Stockholm is a picturesque city.

The Old Town district/island is filled with narrow, picturesque cobblestone streets lined with picturesque buildings under a picturesque sky. Seriously, it’s so picturesque you could take a picture of it. An actual, literal picturesque picture.

These picturesque streets all lead to the town center, Storatorget. The Old Square is about as picturesque as you can get, what with its beautiful old fountain and its charming, colorful old buildings and such.

The place is steeped in history, pigeon droppings, and blood. Back in the early 1500s, one of Sweden’s leaders, Christin II (or “Christin the Raving Psycho,” as his followers affectionately called him), decided this very town square would be just the place to take all of his political opponents and chop off their heads. The picturesque roads ran with the picturesque blood of his picturesque fallen enemies, whose picturesque entrails were left scattered about the picturesque square as a warning to others. Ah, those whacky countries with their whacky royalty and their whacky mass-executions-in-the-town-square ways!

Today, it’s a good place to stop for a sandwich.

It’s flanked on one side by the imposing facade of the Nobel Museum, dedicated to celebrating over a century of achievement in medicine, peace, physics, chemistry, literature, economics, and irony. (Little known fact: Henry Kissenger is the only person ever to win a Nobel Prize twice in the same year, when he won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1973 for his work on helping to keep the war in Viet Nam alive, and the Nobel Prize in Irony that same year for winning the Nobel Peace Prize.)

The Nobel Prize itself is named after the man who went down in history as being the man who didn’t want to go down in history as an arms dealer who invented dynamite and smokeless gunpowder, so decided after he was dead to leave his money, which he himself no longer had any use for, to establish a series of prizes for people whose work most benefitted mankind each year and Henry Kissenger.

After this part of the tour, which as per usual didn’t involve actually going into the Nobel Museum, we hopped a boat for the water portion of the tour. Our tour group broke up at this point, with those who had opted for the Stockholm Syndrome package being hit over the back of the head and tossed into the back of a nondescript Chevy panel van, and the rest of us herding into a tour boat.

Stockholm from the water is an interesting blend of old and new, with bland apartment buildings across the water from ancient palaces that serve as monuments to decadence that would make Larry Ellison blush.

From the water, we passed by the Riddersholm Church, about which I can find very little. It appears to be an ancient church with a long, hard iron steeple thrusting proudly into the sky to symbolize the grandeur of God. And also the architect’s penis.

Stockholm is ringed with locks, which are used to manage the flow of water into the sea. I’d never actually passed though a lock before, and it was all very exciting. One minute we were at sea level, and the next, thanks to the miracle of modern technology, we were fourteen feet above it.

When the locks were first built, a small but vocal group of people opposed this new technology. They were concerned that the engineers and ironsmiths were playing God, tampering with nature by changing the level of water to suit their own whims; and they were worried that if the engineers made a mistake, they might accidentally create an unstoppable army of giant mechanized killer robots, who would travel through the lands in an orgy of death and destruction. Today, the descendants of those same people say something similar about genetically modified food.

While we were passing through the lock, this kindly old gentleman stood on the bank catching fish:

It had never occurred to me that a lock might be a good place to fish, but apparently it’s as easy as catching fish in…well, in a large walled chamber with movable gates in the front and back that let fish in but don’t let them back out very easily.

Before we returned to our floating hotel, we passed by the home of the American ambassador to Sweden.

The American ambassador to Sweden presides over such important official duties as “attending parties,” “attending state functions,” “telling the Crown Princess that she looks good in that hat,” and “drinking brandy.” In exchange for four years of selfless service to his country under such harsh and grueling conditions–a job for which he must be eminently qualified, and own a tuxedo–he spends his off-duty time here, in quiet contemplation of the money he spent and the palms he greased to attain his position, where he can use his not inconsiderable talents toward the betterment of his fellow man. Much like Henry Kissenger.

The day after it departed, our enormous floating hotel and overpriced shopping mall cruise ship pulled into port in Stockholm, Sweden.

I say “pulled into port,” but the reality is closer to “crawled slowly into port with the gingerness of an 18-year-old virgin undressing a girl for the very first time, halfway expecting to find a bear trap underneath her bra strap.”

