Easy on Stockholm
Stockholm. Eh, I wouldn’t leave here, otherwise you have to thoroughly prepare for each meeting. What to see? Where to go? Where to begin? Walk through your favorite old places or discover something new? Greed multiplied by lack of time shifts the cerebral cortex at an alarming rate. An attempt to make a global coverage can fail due to lost time on exciting sights, and deliberately lowering the bar of the minimum program smacks of subsequent self-flagellation and torture with piercing objects of one's own consciousness.
The figure of 85 museums knocked the ground out from under their feet and forced the official verdict of the idea "Mission Impossible". But someone had to make responsible decisions here. And if there is no one else here besides myself! And who do I talk to...
This time I was on wheels, even bicycles.
Therefore, the coverage area of the Scandinavian beauties has expanded significantly. The program of organized events was gleaned from old brochures, which, usually (like half-smoked steers from a heavy smoker), were always somewhere nearby.
Join nature lovers in Haga Park, ask for a visit to the royal apartments and find out what else the successful Swedish sculptor Carl Milles is famous for. Strong! Maybe. And for everything about all 5 hours and no musical pauses. Of course, there is also the Art Museum and the Architectural Museum, and the Army Museum with the Ethnographic Museum, and write down the Technical Museum too. But, firstly, the overload of consciousness will not end in anything good, and secondly, crumbling money left and right without the right to receive paid services in full in expensive Stockholm is also not accepted.
And here there is a little bit of everything - nature, royal chambers, sculptures, plus the coverage of the lion's share of the capital's avenues by bicycle routes.
According to the schedule and timetable of the museums, at 12.30 I moved towards Haga Park. I moved at a lathered pace, as I expected to move forward at 12. The road was not close, and besides, it was not entirely known. The cartographic projection of Stockholm sinned with shortcomings and weakly consecrated peripheral areas. I had to be guided by my own scent and the names of the streets that didn’t mean anything to me.
Cycling is very pleasant in Stockholm. Firstly, it is the air itself and the lion's share of green spaces right in the central areas of the place. Secondly, it is a priority for the movement of cyclists even on difficult sections of the roadway.
Cars deliberately give way and try not to run into active road users under any circumstances. Everywhere there are special bike paths. And if it ends somewhere, then without having time to decide how to move on, you immediately notice that you have been remembered again.
Does not continue to surprise, and sometimes alarm, Swedish women. The usual understanding of the opposite sex is broken no worse than a glass vase on cast steel of a Scandinavian character. As I said, most likely it was women who bothered to take the best from their ferocious medieval ancestors.
While I was holding onto a traffic light, waiting for the green light, a pretty girl stopped in front of me. Tight, athletic, with a pleasant appearance - what more do you need.
But when she, taking advantage of my yawns, rushed to the green traffic signal, then there was no trace of modest charm. With the femininity of a RoboCop, except perhaps without a distinct clang of metal, the girl trotted away with a reinforced concrete jog.
The next ground for reflection was waiting for the next bridge. Fitting into the right turn and coolly slipping through the diarrhea of slowed down cars, I was taken by surprise by a mail truck deftly taxiing onto a secondary highway. Winking at me with one of the turn signals, the truck famously fit into the narrowed space and, after a little hesitation, continued to move. Following the actions of the driver during the deceleration process, I was again amazed. A young lady sat behind the wheel and, calmly chewing gum, controlled what venerable men in tattoos, with roomy bellies and greasy hair usually drive.
But how could I have been wrong the third time!
While solving puzzles with traffic lights and ornate routes, I noticed an athlete not far away, famously operating his sports bike. The cheeks puffed out to the beat of the load, the developed shoulder structure made it possible to literally cover the bike from both sides, and the playing muscles, covered with black tights, gave out many years of experience and the right diet. A muscle is not a person. Apollo in a bicycle helmet. But on closer examination, it turned out that this was Apollo's wife, but not himself. Another miss and extra points for Swedish emancipation.
But back to my route. Having managed to form a stable stereotype about Swedish women in my head, I drove up to the park itself. The park is located, as it were, on the outskirts of the city, where, in comparison with the old part of the city, the construction of new microdistricts from fashionable building materials is proceeding at a solid pace.
