M/S Diana (Kids Stuff)

Jamie preceded me as we gingerly wavered our way up the gangplank of the M/S Diana.  The climb was short but rather steep and the gentle movement beneath our feet reinforced the realization that we would be spending the majority of the next six days on the water.  The centerpiece of our trip to Sweden was on the cusp of pulling away from the cobblestone capped, concrete seawall separating Stockholm's Old Town (Gamla Stan) from one of the Baltic Sea's many fingers.  And our anticipation was on edge as well as 12 months of research combined with planning were about to become reality.  Surreal in the moment - vivid today.  Now Jamie stepped aboard the teakwood deck with casual grace while my pursuit of a dignified entrance was betrayed by a last-step, toe-stick and lurch.  But the First-mate, a blond man in the prime of life, provided a steadying hand along with a knowing smile that assured me I wasn't the first voyager whose vanity had outlived his lithe of foot.  Introductions in perfect english.  Firm handshakes and words of welcome.  Then we were shown to our cabin by one of the deckhands - a young lady, not far removed from a classroom.  A smile-on-her-face, help-with-anything, jack-of-all-trades named Britt who gave us a brief orientation to the Diana as we descended to the deck below.

The M/S Diana was launched from the Finnboda Shipyard on the outskirts of Stockholm in the spring of 1931.  Designed and built for the sole purpose of passenger travel along the Göta Kanal, her specs where dictated by the size of the smallest of the canal's locks.  Those choke points had in turn been sized a tad smaller than the era's state-of-the-art Russian warship.  For in 1810, when the dream of a southern waterway embraced first shovel scoop, fear of the "menace from the east" trumped both engineering savvy and economic logic.  Smaller locks ensured an invading force less ominous.    

I digress.  Let's see: Length 31.66 meters, beam 6.79 meters, draft 2.72 meters.  Originally powered by steam, she was retrofitted to diesel in 1969.  But her persona remains true to a more tranquil age when relaxation and serenity took precedence over speed and entertainment.  With only 25 small cabins which accommodate approximately 50 passengers, she is quite modest by today's standards.  Also, neither toilet nor shower are to be found in any room.  Prerequisites on today's behemoths.  Instead, there are seven-total communal albeit single occupancy washrooms scattered about the boat.

Soon after Britt had dropped us off at our cabin, Jamie and I were unpacked and settled.  So, we set out to explore the ship on our own.  Three decks connected by two steep, nearly vertical staircases.  Our cabin was nestled down below on the port side of the Main deck and our self-guided tour began as we stepped into a passageway running with the keel of the vessel.  About half of the cabins-total rested on either side of this corridor and towards the aft four of those communal bathrooms resided.  Two of the four toilets were combined with showers.  Further back resided the galley and crew's quarters but these were off limits.  Reversing course, we climbed to the Shelter deck and surfaced between a cozy lounge towards the bow and a dining area amidships.  Continuing back to the stern of our ship we found a few more passenger cabins as well as the second "staircase" ladder ascending to the Bridge deck.  As the name implies, a command center and helm up front with the final complement of cabins just behind.  But the majority of space dedicated to outdoor seating with promises of a ringside seat as the countryside would soon be rolling by at six miles per hour.    

As you might imagine, our little reconnoiter didn't take long.  So we found a quiet nook on the Bridge deck where we would witness the ships departure.  An "energy" encompassed the ship now as departure time rapidly neared.  No sooner had we set down, than Jamie enthused:

"This is exciting.  This is fun.  I'm so glad we chose to do this trip.  Do you remember what we'll see today?  Where will we dock for the night?"

"It is fun, isn't it?"  I commented and began to stand while adding. " I've forgotten already.  I left the itinerary down in our cabin.  I'll go get it.  Be right back."  

With that, I earnestly headed to the ladder.  As I approached from the port side, the First Mate was converging quickly from the wheelhouse along the starboard deck - almost at a run.  He glanced me a smile and nimbly descended.  Face forward.  His feet never broke stride.  Then, only a breakneck "tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap" gave witness of him as he disappeared from view down the hatch.  