My parents decided to take one of the ship’s many shore excursion packages. We debated for a while which package to buy–the Stockholm Old Town Tour, the Stockholm Water Excursion, the Stockholm Syndrome Tour. I voted for the last one; everyone else who had been on it really seemed to like it. (One reviewer said “After taking this tour, I fell in love with Stockholm, but I don’t know why!”) My parents didn’t listen to me, though–they felt that if I wanted to be drugged, bound, and thrown into the back of a van, I could do that when we got to Russia.

We ended up doing the Old Town tour. Stockholm is splattered across several islands; Old Town is the central island, where past royalty built their palaces, plotted coups, and lost wars.

The bus disgorged us in front of the Storkyrkan, an ancient Protestant church right across the street from the royal palace.

Our tour guide was very, very enthusiastic about the Storkyrkan. You see, the Storkyrkan is the place where the Swedish crown princess had just got married. And the Swedish crown princess’s wedding was a very beautiful thing, you see, and the whole country was just absolutely delighted that Parliament had agreed after eight years of courtship to give her the go-ahead to marry her beloved personal trainer, you see, and when they got married in the church it was on TV, you see, and there were all these flowers, and…

Now, personally, she seemed just a little too enthusiastic about it all to me, like maybe she needed to adjust her Ritalin dosage a bit. I’m not suggesting that it wasn’t a gorgeous ceremony, mind, but frankly, getting that invested in someone else’s marriage seems more than a bit…weird to me. You see.

Of course, needing to have an act of Parliament in order to get hitched also seems a bit weird to me, so what do I know. Ah, those whacky countries with their whacky royalty!

Her enthusiasm for the Storkyrkan didn’t extend to actually taking us inside. We did, however, get to see this statue outside of it:

The statue celebrates the victory of St. George over the Dragon, where “St. George” was apparently some mercenary who came into Sweden to champion the causes of Truth, Justice, and Lutheranism, and the Dragon was the Catholic Church. It’s all very complicated, but apparently some dude rode into town and offered to help Sweden fight in some battle or other if they would in exchange agree to worship some invisible guy the way he wanted them to instead of the way some other dude wanted them to, and they said OK, and he did, and he won, and they all converted to his invisible-dude-worshipping ways, and they put up a statue filled with symbolic imagery, which they then spoiled by explaining it at great length to any tourist who will listen. Or something.

So yeah. Dude hitting a dragon, which represents the Catholic Church, from the back of his horse, which represents the Power of Truth, with his sword, which represents his penis.

The statue is a stone’s throw from the Royal Palace itself. Not that I would recommend throwing stones at it, seeing as how it’s guarded at all times by an ever-rotating contingent of palace guards drawn from all branches of Sweden’s formidable military.

This guy was on duty when we passed through the gates:

I know some of the folks who read my blog have a military background. You guys will recognize instantly that the formidable headgear this guy is wearing sends a clear and unmistakable message: this is a man with whom you should not fuck.

For those of you unversed in the military arts, almost the entire history of military endeavors comes down to hats. Throughout history, armies have poured vast resources into researching and developing the hat. The hat is how you can tell the power of an army. Armies with cool headgear almost invariably triumph over armies with less cool headgear. Spikes, buckles, shields, feather dusters, and all sorts of other accoutrements have been used throughout history to send clear messages to the opposition: Our hats are far more grandiose than yours. Prepare for annihilation.

The history of the West looks something like this:

So it is clear, even to a casual observer, that this guard is someone you simply don’t mess with, unless you wish to dine upon your own spleen forthwith.

Now, about the Royal Palace.

I have no pictures of the inside of the Royal Palace. Photography is strictly forbidden within the Palace, for reasons of national security. I can’t tell you what I saw, but I can tell you that there is some serious, weapons-grade ostentation in there. The Royal Palace is the Swedish national stockpile of ostentation. How much? Well, the OUTSIDE of the Royal Palace has waterfalls built into every corner, and gold-plated engraving in the stone:

Once you get within those walls, we are talking about a level of ostentation that induces heart arrhythmia in the very young or the very old. We’re talking about ostentation the likes of which a mere grasshopper like Lady Gaga can scarcely even begin to comprehend.

We’re talking about gold inlays in the doorjambs and frescoes on the ceilings. We’re talking about marble hand-quarried from the deepest forests of Brazil by nude young maidens between the ages of 18 and 24 (inclusive) who come from all-female tribes of bellydancers and who have never known the touch of a man. We’re talking about dining rooms that could swallow up a 747 and fart out half a dozen Piper Cubs. We’re talking about bedrooms where one could comfortably host a game of rugby, with enough room on the sidelines for three Roman orgies, a military procession, and the entire team of Budweiser Clydesdales.