Understanding the length of my thoughts and the fixed paper sizes, I will add about the park that it is chic, like all parks in Stockholm. The favorite park of King Gustav III deserves special attention and, of course, a separate description. I will only note that the museum, which, according to informants, was supposed to be open in winter on Thursdays, Saturdays and Sundays, decided to work on Fridays and weekends, for which many thanks to him. Pulling the closed door, I was even a little happy. Now I have an extra 20 minutes so as not to fly headlong to the royal palace, but to smoothly absorb the streets I have chosen with my attention.
In Stockholm, unlike Holland, a cyclist has more rights and opportunities. Plus, there is no policeman around every corner and grabs you by the spokes of the wheels at the slightest roll on the highway at a red light.
Here, both cyclists and pedestrians do not disdain a red traffic light, and once they did it right in front of a police car. Guided by the instinct of the crowd, I also violated, I confess, but in especially safe cases. The idea of driving through a red light during large-scale traffic, when cars, hoping to have time to slip through the entire crowd on a non-rubber green traffic light, rush from their seats with literally all their horsepower and show excellent results, bordered on the decision to apply for a residence permit in a lunatic asylum.
But sometimes you have to rely on the integrity of drivers when a dispersed crowd of motorists in all four lanes brakes loudly right in front of your nose, allowing a cyclist to pass through the green light.
I was heading towards the palace along Drottninggatan street, which is voiced as “the way of the queen”. This is a very popular, narrow and very crowded street.
Starting on the periphery, it is sure to lead any lucky person straight to the Royal Palace. Why was I in such a hurry to this very palace. Because, according to my information, at 14.00, a tour of the interior was to begin, which was included in the ticket price as a bonus. Agree, it’s one thing to watch it yourself, it’s another when they chew everything for you, and even answer questions. I hoped that the tour would be in English and my hopes were taken into account.
Having received a ticket, I received instructions to go inside the palace and not talk to anyone I didn’t know along the way. Inside, the right people themselves will reach out to me for my ticket. The palace was unique, and with it the surprise that awaited me. I don’t know who suggested this idea to the workers, but my ticket included a visit to more than one palace, but also to 2 additional museums, which, due to the boldness of the declared tariffs, I no longer wanted to go.
The palace, its history and inner corridors will be awarded a separate sheet, pen and well-deserved ode.
Having received everything that a mere mortal can dream of, going to inspect the royal chambers, I decided on the implementation of my last insidious idea. With a lightning-fast movement of the pedals, move yourself half a dozen kilometers, remaining within the limits of traffic rules. The project was a success, but not as fast as I would have liked. The curve of the route tirelessly deviated from the trajectory of the flight of the stone, adding extra meters and precious minutes to my route.
The path ran across the floor of Stockholm and was supposed to end with the honorable crossing of the bridge from the city itself to the Lidingo archipelago. But even though I pedaled with a frenzy worthy of the goddess Furia herself, I could not meet less than 35 minutes. Having got through the wonderful railway bridge to the island, instead of pointers, I began to meet the symbols of Milles Park in whole bundles.
Who is Carl Milles and what he is famous for, I will tell separately. I can only say that, probably, the Swedes do not know a more eminent local sculptor. And its park is truly grandiose, diverse and rich in improvisations.
Having got into it half an hour before closing, I sadly agreed with the cashier that this would not be a visit. Until 17.00, I can only breathe and it is unlikely that I will be able to exhale. It is unlikely that I will be able to see about 200 sculptures of a house with paintings and all three terraces in one breath. With regret, but with a certain knowledge of future actions, I drove away from the walls of the park.
Returning by the same route to the incomparable islet of Jugarden, I decided to finally unwind in its airy spaces and natural landscapes. Rolling in time with the current of the wind, I admired that grace and serenity sprayed around by the green neighbor of the Stockholm archipelago.
Someone admired the ducks on the virginally smooth expanses of small reservoirs, someone practiced horse riding, and someone just ran, shedding kilograms and negatively charged particles of everyday indignation.
Love circled between the branches of still bare trees, and the voices of carefree birds intensified the feeling of bliss.
How lucky are the local intelligentsia, who, after working days, can simply spread their hardships on the carpet of green lawns and wooden platforms.
While admiring the bays of the sky-blue fjords, I caught sight of a departing passenger ship taking passengers according to the planned route. It was he who reminded me of my guest position here and the inevitability of thoughts of parting.
But I do know for sure.
What if I have to find myself in a mess of events and need outside help to reboot and adjust to a natural way, the platform for transformation will definitely be Stockholm and its northern cold and clear waters.
according to owntrip website. net. ua