Now, that image contrasts sharply with my approach to the ladder.  The view to the Shelter deck looked a lot farther down than the ascent in the opposite direction had seemed mere minutes before.  I hesitated.  I stopped.  I nonchalantly pretended to be viewing the sights as my mind raced in an effort to recall what the First Mate had used for handholds mere seconds before.  However, that was simply a blur.  Indeed, brass handrails offered a steadying influence but little consolation.  A mental picture quickly developed of a tag team event - arthritic joints teaming with wobbly balance vs. devilish inflection points paired with the laws of physics.  It occured to me that I might have to crawl down backwards on all fours.  Mercy no!  Pride bonded immediately with embarrassment and quickly vetoed that idea.  No.  Face forward was mandatory.  Deliberate and steady were demanded.  A three point technique was required.  Easy.  Peasy.  Done.  And by the grace of God, I'm pleased to report that descent was achieved.  Very slow.  Somewhat shaky.  A tad humbling.  But upright and feet first nonetheless. 

My relief was short lived as I began to pivot before my focus lifted from the decking.  I smacked directly into someone approaching the ladder from the other way.

"Oh!  Sorry.  Sorry.  Sorry."  I flustered.

"Too much excitement.  I should watch what I'm doing."  All the while wondering if my victim could understand a word I was saying.  But as my fixation rose from the deck to his face, eye contact found an understanding gaze in return and a slight nod.

For unknown reasons the ladder down to the Main deck was always less intimidating than the descent from the Bridge deck.  So, the itinerary was found right where it had been left and I hurried back to Jamie without further incident.

The Diana was about to cast off.  Her whistle howled. 

Stockholm (Kids Stuff)

The flight into Arlanda International Airport and subsequent commuter train ride into Stockholm proper are lost in the fog of jet lag.  But the shock of sunlight as the escalator ejected Jamie and me out at street level from the train platform below jolted the senses back to life and the search for our hotel began.  Now, a few short years ago, this task would have been daunting.  Just understanding which way is north would challenge every instinct.  If that weren't enough, language barriers would intimidate the most adventurous traveler.  But a few short years have rendered all that mere afterthought.  An invention of the impossible has become the ordinary if not the extraordinary - the smartphone ascended from the "perfect storm" of technologies.  A tap of the "Maps" application results in a little blue dot establishing our exact location on the map.   Then entering the name of our hotel presents a big red "pin".  Somehow, a tiny arrow attached to the blue dot swivels its aim intently at the direction the phone is facing in relationship to magnetic north.  Easy.  Peasy.  Done.  Unfortunately, yours truly, inevitably insists upon proceeding in a direction that can only be attributed to an innate inner compass honed in the real world reality of travels past.  Well, at this point, Jamie vocalizes a few misgivings but humors me nonetheless.  Off we go.

After walking a block or two, it's our habit to check the "Maps" app again.

"Oh, oh...this doesn't seem right.  Are we in some sort of dead zone?"  I puzzle while scanning the glimpses of sky peeking between the high rise buildings in search of some sort of visible radio signal.  Returning my gaze to the phone, I resign.  "That blue dot is now farther away from the red pin than before.  I don't see how but we must be going the wrong way.  You were right."

I think Jamie allows the whole episode to happen just so she can hear those three magic words.

Nonetheless, we arrived and for the next two days explored the city.  We boarded double decker buses to see some of the sights from above.  Drivers expertly, make that miraculously, carved their way through the hustle and bustle of the crowds.

Tourists en masse, many of whom had most assuredly arrived on the ever revolving flotilla of cruise ships, each the size of a mid-size city, that lined the various port access points.  The current day luxury liners loom in stark contrast to the 17th century warship Vasa which is housed in a maritime museum of the same name.  In 1628, the ship capsized in Stockholm harbor a mere stones throw into her maiden voyage.  Top heavy, the 64 gun warship, keeled over when the first gust of wind pressed her sails.  Salvaged in 1961, she now rests enclosed, high and dry.  A testimony to man's penchant for creativity and beauty while giving witness to our hubris and contentious tendencies in the same breath.

Next up, the Nobel Museum.  Here we learned about many of humanity's greatest minds and their contributions in chemistry, physics, economics, literature, peace, and medicine. I was stunned when I read about three nanotechnologists who won the 2016 Nobel Prize in Chemistry for building miniature machines out of molecules.  Think about that for a second.