Today, the Royal Palace is a museum. And one of the residences of the royal family. And the place where official ceremonies and receptions are held. And the site of the annual Nobel dinner. And the official meeting place of the heads of state. And a site for public lectures. And a ballroom. And state apartments for visiting dignitaries. And another museum. At the same time. And you thought Graceland was over the top.

The palace is divided into sections, with the western part representing the king and the eastern part representing the queen. The king and queen, each accompanied by the Royal Academy of Spelunkers, could wander for years in this place without ever once crossing paths–making it by far the most successful example in Western history of how the artifice of the royal architect is instrumental in maintaining harmony within the Royal Family and, so, within the nation.

The bill just for dusting the place comes, I’m told, to about two decimal places greater than the entire gross national product of half the world’s nations. This has led to a crisis within Sweden, as thousands of antiquities-dusters, fleeing the collapse of the Soviet Union, have swarmed across Sweden’s borders seeking jobs within the Royal Palace. The fiercely protective and politically connected Swedish Brotherhood of the Ancient Duster, Sweden’s trade union representing national dusters, wipers, washers, cleaners, and others, has used its considerable influence to generate a popular backlash against the foreigners with their cheap synthetic Chinese-made feather dusters. With billions of krona at stake, this chapter in Sweden’s turbulent political history is still being written.

I generally am not a fan of cruises, truth be told.

Cruise ships generally feel to me like floating hotels with overpriced shopping malls attached. I’ve never been much for shopping malls; the appeal, so obvious to any 14-year-old girl, is totally lost on me. I do rather like hotels, and I’m more than a little fond of getting up to all sorts of serious hanky-panky in them of the type that gets the staff talking, but sharing a stateroom with my sister rather than a partner puts the kibosh on that.

Having said that, modern cruise ships are awe-inspiring structures. They’re big. Really, really big. I mean, it’s hard not to be impressed by the bigness of the size of them. They’re big and they’re massive and they’re driven by power plants that probably produce more energy than all the industrial machinery of, say, the year 1800 combined.

While we were pulling out of Copenhagen, I couldn’t help but wonder what the world balance of power would look like if this thing were suddenly transported backward in time to, say, 1770 or so. It’d be an impregnable floating nation-state!

Well, until it ran out of fuel, anyway. And yes, this is the kind of thing I think about. All the time.

So we set sail on our impregnable-steel-nation-state-cum-floating-hotel-and-gift-shop straight into a storm front that was impressive and spectacular in the way only storm fronts over the Baltic can be.

I quite like dramatic thunderstorms. Especially when i can stay indoors and watch.

A few hours later, as we were passing through the tail end of the storm, the sky got SERIOUSLY dramatic. If I were of a more religious bent, this sight probably would have turned my mind to thoughts of God’s promise to Noah that if he decides to kill me and everyone else in the world, he’ll do it by burning me alive or burying me in rubble or something like that, rather than drowning me, in his infinite mercy.

My stateroom was on the Deck 13 of the ship. Or, rather, my stateroom was on what would have been Deck 13 except that there wasn’t a Deck 13; the deck numbers jumped straight from 12 to 14 in a transparent attempt to throw the Universal Forces of Malign Evil off the scent, or something.

Now, I’m not quite sure how that works, exactly. I have a couple of working hypotheses, though. One of them is that the Universal Forces of Malign Evil aren’t too bright:

Captain Malevolent: This is it! We’re on the thirteenth deck. Now, my minions, the hour of our ascendence is at hand! Begin opening the warm, moist, suspiciously vaginal Portal to Hell, like in that one movie!

Demonic Underling: Um, sir, we’re on the fourteenth deck.

Captain Malevolent: What?! How can this be? Quickly, back to the elevator! We will open the Suspiciously Vaginal Portal to Hell one level down!

The FORCES OF EVIL get into the SHIP’S ELEVATOR and go down ONE FLOOR

Captain Malevolent: Now then, hear me, my minions! The time of our ascendency is at hand! Begin opening the–

Demonic Underling: Sir, this is the twelfth floor.

Captain Malevolent: What is going on here? We can only wreak evil on the thirteenth floor! Everyone knows this! How can we have been flummoxed so easily? Curse you, clever human elevator-button-markers! Curse you!

