Tuesday April 22 2008

Breakfast in Sweden is largely similar to breakfast in England, with toast, cereal, dairy products, hot beverages, chairs, tables, cutlery and crockery are all present and correct. One notable difference, however, is the two nations' respective attitudes towards tea. In Sweden, tea is known as "English Breakfast Tea" and is considered a drink. It comes in a small box of individually labelled bags and, when the supply runs out, the Swedish drink something else until their next visit to the supermarket. In England, tea is known as "tea" and is considered a utility, like electricity and water. It comes in a large box crammed with nondescript teabags, strings and labels being the preserve of restaurants and royalty. When the supply runs out, a terrible panic suddenly afflicts everyone in the building, until someone physically exits through the door en route to the nearest shop. Said shop had better stock tea, irrespective of whether its primary business is groceries, pine furniture or legal advice, otherwise everybody's going to die.

We discovered a further difference in Filmjölk. This is a kind of mid-point between milk and yoghurt which somehow manages to contain the worst aspects of both. Lumpen and sour, putting it in your mouth is effectively the same as sticking your fingers down your throat. Combined with cornflakes, this mutant cow spawn creates a fascinating mixture which looks precisely the same before eating as it does ten minutes later when it escapes from the body, via the same orifice. I had toast.

After food, we met some animals. Not far from where we were staying was a volunteer-run community farm. We saw day-old-lambs, pigs, rabbits, more rabbits and a horse the size of a dog the size of a horse. Morani helps out here often during the week, and introduced us to her fellow farming friend Anette. Anette had just broken up with her boyfriend of four years because he played World of Warcraft too much. We neglected to mention how we knew Morani.

The highlight of the farm was a friendly collection of goats, skittering around a straw-laden pen under the watchful eye of an authoritative, composed creature we dubbed Boss Goat. For me, the experience brought back childhood memories - my family had two pet goats until I was around ten years old. Morani informed me at a later date that Boss Goat was diagnosed with crabs the day after our visit. I infer from this that Brodos had a good time too.

Once we'd had enough of the beasts, we headed into town. Kalmar lacked Kuopio's tourist tower, but we managed to take an aerial view of the area from the top of its central church, after befriending a cheerful historian named Anders who owned a key to the building's roof. He was guiding a group of Malaysian people - who had presumably paid him for the privilege - but seemed to abandon his duties in favour of talking to us. Historians are drawn to nerds like a magnet. Anders' Geekdar probably started pinging the moment we arrived in Sweden. Thanks to him, we learned many interesting facts about the history of Kalmar and its religious influences. Sadly I can't remember any of them, because the next port of call was the off-licence.

Sweden's drinking laws are strange. Bars sell booze as normal, but over-the-counter alcohol can be purchased in just one shop per town. Since we hailed from a nation in which thirsty drunkards can buy beer in a petrol station, this state mandated monopoly on take-home intoxicants seemed a little strict. The upside, however, was that the shop in question was, without a doubt, the single greatest off-licence I had seen in my entire life. It was a drinker's paradise, rammed to the rafters with enough wines, beers and spirits to satiate a Russian battalion. I drifted round the aisles in familiar delirious haze the English middle classes experience when presented with a surfeit of expensive edible goods, before stocking up on vintage port, Jamaican lager and strawberry cider. Brodos, Maddok and Morani, meanwhile, bought some drinks that weren't gay.

Before we left town, we paid visit to some kind of historical fortress, built by a famed Swedish nobleman, or "Swebleman", who once skiied across the whole country because he thought it was clever. I think that's accurate. I wasn't really paying attention.

Read from the start:
A Geek Adventure

Back home, we polished off the evening with a couple of films - Brodos' Marvel universe knowledge making X-Men 3 at least twice as entertaining as it deserved - before falling into our respective port-soaked slumbers.