As we exited the Royal Palace we were not only lucky enough to stumble upon the changing of the guard but were carried along by the crowd to a front-row viewpoint as well.  Up close, the faces of most of the participants were young.  Very young.  Stark reminders that all empires build their foundations on the bedrock of their youth.  Sobering truths confronting an old man on vacation.

For variety, water taxis zipped us between various districts of the city as they plied the waterways amongst an assortment of watercraft that boggles the mind in number if not description.

But most fun of all, the out-of the-way back alleys of Old Town and the main promenades of the shopping district on foot.

A last-night seafood dinner at a sidewalk cafe included a bread basket comprised of hardtack along with Swedish Limpa orange-rye bread - tastes that had laid dormant on my mind for sixty plus years.  Flavors that triggered long ago images of a hunched, gray haired woman.   Aromas that kindled warm memories of my widowed, maternal grandmother - Esther Desideria Carlson Anderson.  A maternal forebear who was frail yet strong.  Dressed in drab yet cheerful.  Alone yet loving.  A woman who left everything she knew to journey half way across the globe in search of something called Amerika.  All at the ripe old age of 17.  Mercy.  

After supper Jamie and I strolled over to the harbor's edge.  We found the perfect bench to take in the sights of the waterway still bustling even as the shadows lengthened.  The soft summer breeze coming off the water calmed the senses.  The gentle lapping quieted our thoughts and we sat in silence for a time.  Simply blessed in the moment.

Then Jamie asked, “Do you think your Grandfather was ever here in Stockholm?”

The question probed unexpectedly deep and I pondered the question for a second before responding. 

"......I have no idea.....I disappoint myself with how little I know about him......I can only imagine.......Those boats........". 

But even as the words were forming my mind lapsed into the distance.  An enigma welled up.  A man named Andrew.  Esther's husband who died long before I was born.  I wonder of him now and again.  Father.  Boatbuilder.  Musician.  Adventurer.  Man of God.  Those simple labels are all that remain.  His mystery shrouded in time is profound.  The wonder......  

"You did it again."  Jamie interrupted.

"Did what?" I puzzled.

"You didn't finish your sentence."  

"What sentence?"

"Something about boats."  She said with a little frustration added in for effect.

"Oh...yeah...boats....That sloop over there is really beautiful, isn't she?"

The Göta Kanal (Kids Stuff)

Göta Kanal.  That's Swedish for those of you without roots grounded in the Motherland.  It's not easy to find on a map much less pronounce - so says this third or fourth generation American.  Third, when tracing my Mother's side of the family tree.  Fourth, when pursuing my Father's.  But back to that pronunciation.  Let's try doing it phonetically:  Jhu-ta Canal......No, that's close but no cigars.  Try again.  Jhu.....Sjhoo-ta.....Sjhoo-ta Canal.  That's it.  Perfect.   

Now that we have that little bit of housekeeping out of the way, a few facts.  The Göta Kanal is some 240 miles in length and runs in a generally east to west direction through the southern portion of Sweden.  Construction began in the early 1800's and the passage was officially opened on September 26, 1832.  The waterway links a number of lakes and rivers by virtue of some 58 locks with the high point being about 92 meters above sea level.  Originally conceived as a transportation boon for an economy based on mining and agriculture, the canal has now been relegated to an afterthought for tourists and vacationers.

And so it came to pass that the Fall of 2017 arrived and something unforeseen blossomed within - I found myself wanting to go to Sweden.  Now there is nothing unusual about my desire to see new and off-the-beaten-track places.  That pretty much happens a couple of weeks after the return from every vacation I've ever taken.  But that Sweden part caught me off guard.  When other members of my family had voiced their desire to visit the Motherland I had always dismissed it as a destination because Scandinavia was simply too similar in nature to the environs surrounding the Salish Sea of the great Pacific Northwest.  Why go halfway around the world to see pretty much a mirror image of what is proclaimed everyday out the back door?

Then there was that awkward issue of ancestry.  Sure, it's nice, maybe even important to understand one's roots.  But to truly capture the essence, the very soul, of who these people had been generations past and worlds apart presented a muddle of depth that I had never been willing to wade into.  Indeed, genetics are a funny thing.  The further into the past one travels, the less a person has in common with any single ancestor.  The same can be said for moving into the future and those who will come after us.  Without doubt, those whom we touch in our brief lifespans are those with whom we share the most.

