To Stockholm!

The cab arrived at 0715hrs and I was on my way to Gatwick airport's South Terminal to catch a 1015hrs flight to Stockholm (Norwegian Airlines). The weather was changeable: rain one minute, sunshine the next and always cloud, it's been this way for some time and when you consider it's now mid-June, it's not good, certainly not the summer I was expecting.

Arriving at Arlanda airport in Stockholm...

My weekend had been a bit fraught as mum took yet another fall and this time it was recommended that she go to hospital, something that proved to be a complete waste of time as paramedics have previously established that mum is in tip top condition, there was (they said) no advice they could offer her in terms of keeping herself fit and healthy. When I say it was a complete waste of time her going to A&E I can only say that I was right and she should have simply stayed at home and gone to bed. By not doing so, she was left in a corridor on a gurney, not hooked up to anything, and basically left there. She travelled by ambulance to hospital and I followed behind in the car, she got there some time after midnight and was left until gone 0200hrs before being given a blood test followed around 0300hrs by an ECG, none of which she needed and both tests proved there was (again) nothing wrong with her, except that being left in a corridor all night and not getting a good night's sleep did nothing for her wellbeing. I spent the entire night wandering back and forth through interminably long corridors. There were only vending machines available for sustenance and all they contained was junk: fizzy drinks and chocolate bars. In fact, the food offering at St. Helier Hospital in Carshalton, even during daylight hours was piss poor: a Subway for heaven's sake! A Costa was a little better but still, considering it's a hospital, the level of 'healthy' eating was very low. I managed to find a bottle of mineral water but that was it until around 0700hrs when the Costa opened and I could eat a healthy breakfast of granola (or something like it) with raspberry compote and natural yoghurt plus a cup of English Breakfast tea. Prior to that I could find nothing other than a faulty vending machine and the aforementioned machine containing fizzy drinks and chocolate bars.

My Norwegian Airlines flight at the gate at Arlanda

Furthermore, as I said, she was basically left on her own once those tests had been completed, and wait she did, until the morning when a doctor arrived and I had to explain exactly what had happened: a soft fall, they happen a lot, she's already been given a clean bill of health by paramedics and that was it.  I resolved to leave around 0830hrs and I probably hung around for a bit longer, I went to that Costa and then left and went home. I slept a bit during the day on Saturday, but it was a bit like arriving home from a transatlantic flight except that the rule about staying up until the night time of the country you're in didn't apply. In the end I simply lolled around, watched a Planet of the Apes movie, "Caesar is home," and then I hit the sack for real around 2130hrs and managed a full night's sleep before awaking around 0530 and having breakfast ahead of the cab arriving to take me to the airport. I was feeling fine, certainly rested, and the journey to the airport was uneventful. My driver was from Pakistan where, he informed me, it was current 48 degrees (that's hot). He still has brothers living there but has been in the UK a long time, working initially in security at a bar and, for the past decade, as a cab driver, which he enjoys because (as a lot of them say) he's his own boss and can work the hours he chooses.

View from room 3324, Hilton hotel

Getting through security was smooth-running, a quick squirt of some after shave and then it was time for breakfast at the magic Wonder Tree. I chose healthy options, granola with yoghurt and fruit, an English Breakfast tea and a couple of slices of brown toast. I know, all toast is brown, but mine was toasted brown bread with a couple of portion packs of butter. Then the usual waiting game. A visit to the washrooms and then to Gate 14. The flight was delayed due to some mishap or other but eventually we got away, through the cloud and off to Stockholm. It was a reasonable flight, a little bumpy on the climb out of Gatwick but otherwise fine. The weather in Sweden was better than in the UK and after checking in at the Hilton in Slussen we, that is me and my colleague Catherine, went for a stroll around town, stopping at Café Fatöljen (there's supposed to be an accent over the 'a' but I can't find it on my laptop) for, in my case, a cappuccino and a slice of apple pie, actually it was more a kind of apple crumble slice with vanilla cream, much needed. On the flight over a paper cup of tea and a chocolate bar was all I had and all I needed. Dinner later consisted of pasta and tomato sauce, surprisingly good considering we were in a sports bar with sticky laminated menus and a couple of large screen televisions which were showing England's opening game in Euro 24 against Serbia. I left the game at 1-0 and couldn't be bothered to watch any more. As I write this I still don't know the result as when I returned to my hotel I simply couldn't be bothered to watch it. I'm not a football fan and couldn't care less if we won or lost.