My other hypothesis is that the sorts of people who believe in superstitions about the number 13 generally can’t count.

The day after leaving port, while I was poking around on the ship wishing for something to do that didn’t involve gambling, buying stuff, eating, or portals to Hell, I watched the moon come up through the ship’s rigging. Apparently, even modern ships have rigging, if I understand the meaning of the word “rigging” correctly.

I also ended up having to do some work. I do have to say, though, that if you have to work, there are worse places you can do it from than here:

Take that, corporate CEOs! My office view is better than yours! Now take your $100,000,000 salaries and your corporate jets and…err…

…give them to me, if you don’t mind. I’d really like that.

I haven’t been around on LiveJournal a great deal lately, largely because I’ve spent the last month or so running around Eastern Europe, Great Britain, and France.

Now, I didn’t actually plan to do this thing. In fact, had someone told me ten years ago that I’d one day be traipsing around Eastern Europe on an American passport, I’d have looked at her like she’d suggested I try marinated roadkill with a side order of lightly grilled mongoose kidney. I am, after all, a child of the eighties; I still remember a time when the Soviet Union was the Source of All Evil™, before they were demoted and that position was offered to the Iraqis.

Which, if I were them, I would have declined. But whatever. Anyway, my parents decided to go on a cruise through the Baltic, because places like the Bahamas have been done to death (and once you’ve seen one gorgeous, sun-drenched island paradise, you’ve really seen them all). And, while they were at it, they decided to invite me along as well.

So late August had me flying across the Atlantic with my knees in my nose. Now, I’ve always thought that intercontinental flying was something of a luxury. I keep seeing all these ads for these flights where buxom stewardesses hand-feed you strawberries and champagne before you recline your chair into a sleeper pod and wake up in a different country…

…no, not so much. Ten hours with my knees in my nose, more like it.

Though the plane I took out to Denmark, where the cruise began, did have laptop power outlets in the seats. Let me say that again for people who haven’t quite grasped the awe-inspiring level of cool in that statement: The plane. Had laptop power outlets. In the seats.

It would have been even cooler if I hadn’t purged my laptop of nearly everything interesting, in preparation for going through British customs during the second half of the trip. More on that later.

So as it turns out, Copenhagen is more than just a brand of chewing tobacco. It’s actually, apparently, a town. In Denmark. Which is, I gather, a country.

We, by which I mean my family and (some hours later) I, arrived in Copenhagen the day before the cruise was to leave, which gave us an evening to explore the city.

One of the first things I noticed about this strange land was the striking iconography. I don’t know if it’s the fact that they see visitors from many lands who speak many languages, or the fact that Denmark was settled in 463 BC by nomadic tribes of warring graphic artists and pre-press technicians, but everywhere you look, striking symbols and icons abound.

For example, i saw this symbol everywhere in Copenhagen:

It showed up on road signs, banners, billboards, and even the ancient Copenhagen Central Train Station, built in the late 1800s by the Danish, a race of warrior breakfast pastries.

Another striking icon I saw all over the place in Europe, particularly throughout Copenhagen, was this one:

I asked some guy I met what the symbol meant. He gave me a weird look and said “It means if you see an Agent, you do what we do. Run. You run your ass off.” He also offered me a drink that tasted like engine degreaser. Man, Europeans will drink anything.

The hotel we stayed in was across the street from Tivoli Gardens, which is (I’m told) one of the world’s oldest amusement parks, and the place that gave Walt Disney the inspiration for the various Disney properties that have been entertaining tourists and infuriating the French for decades.

Tivoli Gardens is actually quite lovely.

Especially at night, when it’s lit up with enough lights to make Michael Jackson’s former choreographers blush.

It’s also home to the world’s tallest sit-in-a-chair-attached-to-a-spinny-thing-by-chains thingummy. I rode on this thing, which offered “breathtaking panoramas of the city.”

Which was complete rubbish.

You can’t actually see squat of the city when you’re a zillion feet in the air spinning around at warp 7 with 200-mile-an-hour icy cold wind blowing in your face. All in all, the experience was a lot like skydiving: a few minutes of unpleasant, bitingly cold wind, and then you’re back on the ground thinking “I spent how much for that?”

But hey, now I can say I’ve ridden the world’s tallest spinny thingummy with chains. So that’s something, I guess.