One Hundred And Out

 

After the rainbow goodness of Stadion, Östermalmstorg's general beigeness came as quite a shock.  It wasn't that it was ugly, per se; indeed, there was something charmingly early 1960s about it.  The low ceiling and pale tilework were redolent of an era of municipal pride, of marble and civic goodness, respectful and subtle.

Apart from The Art.  That seemed accidental.  Siri Derkert did some sketches and they were transferred directly into the concrete walls, which is a fair idea, except when she said "sketches" you sort of expect something that didn't look like she doodled it while she was on the phone.

If you didn't know better, you might think that someone had snuck down here and slapped some graffiti over the walls.  Not cool graffiti; not Banksy-type artwork.  More hastily scrawled nonsense you get on park benches.

Actually the best bit of Östermalmstorg is this circulation space at the bottom of the escalators which manages to be both practical and epic.

There's also this column in the ticket hall that looks like it's made of drug capsules.  If that's your thing.

I emerged in the Östermalmstorg itself, a public square undergoing a lot of refurbishment work; there were a wooden barriers covered with CGI images and promises about the all new square.  I couldn't decide if Stockholm's undergoing a massive regeneration project everywhere or if I just happened to keep walking into areas that are being rebuilt.

Overlooking the corner of the square is the Saluhall, the Market Hall, a grand red building that practically begs you to walk inside.  

I'm not a foodie.  I'm happy with a pizza and a beer.  I eat because I have to or I'll die, not because I especially love the experience.  (How then are you so fat?, I hear you ask.  Please note the word "beer" in the earlier sentence).  I do like going to places that sell food though.  A restaurant, a market, or in, this case, a food hall.  It becomes dramatic, an experience.

The Saluhall should be photographed and sent to every council in the UK as an example of how a Market Hall can be successful in the 21st century.  Liverpool recently closed its St John's Market after spending millions refurbishing it because, well, it was still horrible and nobody wanted to visit it.  

This is food as theatre, as a location to visit.  I wandered around the stalls - calling them stalls seems reductive, but there you are - looking at the most incredible vegetables, fish and cheeses.  They were accompanied by dishes made from the produce, all for sale, though I glanced past the prices so that it didn't ruin my day with a how much for a quiche!?!? exclamation.  I was happy wandering along the aisles and simply ogling.

In the evenings, tables are laid and restaurants using the produce open.  There was a wine bar too, where some classy looking ladies sipped whites.  This wouldn't work everywhere but this is the ideal.  If they ever get round to rebuilding Birkenhead Market this is what we can dream of.  It'll probably end up still a few shabby tables flogging LFC tat and an overwhelming stench of herring but we can dream.

I disappeared into the streets north of the square, quiet on a Saturday morning.  The closed offices were home to exciting businesses like PR companies and graphic designers, while the restaurants were prepping for lunchtime visits from the glamorous shoppers from Birgir Jarlsgarten's designer stores.

I ended up on the Karlavägen, one of those long straight avenues that European cities do so well and which we don't bother with.  Our avenues tend to be bendy, loopy, accidental.  If they've got trees down the middle, it's not to encourage perambulation, it's because there used to be a tram line there and it was ripped up in the Fifties.  

I'd left the train at Östermalmstorg with a small family, a mother and two teenage daughters, and I was surprised to see them ahead of me on the Karlavägen.  The girls were extremely excitable, like they were heading for a meet and greet with Harry Styles, and I couldn't quite work out why.  

The answer came when we reached Karlaplan, a large roundabout with a park and a water feature at its centre.  On Saturdays a flea market sets up here, and it seems that the privileged location attracts stallholders who are a cut above.  The teenage girls immediately ran to the racks of clothing at one stand.  I guessed, though obviously I'm no expert, that it was a smashing spot to get second hand designer bargains.

I followed the throngs, looking at the stalls.  Some were clearly flogging warehouse tat, the result of a mad dash around a cash and carry to buy low and sell high.  There were a couple selling, shall we say, grey products - vape flavours, that sort of thing.  But the majority seemed to be people setting up a folding table and settling in for the day with the contents of their spare room.  Beaming old ladies sat next to some of the most horrible vases you've ever seen.