Prior to dinner, however, I did take a walk around Stockholm. Not so much a walk, perhaps, but a stroll in the sunshine and it was good. There was something inspiring, something positive, something evocative about the part of the city I wandered through. People were at peace, sitting on very comfortable and reclined park benches, children played, people wandered around enjoying a lazy Sunday afternoon and while I was part of it, I realised that I needed something like this myself, a bit of peace and quiet and not thinking too hard about anything. I suppose all I really want is a holiday, a break, a change of scenery, a reboot close to the sea with nothing to do but read and chill out and enjoy just living rather than all the stress and bother that accompanies day-to-day life. In other words, I must book a holiday.

Inside room 3324, Stockholm Hilton, Slussen

I hit the sack around 2300hrs and awoke around 0500hrs, not bad, and now here I sit, at my desk in room 3324 which, I have to say, is fairly pleasant. I've got a week at a conference here, one that I developed, and it's full-on until the end of the week when I fly home. I like Stockholm and I like the Swedes. It's a great city, especially in the warm weather and everything, give or take, takes place in the hotel, even the gala dinner on Tuesday night.

Cappuccino and a slice of apple crumble and custard!

I'm still reading Sonic Life by Thurston Moore, a great book, and I'm hoping I'll get time to read more of it during my stay here in Stockholm. Right now it's time to hit the shower and prepare myself for the rest of the day. I'm thinking I might have dinner in the hotel tonight, but I'm not sure as I've spotted an Italian restaurant a short walk from here and that might be a better option.

Apple crumble with vanilla cream in the sunshine...

At Venice airport...

31 May: I arrived miles too early and began to wonder whether getting the free transfer from my hotel to Marco Polo airport in Venice had been a good idea. I could have taken the train from Udine to Venice and made my way to the airport from there. Still, mustn't grumble, although, to be fair, I have been moaning quietly to myself as I arrived too early and couldn't get rid of my suitcase. In other words, I've been dragging it around with me. 

Out of the clouds heading for Venice

Nothing has really gone wrong (so far). While I had to establish when my airport transfer would arrive at my hotel (the Allegria in Udine) – and was given two conflicting scenarios (one picking me up from the hotel at 1100hrs, the other at 1020hrs at a specified pick-up point outside of the hotel – everything, considering, has been smooth. There was a small amount of confusion before myself and around four or five people from Turkey, one of whom was staying in my hotel, were in the car and on the way to the airport. I say 'car', it was more like a minibus, but after around 70 or so minutes (probably a little longer) of driving along the autostrada under cloudy skies we reached Marco Polo airport from where I write this note.

I am slowly but surely developing the persona of a pissed off and mildly stroppy business traveller, something that I must stop. I can't figure out why I'm that way, I've just become 'that guy' when the slightest thing goes wrong or when I'm the one who has been silly by overlooking a pretty obvious sign that disputes the reality I thought to be true. After discovering, for example, that I couldn't check my bag in until 1425hrs (this was at around 1230hrs) I moseyed off in search of food and when I found it ordered a pizza, a small custard tartlet (very tasty) and a cup of English Breakfast tea. Then, I found a table and sat down to eat my food. But no, I was asked to sit elsewhere. "This is the restaurant," a man said, snootily, and I was directed to some more communal-looking seating to eat what amounted to a takeaway meal. This, of course, was annoying as I could have ordered a sit-down lunch in the restaurant but I didn't see the aforementioned (and quite obvious) sign requesting people to 'queue here' for a seat. 

The main square in Trieste faces out to sea...

Mildly miffed I sat and ate my food in what was basically a more 'downmarket' seating area, which was fine, and when finished I bought myself a fridge magnet from the shop opposite and then wandered towards the bag drop area at the other end of the terminal building, finding when I got there that there was still over 30 minutes to wait. I joked with the woman on duty, the one who informed me and others earlier that the current check-in was for passengers to Paris Orly only and that I'd have to wait until 1425hrs before I could 'drop' my bags off. There's now under 10 minutes to go until I can check in so I might have to leave this post for a second while I get rid of my suitcase and, of course, hope and pray they don't lose it.

