Danny & Pork Chop Go Scandinavian Day 3: Stockholm to Linköping (A Coach Journey)
Stockholm to Linköping
A Bus Trip
Despite all my travel across Europe, I’ve never been on a coach trip. I mean, not outside of the UK. I’ve taken the train all across Germany, Poland, France, The Netherlands, Denmark, Finland, Czech Republic, Switzerland and so on, but never have been on a coach. The idea just never occurred to me before now. Seeing as the bus was cheaper, I decided to indulge myself and take a coach trip from Stockholm down to Linköping. I wonder how this will differ from UK & US bus travel. Speaking of US bus travel, remind me to tell you guys about the bus trip I took from LA down to Tijuana. That was an experience I’ll never forget.
The timetable that I read wasn’t correct, off by about an hour, but it didn’t matter since I’d not boughten a ticket. Usually, I buy everything in advance and then just rush to the pickup spot. I'm a bit anxious that I won't be able to get a ticket on the coach that I want. I need to take a second to calm myself down. I'm starting to sweat and that's not good. Speaking of sweat, I heard some bullshit that tattooed skin can't sweat or doesn't sweat as well as non-tattooed skin. That's complete bullshit. I'm pretty heavily tattooed and I have no trouble sweating. I allow my thoughts to wander, thinking about new tattoo possiblitites and the free space I have to cover. I'm half done or so. The thought is exciting. I like that I'm a collection of artwork, memories and expressions. I'm a living, breathing art, history and science museum.
I’m sat with Pork Chop waiting for the bus when this elderly woman and this…this…dog appears out of the corner of my eye. They have this kind of jerking walking motion that is completely in synch. We have to try not to stare. I swear to God that doggo wasn’t real and that it was some sort of toy. It wouldn’t surprise me in this day and age. People make toys to fuck and animatronic people to fuck, so why wouldn’t they have little robot dogs? Places of mass public transit never fail to amuse me. Actually, sometimes they’re better entertainment than the shite you see on the idiot box. I glance up to see a bloke resembling Robear from N.Y Ink stunting his shit down the corridor like he’s on some sort of runway. Giggles bubble up inside me and I have to press my face into Pork Chop to keep from laughing. I’m glad I decided to take an early bus, otherwise, I’d have missed this. Robear catches us glancing at him, but doesn’t shy away, he gets even sassier. What a time we live in. As much as I love Victorian England this has to be a great period to exist in...though I think I'd rather be in my mid 20's in the 80's or 90's...of the 1900's not another time. Jesus.
I've got time to kill before we board the bus so I pull out my laptop and set to work on some of the travel blogs and other things that I have to post when I get home. The manuscript is coming along slowly, but surely. I'm quite proud with some of the content I've finished and the behind the scenes view I've been writing. And I'm clean. Who'd have thought? I've got nothing flowing through my veins that shouldn't be. I mean, my anxiety is pooling and the depression is still spiralling, but I can breathe a little easier. All this for doofus. Sometimes I have the moments of regret because I love the feeling of being high, but in the long run, it's better and I know it. It's better for him and I guess better for me.
....
I’m sat with Pork Chop waiting for the bus when this elderly woman and this…this…dog appears out of the corner of my eye. They have this kind of jerking walking motion that is completely in synch. We have to try not to stare. I swear to God that doggo wasn’t real and that it was some sort of toy. It wouldn’t surprise me in this day and age. People make toys to fuck and animatronic people to fuck, so why wouldn’t they have little robot dogs? Places of mass public transit never fail to amuse me. Actually, sometimes they’re better entertainment than the shite you see on the idiot box. I glance up to see a bloke resembling Robear from N.Y Ink stunting his shit down the corridor like he’s on some sort of runway. Giggles bubble up inside me and I have to press my face into Pork Chop to keep from laughing. I’m glad I decided to take an early bus, otherwise, I’d have missed this. Robear catches us glancing at him, but doesn’t shy away, he gets even sassier. What a time we live in. As much as I love Victorian England this has to be a great period to exist in...though I think I'd rather be in my mid 20's in the 80's or 90's...of the 1900's not another time. Jesus.
I've got time to kill before we board the bus so I pull out my laptop and set to work on some of the travel blogs and other things that I have to post when I get home. The manuscript is coming along slowly, but surely. I'm quite proud with some of the content I've finished and the behind the scenes view I've been writing. And I'm clean. Who'd have thought? I've got nothing flowing through my veins that shouldn't be. I mean, my anxiety is pooling and the depression is still spiralling, but I can breathe a little easier. All this for doofus. Sometimes I have the moments of regret because I love the feeling of being high, but in the long run, it's better and I know it. It's better for him and I guess better for me.
....
