This will not go down as one of the better days of the trip. In fact, I'll probably go so far as to say that it may just have been the worst. The night train to Malmö was certainly a big disappointment instead of being the somewhat charming and romantic trip I had hoped for over the plains of northern Germany and across the Baltic Sea. Admittedly, it was not as horrible as it could have been. But like many Americans, I tend to assume that things European are better than what we have at home. And perhaps one of the best things about travel is to disabuse yourself of this naïve idea. While the European systems seem to be admirably prompt, unlike Amtrak, they are not necessarily better in other ways. In fact, as a rider, Amtrak is in many ways better than much of the European railways system.
When I woke up this morning, we were still in the ship although the ship had apparently finished its crossing. The conductor came on the intercom to announce that we would be leaving after all the cars and trucks had pulled out. I think this also made it possible to time the last leg of the journey quite precisely. Indeed, we pulled into the railway station in Malmö just almost on the minute.
We had only about a half hour before we took the second train to Stockholm. I booked this train before we left, though I had no luck trying to get a first-class ticket for it on the Snälltåget website. After our bleak experience with the previous train, I suddenly became apprehensive about this one. I went into the station to talk to someone at the ticket office. It was closed and would not open until nine in the morning — this was a Saturday, not a work day. Just outside my assigned car I came across two women who appeared to be conductors. I asked about upgrading my ticket. One looked at the other, and they spoke briefly in Swedish. "No," I was told, "it cannot be done."
John and I found our seats. It was bleak, indeed. We were in a car almost identical to our sleeping car. However, the middle bunk had been removed. On the bottom bunks, functioning as seats, were six numbers, three on each side facing each other. There was only one other person in the compartment at that point, a young British guy. I was resigned to my fate at this point, but John was more determined. He went to the first-class compartment and found a table with a couple empty seats on each side. First class was somewhat better than second class, but hardly particularly nice. It had the same shabbiness that we had noticed on the other Swedish train cars. I reflected that the regular seats on Amtrak were far more comfortable and spacious than first class was on Snälltåget. We waited until the conductor came by. We asked her about upgrading. She admitted that she could sell us an upgrade, but she could not guarantee that we would have a seat. But she was gracious enough to simply tell us to stay there while we could. Obviously, if somebody boarded later with tickets for those seats we would have to leave.
We managed to stay there for almost three hours. The train made a couple stops and each time the car became a little more full. Finally, about halfway to Stockholm, a family with a couple young children appeared and they indeed had tickets to the seats we were using. We went to the dining car. Both of us bought some food. I purchased an almost edible sandwich. John purchased some soup and another sandwich. We ate as slowly as we could so we could keep out seats in the dining room car. People stood about with their food waiting for a table to open up. We sipped and nibbled.
But finally we had to go back to the miserable second class car. By this time, all the other seats were taken. The British guy stared into his phone with earphones on. I pulled out my Kindle and tried to read. John stayed for a while, and then left. Not long afterwards, I heard the sound of someone vomiting down the hallway of the car. I knew it had to be John. He is extremely prone to motion sickness. He looked miserable and ordered me to go back into my compartment while he stayed as close as he could to the bathroom. I thought we had about an hour until we made it to Stockholm, and I hoped that we could just get him into the hotel there and into bed.
Things got worse. They train stopped and everybody started to pack up. We were not in Stockholm. I asked the British guy what was up. "We have to stop here," he said, "and they're putting us on busses for the rest of the way." He had no idea why, but apparently he had been told that this would happen when he purchased his ticket. I found John and told him. He was clearly not a good candidate for a bus ride. After we pulled the luggage off the train, I asked the conductor about taxis. She said that they might be able to call us a taxi from the station.
John was not ready to leave yet. Although it was lightly sprinkling, he laid down on a bench outside the station. I suppose the fresh air helped. We were obviously in some small town that might be a kind of outlying suburb for Stockholm. Still, Google Maps told me that it was at least a half hour from there by car to our hotel — the one I had picked because it was right by the Stockholm train station. When John was feeling better I tried Uber. It took about another half hour for the Uber to finally arrive.
We had an interesting conversation with the driver. I figured from his name that he was Turkish, but he apparently had been living in Sweden for quite a while. He told us that Sweden had successfully forced Uber to function more or less as a taxi service. They had to all had to have taxi licenses and had to charge the same rate as regular taxis. I knew it was going to be an expensive ride. And it was — about 770 kronor, or a little over 80 dollars.
The Hotel Terminus was better than I expected from the reviews on Booking. We had a spacious corner room with views of Central Station and a bit of the harbor. John had taken a dramamine after he became sick, and he slept for a couple hours. I edited some photos from Berlin and checked out things to do in Stockholm.
In the evening it was still quite light. John woke up feeling hungry. I found a place near the Opera House that was supposed to have great meatballs. We wandered over there along the waterfront. It was drizzling on and off. When we found the restaurant, we learned that they had no available tables for a while. Disappointed, we pushed on. We came across a strange "Hard Rock" festival in a nearby park. It appeared to be local groups, mostly young, doing covers of classic American heavy metal songs. It was loud, but the singers were having problems with both the words and the pitches. Still, the audience seemed appreciative enough.
We found a place called "Fridays" at the end of the park. It was clearly a rip-off of the American TGI Fridays chain. We decided to eat there because John was in the mood for a hamburger and sort of wanted to listen to the "Hard Rock" concert. The menu proudly announced that just about everything was made with "Jack Daniels sauce." I wondered if any of these Stockholm folk knew that this was the food beloved of the folks who voted for Trump — someone, I am sure, they all despised.
I am sure tomorrow will be a better day.