I did a quarter turn of the gyratory and then headed into the T-bana station.  Its platforms had a similar, early Sixties vibe to Östermalmstorg, but it had a clash of artworks.  Along the track walls was a photomontage from 1983, depicting Swedish history.

It's ok, but I much prefer the tiled seating alcoves.  They date back to the station's opening and are far more aesthetically pleasing.

Is this because I'm a sad old git who'd much prefer it if Britain still retained its Festival of Britain-era look instead of all this shiny modern nonsense?  Who can say?

I was surprised by how busy Gärdet was.  It was the second to last station on the line; I expected it to be a small suburban halt with more people heading into town than on this train going north.  Yet the train opened its doors and a huge mob poured out alongside.

Curious, I tagged along behind the crowds, wondering where they were headed.  They were lively and giggly, laughing, chatting.  We walked along a passageway dotted with display cases for local stores and emerged at the foot of some apartments.  At the end of the pedestrianised section, the crowd immediately turned right, as one.

I'd love to finish this barely-an-anecdote with them going to a concert, or a tv station, or a cult meeting.  It turned out they were headed for the park.  These were healthy, jolly, lovely people off to spend their Saturday on the grass with a picnic.  I was pleased for them but also a bit disappointed.  

I returned to the residential area, looping back to the station.  

If I was doing this correctly, I should've walked to Ropsten.  That's the usual procedure.  My brain fritzed at that point and sent me back underground for a train.  I'm not sure why, but I think it may have been my subconscious at work.

Gärdet was my 99th station on the Tunnelbana.  Ropsten would be the 100th and last.  I think my brain secretly decided that I had to arrive there by train.  It wanted it done properly. 

Ropsten is on the far side of a mountain, and so the trains burst out of the tunnel and terminate at an open air platform.  This wasn't the original plan; the idea was that the Red Line would continue across the strait on a bridge and terminate in an underground station at Lidingö Centrum.  The residents were all for it until SL explained that, to help pay for it, they'd have to agree to a few thousand more homes being built nearby.  At which point the residents of Lindingö decided that an influx of newcomers would destroy the precious atmosphere of their island and declined the T-bana extension.  You have to admire that level of snobbery.

The Art at Ropsten is by Roland Kempe and is largely this double headed snake.  I'm not sure it has any relevance to the station or the locale other than "why not?" and for that it should be applauded.

There are two exits to Ropsten.  One leads you out into a bus gyratory, and is currently being comprehensively rebuilt.  The other is a long tunnel with a travelator, taking you through the mountain and into the residential district beyond.  Of course I took the latter one: you had me at "travelator".  I might've been less inclined to take it if I'd known I'd get stuck behind a pair of old gits who decided to stand on the belt, not moving, blocking any movement behind with their bags.  Stand on the right, hold on tight, come on!

One last opportunity for me to laugh at the Swedish language; their word for "lift" is "hiss", meaning that "lift to Gatuplan" translates as "Hiss till Gatuplan".  Well, I laughed.  

I finally got past Howard and Hilda and left the travelator, passing through the ticket hall and stepping out into a plaza at the foot of the mountain.  

One hundred.  Done.

It's always a weird feeling when I complete one of these collecting quests.  There should be a sense of achievement; a warm flow of victory at crossing the final name off the list.  And there was a little bit of that.  I wondered how many other people had done the same as me.  Probably lots of people had visited all the stations, but how many had explored the city around them?  More to the point, how many people had flown thousands of miles to do it and hadn't even visited the ABBA Museum in the process?

I was pleased but my overriding feeling was sadness.  That was it, then.  Stockholm was finished.  I wished I could carry on.  I wished, in fact, that I'd spent a month doing this.  One hundred in a week was far more of a marathon than I realised.  I wished I could've spread it out and elongated each trip.  Four or five in a day, rather than twenty.  Had a proper poke around.  I wish it had taken me as long to visit as it had to write it.

There's still a few more Stockholm blogs to come; a tram, a museum, a trip on the light rail.  But this is the last of the Tunnelbana.  It's a weird, wonderful, awe-inspiring network.  It's unlike any other Metro I've ever been on.  It should be what everyone else in the world is aiming for.