All that said in an effort to justify a sense of guilt somewhere deep down inside.  A disquiet springing from the knowledge that vast oceans of my heritage are simply unknown to my consciousness.  For that ignorance, blame is often transferred from myself to the premise that life happens and sometimes life gets in the way.  Rationalizations of that manner had always shouted down opposing opinions during any internal debates regarding a trip back in time to the Old Country.  Needless to say, those contending notions had always gone quietly.

But the Fall of 2017 was different.  This time, Sweden wouldn't let go.  The want quickly evolved into something akin to a need and the question moved from "if" we should go to "when" and "how" should we go.  That, along with a few "must haves":  a connection with the past, a varied and interesting venue, large doses of relaxation, and lots of good food.

It took a bit of research but soon the internet provided the perfect answer - six days meandering the Swedish countryside at six miles per hour.   The Göta Kanal.

And with a casual mention of the whole idea to Jamie, the trip was soon booked for August 2018.

Join us as we journey.

Stockholm 

M/S Diana 

The Locks

Boats - in writing

The Emigrant - in writing

Copenhagen - in writing

Sights along the Way

Riverdance (God Moments)

My mind has played back to July 2016 a number of times these past couple of weeks.  Jamie and I were blessed to travel to Ireland.  We flew into Dublin and stayed there for a couple of days before taking the train to the wild, Irish western coast and a week of trekking.  While in Dublin we stayed in a very small, three star hotel in a quiet, off-the-beaten-path district of the city.  The lobby spoke to an earlier era and upon check-in we learned that the hotel presented a dinner/show once a week.  As fate would have it, a presentation was scheduled for the next night.  The venue was in the basement of the hotel and the program featured Riverdance.

Jamie was thrilled when we were able to get tickets.  Me?  Not so much.  Riverdance simply scares me.  When those dancers get their legs going really, really fast, I envision a foot or two flying off and landing in my soup.  Freaky.  Nonetheless, after the next day's sightseeing, off we went.  We were seated along with about two hundred (a generous estimate) other patrons at tables of six which surrounded a small stage.  Now, I really don't remember much of the show.  I probably had my eyes closed.  But somewhere along the way, the Master of Ceremonies began listing off the continents.  Africa....North America....Australia....South America....Asia ....Europe....and with each land mass, he asked for a show of hands from the residents of said continent.  Well, there was no one from Antarctica, but at least one hand was raised by a citizen from each of the other six.

Think about that for a second.  Two hundred random people coming together and sitting down for an evening of Riverdance within a very modest, somewhat obscure setting.  And six continents are represented.

Sometimes I'm thankful that God has blessed me with a blissful ignorance.  Because I never realized until this week that the very means that afforded me and my two hundred dinner companions the opportunity to be entertained by Riverdance has now provided something called a Coronavirus the capacity to proliferate to every corner of the globe. 

Math, even simple math, challenges me.  For the more gifted, the cause and effect has probably been obvious for quite some time.  But in this unprecedented hour, the law of unintended consequences is quite profound as we learn to practice "social distancing" in an effort to "flatten the curve".  There is a heavy sense of loss.  Loss of control.  Loss of understanding.  Loss of livelihood.  Loss of relationship.  For some, loss of life itself.

None of that is to be made light of.  All of it gives one pause and that deliberation may in turn trigger a tinge of fear.  But maybe that's just me.  As you may have surmised, I frighten easily.  Regardless, our greatest Hope is rooted in the most troubled times.  So know this - God is good.  Absolutely good.  And I'm pretty sure that He's really good at math.

Luke 12:6-7 - "Are not five sparrows sold for two copper coins?

And not one of them is forgotten before God.

But the very hairs on your head are all numbered.

Do not fear therefore;

you are of more value than many sparrows."

Isaiah 55:9 - "For as the heavens are higher than the earth,

So are My ways higher than your ways, 

And My thoughts than your thoughts."

John 3:16 - "For God so loved the world
that he gave His only begotten Son,
that whoever believes in Him should not perish
but have everlasting life."