Tasty treats before a plant tour in Trieste

I'm heading back to London after a trip to a place called Udine in Northern Italy. I flew out on Monday 27 May (a bank holiday) and have been here all week. It's been a very hectic but enjoyable week with little time to do anything other that what appeared on the event's itinerary. A gala dinner, a classical music concert, a rigorous day time programme of presentations and plenty of sweet things to eat in between, like biscuits, pastries and so on, all designed to make a nonsense of the so-called 'Mediterranean diet' and the notion that, if you're an Italian or eat loads of olives, you'll lead a long and healthy life. I can imagine people now as they prematurely arrive in Heaven and are given a form to fill out, claiming in the 'extra information' box, "they never said anything about biscuits and filled croissants and fancy desserts" being part of the aforementioned 'Mediterranean diet' as they consider their chances in the "I shouldn't really be here" queue.

Amazing biscuits and pastries in Trieste

The check-in was simple and straightforward, just like it had been on the journey out from London Gatwick a few days earlier and within seconds my bag was on the conveyor and on its way to the plane and I was left to go through security, which was also very easy and took minutes to get from the start to the finish. Then it was time for the Society of the Spectacle. I always keep my eyes fixed straight ahead until I reach the male perfumery section where I always give the sales assistant the false impression that I'm going to spend almost £100 on some fragrance or other, only to disappoint them at the last minute with "I think I'll leave it this time". At least I smell good for the flight home, I thought.

One course of a wonderful lunch at a Trieste restaurant

The journey out from Gatwick to Venice on 27 May was a little more fraught and totally my fault because I had led myself to believe that I'd be flying out around 1600hrs and, therefore, didn't have to be at the airport until around 1400hrs. I could take things easy in other words. How wrong! I only needed to look at my travel details and I would have known that I was flying at around noon and that the gate would be closing at 1150hrs. When I did realise the dire situation I had put myself in – time was getting on – I chucked the remaining few things in my suitcase and decided not to bother washing, there was simply no time and I could do it all at the other end. I booked a cab – "come as soon as you can"– and within 20 minutes I was en route to the airport, sitting in the back of a white Prius in silence, hoping and praying that I'd make it on time. When I reached the airport the flight had been delayed and there was plenty of time so I sailed through security and found my way to a Starbucks where I "enjoyed" an English breakfast tea and an almond croissant. I put the word "enjoyed" in inverted commas because I was stressed and needed to calm down, which I did, and then made my way to the gate and on to the plane. I had a window seat (19a) on the way out and on the return journey (6f) and the flight going out was relatively okay, although, as avid readers of this blog will already know, I've always been a little apprehensive of flying if there's a lot of cloud about or the weather is in anyway unsettled.

Waiting at Marco Polo airport for my flight to Gatwick

The pilot on the outward flight, Rachel, said the flight would be relatively smooth 'once we were through the cloud' and she was right. It was a smooth flight and I jumped off the plane with a strong sense of relief, along the lines of one flight done, one more to go.

As I was attending a massive event, when I cleared security I headed straight for an information desk and was told to wait until they found a driver who would ferry me to my hotel, which they did, and soon I was on my way to Udine (about an hour's drive on the autostrada). I checked in to my hotel, the Allegria, and then headed for the shower and after that a shave. I was ready to take a stroll with my fellow journalists to a local restaurant for dinner and our host Paolo. The Italians know how to cook, put it that way.

After waking up the following morning, it was a roller coaster schedule from then on. I was up every morning at 0600hrs, eating a fairly sub-standard breakfast at 0700hrs and then waiting for a bus to take me and my fellow journalists to a place called Buttrio where the conference would take place. There was a gala dinner inside Udine Castle (although it wasn't IN the castle as it was when I attended another event a couple of years ago, but instead in a huge but tasteful temporary structure just outside of the castle itself. It was fine but tiring as it's fairly hard to keep up conversation with strangers when all I really wanted to do was relax alone after a long day, possibly eat alone and then hit the sack. I probably got to bed around 1230hrs. It was a short walk from the castle to the Allegria.