It’s All Over But The Crying by Garbage comes on my playlist just as we merge onto the motorway. How fitting; I’m leaving Stockholm and hopefully leaving some of the depressive thoughts of last night-earlier this morning staining the hotel room where the maids, armed with disinfectants, will scrub away all the blood and agony. I settle into my seat, Pork Chop next to me and look out against the landscape.I love seeing this hills and valleys of snowy trees. It’s strangely comforting, but it’s also as if they have a secret. I'm filled with secrets too. I know that I shouldn't be prying into their snow covered branches, but I really want to know what they've got hidden deep inside. I let the sexy and sultry vocals of Shirley Mason wash over me and I’m struck by the notion that I want to be on top of her, kissing her pale Scottish skin, her vibrant, pale and fresh green eyes staring through me with alarm and passion. Jesus Christ where did that come from? She’s like 50…but damn good looking for her age. No. No. Bad Daniel. What the fuck ever was that thought? I make a mental note to tell Chubb about it, knowing that he'll get a kick out of this 'old lady fetish' that I'm currently wading through. It hits me that I want to share every part of my life with him and I want him to do the same with me. What is this longing? Maybe I have brain cancer. I've never behaved in a maner like this before. Jessica's told me that its because it's real love and that I've probaby never been in proper love before. The comment pissed me off, but the kid may have a point.
We stop not to far outside Stockholm to pick up passangers. I'm itching to get going. Thankfully, the stop takes about 3 minutes as two people get on the bus and the driver is wheeling out before they can take their seats.
I feel like Lisbeth Salander as we rocket down the motorway. I’ve always loved the freedom of a wide open stretch of road. I’m struck with the thought that I wish I was driving it. Just me, Pork Chop and a motorbike, the world stretched out before us. It’s been long since I took the time to do that. God, it’s been even longer since I went snowmobiling too. Why did I ever let that go? The cold and ice is embedded in me and maybe I should embrace it more once again. I know that I can't really do this kind of thing in the city, but up north I'd be able to. A warm glowy sensation fills my stomch. What is this? Is this some kind of hope? Or joy? Am I making plans for the furutre? Am I wanting to enagage in activities that are possibly social and outside of being sarcastic? Tingles run through me at the idea of me back out racing through the snow, doing jumps and showing off.
A brilliant Swedish sky with burst soft warm golden sunlight though Chubb-thickness clouds welcome me as pull back onto the motorway after our first stop. It’s crazy how love I am with the view. It stretches out above me, warm and welcoming unlike the safe grey and snow drifts of yesterday’s sky. The friendly blue of the sky is deciveing; it's the same colour as a warm summer sky, but I know that below it, the temperature is barely above freezing. Phil creeps into my thoughts as I stare out across the snowy motorway. What? No. Go away. Why does he creep up like this? The thought is unnerving, though out of the pair of them, he’s not the stalker. What is this attraction to him? It’s more than my wonder at his egg-shaped noggin. There’s something mysterious about him; he’s kinda like a Christmas gift all wrapped up and I want to look inside that present. He's caused me deep and agonising pain, yet I'm still curious to sniff around his henhouse. Once again, I've learned nothing. Maybe I'm more of a masochist than I thought myself to be.
I feel like Lisbeth Salander as we rocket down the motorway. I’ve always loved the freedom of a wide open stretch of road. I’m struck with the thought that I wish I was driving it. Just me, Pork Chop and a motorbike, the world stretched out before us. It’s been long since I took the time to do that. God, it’s been even longer since I went snowmobiling too. Why did I ever let that go? The cold and ice is embedded in me and maybe I should embrace it more once again. I know that I can't really do this kind of thing in the city, but up north I'd be able to. A warm glowy sensation fills my stomch. What is this? Is this some kind of hope? Or joy? Am I making plans for the furutre? Am I wanting to enagage in activities that are possibly social and outside of being sarcastic? Tingles run through me at the idea of me back out racing through the snow, doing jumps and showing off.
A brilliant Swedish sky with burst soft warm golden sunlight though Chubb-thickness clouds welcome me as pull back onto the motorway after our first stop. It’s crazy how love I am with the view. It stretches out above me, warm and welcoming unlike the safe grey and snow drifts of yesterday’s sky. The friendly blue of the sky is deciveing; it's the same colour as a warm summer sky, but I know that below it, the temperature is barely above freezing. Phil creeps into my thoughts as I stare out across the snowy motorway. What? No. Go away. Why does he creep up like this? The thought is unnerving, though out of the pair of them, he’s not the stalker. What is this attraction to him? It’s more than my wonder at his egg-shaped noggin. There’s something mysterious about him; he’s kinda like a Christmas gift all wrapped up and I want to look inside that present. He's caused me deep and agonising pain, yet I'm still curious to sniff around his henhouse. Once again, I've learned nothing. Maybe I'm more of a masochist than I thought myself to be.
