Stockholm

Cotton wool control, bass memory and the escape to Vaxholm

Stockholm is beautiful. Too beautiful. Like an architectural model that accidentally became habitable. Everything works, no one screams, even the seagulls seem tamed by social democracy. A city that applauds itself on silent feet. Please do not touch – freshly ironed, state-maintained.

Anyone who steps out of line here will probably immediately receive an invitation to a discussion group, if not a permanent prescription for lisdexamfetamine. Rebellion? It's in the museum. More precisely: in the Avicii Experience, somewhere between an ABBA shop and a digital detox café. Inside, the lights flicker, the bass pounding – and suddenly something you'd almost forgotten vibrates: life. Tim Bergling, the boy who, from his Stockholm comfort cage, filled the world with sound until it danced – and it broke him.

Then, to calm down: the market hall. A temple of indulgence with hygiene standards of 3000. Fish so fresh it almost complains about not being in the water anymore. Reindeer, elk, salmon in all states of matter. In between, chocolates that look like jewels and cinnamon rolls with the sugar content of a small town. Everything a little too perfect, a little too photogenic – but you still want to try everything.

Afterwards: Ferry to Vaxholm. An escape to an idyll within an idyll. You glide over shimmering water, among pensioners with mirrorless cameras and pastel-colored sweaters. Vaxholm itself is Stockholm in miniature, only a bit more postcard-like. The fortress looks grim, but means well. Cinnamon buns, red wooden houses, no contradiction anywhere.

What remains is the feeling that everything here is just right – except for the inconsistencies. And that only exists in museums. And perhaps very rarely in the bass.