A tasty treat at the Trieste restaurant

The conference was full-on for two days and was followed by a plant trip to Trieste, which was 'up the road' from Udine – probably around an hour's drive. In fact, where the plant trips were concerned, some brave souls had signed up for tours in far flung places like Beijing and Louisiana and Egypt and other locations which increased the intensity of the schedule and made me feel tired just thinking about it. Not that I had booked myself on any of the plant tours and the one I did take (to Trieste) was organised for me. And what a trip it was! Well, the plant trip was so-so but the food on either side of it was something else: first a wide selection of pastries and mini desserts, which I greedily scoffed as if there was no tomorrow, and then, after the tour, a short walk to a restaurant in Trieste down by the water's edge where we were given an excellent four-course meal.

The great thing about the Italians is they love their food and they won't let anything get in the way of it. We sat there watching a storm roll in and listened to the thunder, which was preceded by flashes of distant forked lightening and in between the poor weather and the relentless rain we all ate well: there was plenty of sea food and I lived to tell the tale – and by that I mean no upset stomach, no sitting on the throne all night, nothing at all, but then this was a very good restaurant.

A coach eventually took us back to Udine and it turned into a late night. Dinner with a colleague was planned for 1900hrs and while my initial plan had been to go all the way to Udine, change and then return to Buttrio by cab, I eventually decided to get off in Buttrio due to mounting traffic and then went out for a pleasant meal.

And now I'm back where I started. It's the day after that dinner with my colleague in Buttrio. I took the minibus to Marco Polo airport and all the rest you know, other than I'm sitting here in the airport listening to a French man talk about something or other. Unfortunately, I don't speak French so I can't understand a word he's saying, not that it matters, it's probably something inane.

Outside there are blue skies and scattered cloud and its roughly an hour before I take off, that's assuming the flight leaves on time (it's around 10 minutes late as I write this). In all honesty, I just want to get home. It's been a good but long week and I've met some interesting people. 

I think they've announced my gate, Gate 56, so I'd better get moving, but now that I'm through passport control and at the gate, a few words about the hotel, the Allegra. It was small but it was fine. The room was clean and perfectly adequate although I couldn't see out of my window, or rather I couldn't see without a lot of hassle trying to prise open the shuttered windows, and I couldn't be bothered. Besides, the trip was so rushed I didn't really get much time to look out of windows or read or do anything (like blogging) that I do on most trips. While I don't mind other people fixing my trip for me, I know that if they do, I end up with the itinerary from hell, but this was fine. Busy but good. Both flights, for example, were perfectly fine in terms of departure times, but the conference schedule meant extreme weariness in the mornings especially if there had been a late night, ie the gala dinner on Tuesday and the classical music concert on the Wednesday night. This morning I had a brief lie in and a later breakfast and then I packed my suitcase and was ready to leave the hotel, but we've spoken about that part of the day already.

I wasn't keen on the breakfast as there were elements of the experience that required the help of somebody else. Tea, for example, had to be ordered, but invariably there was nobody there to order it from. A hot water urn would have helped and it would have been good if milk had been available too, but again we only got milk if we asked for it and we could only ask for it if there was somebody there to ask. Every morning I enjoyed a filled croissant and a bowl of chopped fruit plus an English Breakfast tea.

The flight home was good, very smooth all the way, and we arrived at Gatwick earlier than scheduled. Passport control and baggage reclaim were also very smooth and soon I was on the other side wondering whether to get a taxi or a train home. I opted for the latter because it was cheaper and, let's be honest, quicker too. I alighted at East Croydon and jumped into a black cab (£20) and now I'm at home, the fridge magnet I purchased in Venice is on the fridge door and I'm considering some pasta for dinner. My wife and daughter are returning from Paris tonight and I'll be picking them up from the station around 2230hrs. Time to sign off and make some food.

To Stockholm...

Sometimes things go smoothly, and so far that has been the case, not that I want to tempt fate. I left the house just before 1000hrs and jumped aboard the 1009hrs train from Sanderstead. At East Croydon a Brighton train arrived within minutes and the first stop was my destination, Gatwick Airport. Despite being largely automated, there were no problems with checking in; it was even easy to change my seat to a window seat and deposit my bag on the conveyor.