....
I’m lost in thought, watching my the miles pass me by caught up in the beautiful and melancholy melody of Mayonaise by The Smashing Pumpkins; I don’t think a song has ever been more truthful or relatable. The song is nothing but per poetry injected into a soft rock ballad. The sadness emanates from the gentle riffs, Billy’s lyrics painting an almost romantic story of longing, regret and secrets. Ah, the perils of artistic flair in depression. I aim to be half as creative and introspective as Billy in my work. My work. Is it really work? Maybe it's more of a hobby...then again, hobbies can be concidered work. But that means that the hobby is paying the bills and mine certinly don't. I'm always out looking for other ways to make a living, my hands in 32 dishes at the same time. I know I often make references of wearing so many hats at the same time, but the truth is, I really like it. I can't handle being bored. I relate to Sherlock in that regard. If I'm not using my mind for something, it starts to decay and the bacteria from said decay infects throughout and I go a bit mental. It's nothing sort of torture. I can't not be doing something. The constant engagement is something that I need. An idle mind can cause big trouble...then again, there are a lot of people who cause a lot of trouble with their theories and ideas. Two sides to the same coin, I guess.
It’s interesting how certain slants of light can bring back memories; events that seemed meaningless at the time of their occurrence. The snow-laden pine trees caught in a brilliant glow of early afternoon sun brings me back to Christmas 2012. Kassel, Germany. I’d gone in a pathetic attempt to try and be apart of something, in which I failed miserably. Well, there is one person I met that Christmas who’s been a part of my life ever since. Wonderful little Jenni Pie. And as I laid there, Christmas hunger aching through my tired bones, I felt a moment of thankfulness and bliss. I remembered the warmth and welcome of the light I’d been bathed in when I landed in Frankfurt days before, and now here I am on the E4 motorway outside of Norrköping in the same light, the same sentiments of wonder, amazement and longing filling me. Memory is suppsed to be a tool to guide us, help us to avoid danger and pain, yet sometimes it does nothing but bring pain. This is an irony that I can't laugh at.
....
We pull into the bus station in Linköping to a lovely and almost warm (for the season) afternoon. The snow and ice are bathed in light and the air is filled with the hustle and bustle of people getting on and off coaches, local buses and racing to the central train station next door. A garden of cycles of all sizes and colours resides in the front of the station. It reminds me of the Berlin Hauptbanhof; it's rare to go to by that station without seeing a massive collection of bicycles. I concider riding one for a moment but decide against it for two reasons: 1. All of the snow on the pavement and 2. I'd look like a complete twat.
The hotel is about 900 metres or less from the central station, so I take my time getting there, casually strolling along, listening to snippets of conversation as I pass. People getting ready for Valentine's Day, people complaining about work or discussing their plans for the rest of the weekend. I shuffle up the snowy pavement and into the hotel. It smells like carwash soap. I instantly love it. I wait a few minutes for a small woman with earrings, if they were stretched out straight would be longer than her, to pop around the corner. "Checking in?" "Yes." I hand her a copy of the booking and she looks at Pork Chop and I before writing out a recipet. "Here's your change. Have a great stay!" She hands me a regular key and informs me that I'm on the third floor. I don't bother with the lift (I'm not even sure there was one.) and head to my room to relax and grab something to munch.
....
We pull into the bus station in Linköping to a lovely and almost warm (for the season) afternoon. The snow and ice are bathed in light and the air is filled with the hustle and bustle of people getting on and off coaches, local buses and racing to the central train station next door. A garden of cycles of all sizes and colours resides in the front of the station. It reminds me of the Berlin Hauptbanhof; it's rare to go to by that station without seeing a massive collection of bicycles. I concider riding one for a moment but decide against it for two reasons: 1. All of the snow on the pavement and 2. I'd look like a complete twat.
The hotel is about 900 metres or less from the central station, so I take my time getting there, casually strolling along, listening to snippets of conversation as I pass. People getting ready for Valentine's Day, people complaining about work or discussing their plans for the rest of the weekend. I shuffle up the snowy pavement and into the hotel. It smells like carwash soap. I instantly love it. I wait a few minutes for a small woman with earrings, if they were stretched out straight would be longer than her, to pop around the corner. "Checking in?" "Yes." I hand her a copy of the booking and she looks at Pork Chop and I before writing out a recipet. "Here's your change. Have a great stay!" She hands me a regular key and informs me that I'm on the third floor. I don't bother with the lift (I'm not even sure there was one.) and head to my room to relax and grab something to munch.
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