Stockholm was a family thing.
Nicholas’s mom’s dad, Papa, was born in Sweden, and she’d always wanted to bring her kids here to see his country. So the whole crew assembled: Nicholas, Pokin, me, Nicholas’s mom, Anna, and Adam. First time all of them have been in the same country that wasn’t the United States.
The Food Tour#
We started day one with an organized food tour, because Pokin likes to experience cities through what they put in your mouth. Fair enough.
The tour took us to the Östermalm Market Hall, which is one of those grand old European food halls with iron beams, polished wood stalls, and the quiet implication that everything costs three times what you expected.
The first stop was B. Andersson, a game meat stall with taxidermied animals watching you eat their relatives. They had samples of dried reindeer, moose salami, and other Nordic meats displayed with tiny Swedish flags like that makes it festive.
And then.
They had bear.
Let me say that again. They served bear.
Nicholas ate it. He just stood there and ate bear meat while I watched. His own travel companion. His first investor. His ring-BEARer. And he ate bear.
I am told it was “interesting” and “gamey.” I am told it was “just a sample.” I do not care. This is a betrayal on a cellular level.
I reminded myself that it was probably one of those stupid bears that lives near water and eats salmon instead of cocoa. One of those big, dumb, wet bears that I don’t respect. That helped a little.
We moved on.
Swedish Bastards#
Next on the tour was a stop that I can only describe as Sweden’s revenge on tourists.
They gave everyone something called “Swedish Bastards,” which is licorice coated in salmiak powder. If you’ve never had salmiak, imagine someone took regular salty licorice and said, “this isn’t aggressive enough,” and then dusted it with ammonium chloride until it fights back.
The reviews were unanimous: awful. Objectively terrible. Like licking a battery that hates you.
Sweden invented meatballs, cinnamon buns, and ABBA, and then also invented this. Nobody’s perfect.
The Sampler#
The tour continued to another spot where they served a proper Swedish sampler plate. This was much better. Shrimp salad on toast with dill and roe. Smoked salmon. Herring on crispbread. A creamy fish soup. Västerbotten cheese pie.
Then the whole group crammed into a market lunch spot and ordered more food, because apparently the food tour wasn’t enough food.
Fika#
And then we discovered fika.
Fika is Sweden’s word for “coffee break,” except it’s not a break, it’s a religion. You sit down. You order coffee. You eat a cinnamon bun. You do this multiple times per day. It is, without exaggeration, the greatest cultural tradition I have ever encountered.
We stopped at a café in the old town that had the extremely on-the-nose name of “FIKA and Wine.”
The cinnamon bun was perfect. Golden, sticky, dusted with pearl sugar, served on a proper ceramic plate. Not a paper cup situation. Not a grab-and-go. A sit-down, shut-up, enjoy-this-properly situation.
Fika quickly became everyone’s favorite Swedish tradition. We did it every day for the rest of the trip. I regret nothing.
Also, fika does not involve bear meat. This is noted and appreciated.
Gamla Stan#
After fika, we walked into Gamla Stan, Stockholm’s old town, where the buildings look like someone painted a fairy tale and forgot to stop.
The facades are stacked in reds, oranges, and yellows with stepped gables and narrow windows, and the whole thing feels like it was designed specifically to sell postcards. Which it was. But it works.
Cemetery Stop#
Nicholas’s mom loves cemeteries. This is a thing. Every trip, she finds one. Stockholm delivered.
It was a quiet green space with old gravestones, wildflowers, and a red-brick building with castle turrets behind it. Peaceful and a little bit storybook. I’ll allow it.
Evening: More Meatballs#
We ended the day with another round of Swedish meatballs, because apparently you can’t go twelve hours in Sweden without a meatball.
These were better than the food-tour ones. Proper restaurant plate. Creamy gravy. The lingonberries did their thing.
I checked the menu. No bear. We’re safe.
Day 2: The Waterfront#
The next day was a waterfront day. Less organized, more wandering. Stockholm is built on islands, so you’re never far from water, and the harbor areas have that Scandinavian thing where everything is clean and elegant and makes you feel like your own city is deeply underperforming.
We walked along the quays past boat tour departure points and marina docks. Someone had put up a sign reading “The Best of Stockholm” which is bold advertising but, looking around, not entirely wrong.
The Ferry#
We took a ferry across the harbor, which turned out to be the best way to see the city. Just hop on, sit down, and watch Stockholm slide past the windows.
The ferry dropped us back near Gamla Stan, and that was Stockholm wrapped up. Two days of food tours, waterfront wandering, family time, and an unreasonable number of cinnamon buns.
Stockholm was good. Clean, calm, beautiful in that effortless Nordic way, and fun to explore with the whole crew. The food tour was a highlight, the fika tradition is something I intend to bring home permanently, and the waterfront is one of the best city walks we’ve done anywhere in Europe.
But I need to be clear about something.
I have traveled to over thirty countries with this man. I have been in his backpack through airports, mountains, deserts, icebergs, and oceans.
And he ate bear.
In front of me.
At a food tour.
In Sweden.
I’m not saying I’ll forget. I’m saying I’ll remember strategically.
Next stop: Örebro, deeper into Sweden. Where the food is hopefully less personal.