreds are rare—but in the summer, mainland residents flock to the archipelago to bathe in the always cold waters of the Baltic, take a dip in slightly warmer inland lakes, sail from isle to isle, and generally just relax in a place where the pace of life is slow and all the extraneous details of modern life are eliminated.

We missed summer by a few weeks (though we’ve heard summer was a bit disappointing this year), so we arrived to islands that were transitioning toward the sleepy time of year, when the sea freezes over with ice thick enough to ski and skate across and darkness hangs like a veil. That summer was ending was undeniable. The bright blue seas and skies that appear in brochure photos were already a memory. Instead periwinkle painted over the landscape—the sky, the sea, and the granite rocks were all a shade of purplish-gray. The sun was tucked away under thick clouds. And for two of the three days, a steady mist fell, crescendoing into heavy rain for brief stretches before lapsing back into a sprinkle.

It was enough to make the other guests at our hostel stay inside. But us? Well we’re not sweet enough to melt.

And we had some hiking to do.

Apparently the 400+ miles we hiked this summer didn’t satiate us. When we read about something called boat hiking we knew that’s what we’d be doing in the archipelago. For 340 SEK (under $60), we got a pass that was good for 5 days (though we only used it for 3) that allowed us to hop whichever boats we liked between various islands. It also came with a map and suggested itineraries that laid out how one could arrive at an island, hike across or around it, then leave the island either via row boat or ferry to continue on to another island. Three major routes were outlined—northern, middle, and southern. We chose the middle because not only did it seem most interesting to us, but it also minimized the amount of time we would spend on the ferry. The route itself is rather extensive, so we picked and chose from it, deciding on four islands: Moja, Ingmarso, Finnhamn, and Gallno.

On Ingmarso and Finnhamn, which we visited on day two, we experienced the truest form of boat hiking. Around 2 p.m., our ferry pulled into the jetty of South Ingmarso, and we disembarked. Our goal for the afternoon was to walk just over three kilometers along the southern part of Ingmarso, row ourselves across the sea from Ingmarso to nearby Finnhamn, and then continue hiking a few more kilometers across Finnhamn to a hostel perched above the sea.

But first we needed a map, so we popped in the restaurant at the jetty (one of the few places in the archipelago open on a Sunday afternoon in the low season), where a kind waitress photocopied one for us and sent us on our way. We began by walking through a predominantly pine forest, where mushrooms sprung from the ground and were hunted like treasure by multiple mushroom pickers we passed. I kept half expecting a tomte (a mythical creature from Scandinavian folklore that strongly resembles the Travelocity gnome) to pop out and greet us, but alas that didn’t happen.

As we continued along the boat hiker’s trail, I took to calling it the “Jesus path” because of the small signs marking the way that seemed to show a person walking on water.

After a bit of forest hiking, we emerged alongside a field where two horses grazed idly.

We then entered into a field, following a trampled path through a meadow full of rams. In Sweden, allemansratten—the right of public access—entitles you to cross privately owned land so long as you are respectful (and don’t let the rams out). Apparently, the rams here not only are unfazed by strangers entering their grazing grounds but also rather enjoy it. It seems other hikers must feed the rams as they pass through, because instead of scattering away from us, they flocked to us sniffing at our pockets and our bags. Being not much of an animal person, I have to say I didn’t like it much, as I was just waiting for one of them to rear up and show us what those horns are for.

Nearing the end of Ingmarso, we took a break at a nature preserve, where a small boat house was painted the typical burgundy-red of most every building in the archipelago.

Upon reaching the tip of Ingmarso, we loaded our gear into a small row boat, and Jeff rowed us across to Finnhamn. While I sat with the gear, he then rowed back to Ingmarso, towing the row boat that had been on the other side, so that each island has one boat and people are able to cross regardless of which direction they’re coming from. It’s a remarkable system that impressed both of us, not simply because of how well it worked but because of how it is possible to just leave a boat tied up under no one’s guard and know that it will not be stolen or vandalized. I’m not sure that would happen in the U.S.

Once Jeff made it back to Ingmarso, we set off hiking again, through a mixed forest of pine and aspen.

Arriving at the hostel at 5 p.m., we grabbed the keys to our cute little private cabin, and then enjoyed the view. We could have complained about the lack of blue skies, but why bother. It was beautiful nonetheless.

(Check back later in the week, as we’ll post more pictures and stories from our other two days in the archipelago.)

Currently, Jeff and I are out enjoying Sweden’s archipelago, visiting three tiny islands in a matter of three days. (You know us, we can’t stay in one place for too long.) We’re hoping to come back with good stories and great photos, but we didn’t want to leave you high and dry while we’re gone. What’s a Sunday evening without a Lives of Wander post?

So here are a few nice photos of Jeff nailing his thesis, which he did on Friday afternoon, thereby taking the last step before his actual defense on September 26. He didn’t challenge the pope or rail on about indulgences in his “Recessive Parkinsonism, Mitochondria, and Translational Regulation,” but he looked just a bit Martin Luther-like as he hammered his thesis up in the library of Karolinska Institute. I’m not sure this particular thesis will have quite the world-changing effect of good ol’ Martin Luther’s, but hey, Luther was nearly 34 when he nailed his famous 95-Thesis to the door of Wittenburg’s Castle Church, so just give Jeff seven years. Then, look out world.

He started out nailing it gently with a smile, and then started whacking the heck out of it, as you can see by the hammer action and the concentrated look on his face.

Showing off the final work with his mentor Lars to his right and me on his left.

We celebrate the fact that his thesis is now nailed to the library wall with a little bubbly.

Most of Jeff’s lab came out to support him (or at least to partake in the free food and drink).

Put one foot down. Then pick up the other and move it forward. Repeat. Again. Again. Keep your eyes open. Don’t let your eyes linger closed when they blink. It is indeed possible to fall asleep while standing up. But don’t do it. You might fall down. Keep your eyes open. Put one foot down. Now, move the other.

Last night I flew across the Atlantic, tearing through a sky that bled shades of red I have found on no earthly palette, continuing on after the sun dipped into an infinite horizon, the plane now cloaked in black as deep as sin. As morning rose, and clouds appeared as thick as summer cotton, me so desperately wishing I could feel the clouds pass through my fingers, I flew on, touching down in Stockholm as the sun rose on the last Sunday of August 2008.

My mission for the day: stay awake. Do whatever it takes to make it to nighttime without sleeping. Force myself to adopt a new time in a new place.

There is only one way for me to do this, and that is to walk. Walk and walk and walk.

So we walk over a busy bridge and past shops that have not yet opened on this not-quite-summer, not-quite-autumn Sunday morning. We walk past the city library, where people are actually lined up waiting for the doors to welcome them in at noon. We walk through a sprinkle of rain falling from perfectly sunny skies. We walk past churches with glittering gold domes and doors that crack open to reveal snatches of deep organ music. We walk through a playground, where kids giggle contagiously as they jump on mini trampolines built into the ground.

We pause at a kebab shop for a quick lunch, scarfing down a doner, but not sitting one minute beyond the last bite because that one minute could cause me to fail at my mission.

We walk to a tech store and while Jeff buys a broadband network card, I walk laps around the cell phone displays. We walk through a market, me continuing past old army outfits and antique cameras while Jeff stops and buys tomatoes and photographs a fountain whose figures seem to hold their hands in defensive postures, as if trying to protect themselves from the pigeons that use them as perches. We walk past a T.G.I. Friday’s, where waiters in their mandatory flair take orders from diners seated on a patio. We walk toward the undulating sound of Middle Eastern music, and then walk around an Iraqi cultural festival. We walk past details–a lion’s head door knocker on the entrance to a vocational school, a secret staircase tucked neatly in-between two tall buildings, a sculptured security gate displaying jesters and numbers outside a bank.

In a brave moment, we break at a cafe to drink hot chocolate from tall glasses in a comfy corner booth, but we forces ourselves up before the warmth of the drink can settle in my belly and pull my eyelids down like shades.

We walk through the bottom floor of a department store, past displays of delicate pastries and fragile glass. We take a lap around a gallery, where the art is at best an attempted flattery of other, better art. We walk into an auction house, and keeping our hands forcefully in our pockets, we wander amidst those bidding on early twentieth-century furniture and decorative objects that my untrained eye mistakes for junk. We walk into the supermarket and down aisles of cheeses and breads and a surprisingly broad selection of Asian food. We walk home, market bag now full of food, dinner for the next few nights in hand. We walk to Jeff’s lab, and I walk up and down the hallway trying to read Swedish cartoons while Jeff speaks with his mentor. We walk to what is now home–a small studio in a seven-story building. We two-step in the tiny kitchen, and then walk back and forth between the table and the bed as our pasta dinner cooks.

And then, finally, we stop walking. We sit. We eat. We watch the sun set out our windows, the clouds wisps of navy against a turquoise sky, the tall pines nothing more than dark shadows. I have made it. Nighttime is here. My mission is accomplished. I can quit walking. I can now, finally, sleep.