Weak tea in Grain Store

I took a table in Grain Store, a café I have visited before, and I've just enjoyed scrambled eggs on toast plus more toast with a small jar of marmalade, it's just annoying that it's soda bread, which is hard and unforgiving and not very pleasant. Oh, and let's not forget a decaff tea, which was dreadful. It had no substance to it and, you might understand me when I say that I could see the hot water and not the tea, having poured in the milk. It's weak and tasteless and very pale, which is very odd considering the brand is Taylors, a reputable name in the world of tea drinking. I left it to brew for at least 15 minutes and look at the state of it (see pic on the right of this text).

I had the full two-hour airport experience, mainly because everything ran smoothly, even security, and so I sat at my table feeling pleased that I had well over an hour left to run before heading for the gate. I'm off to Stockholm and then Finland and then home again and there's a trip across the ocean involved too, and by that I mean I'm taking the night boat to Helsinki on Wednesday night.

I was tempted to go for a wander around the shops, but it's so depressing looking at things I really don't need like Go-Pro cameras, fancy headphones, expensive and unnecessary luggage or clothes that are far too expensive for my tastes or for what they are; I did have a brief look at the iphones and the Samsung phones and the Garmin watches, but I never left the store feeling as if I needed to buy one, not that I could afford it and besides who needs so much data? Nobody. The whole thing about measuring everything, how many steps, how many this, how many that, building up stats on everything, there's no need and there's no point. I do it enough with Strava.

Through the clouds!

At 1250 the gate was announced, gate 23, and I marched there, it was quite a yomp and I decided not to use the automated walkway. While the Norwegian flight was supposed to take off at 1300hrs, it didn't take off until nearer 1400hrs, but for some reason it didn't matter so I accepted the situation, which wasn't at all dire. I was sitting in seat 6F on the right hand side of the plane, there was nobody sitting next to me and a woman in a track suit sat in the aisle seat. We didn't talk to one another and I think she was in a trance for most of the flight. I saw her again at baggage reclaim but again she looked a little odd and besides we didn't know each other. Alright, she wasn't odd, just quiet, she probably hated flying, I don't know, there was a bit of Katherine Ryan about her.

The flight was perfect and it was turning in to the perfect day, everything seemed to be working fine: the trains, the planes, the automobiles, everything. There was some initial cloud when we left Gatwick, but then the rest of the flight was spent above a blanket of cotton wool cloud, and there was no turbulence. In short, I loved it. As we descended towards Arlanda airport, the frozen lakes of Southern Sweden showed themselves as we heard from the captain that we'd be on the ground in around 25 minutes. The cloud disappeared and soon we were on the ground heading towards passport control and baggage reclaim. I hate having to use the 'other passports' queue as I consider myself to be a European.

I needed to check out where the hotel was located and what was the best way of getting there so I stopped at the Café Ritazza beyond baggage reclaim – I've been there before – ordered an apple tea and a piece of carrot cake and called the Birger Jarl,  my hotel for the next two days. The woman on the front desk told me a cab would be around 700SEK and I really wasn't planning on spending so much money so I opted for the good old Arlanda Express which took me to Stockholm Central in around 18 minutes. It's like the Gatwick Express, but far, far better. It was dark outside so very little to see, so I just amused myself with my own thoughts and then, suddenly, we were there. I jumped a cab outside the station and was soon at the hotel.

Frozen lakes

The Birger Jarl was the first hotel, ever, to ask me what floor I fancied staying on. "How many are there?" I asked. "Seven." "Okay, put me on the seventh floor and so here I am in Room 709 on the seventh floor in a room with polka dot wallpaper and, oddly, no desk so I'm forced to recline on a kind of elongated chair which allows me to stretch out, put the laptop on my lap and write this blogpost. I've just had dinner downstairs in the restaurant. Chicken followed by chocolate mousse and washed down with a no-alcohol beer and a few glasses of water. It was a very pleasant dinner. I sat there reading my book, Eat, Sleep, Cycle by Anna Hughes, it's absolutely brilliant and I'm loving every chapter of it, make that every sentence.

On the dinner front, while it was okay, the portion sizes were a little on the small side and I wasn't able to put it on my room, presumably because the restaurant is a separate business and not really part of the hotel. But portion sizes aside, the evening was very pleasant and relaxing and just what the doctor ordered. To be honest, did I really want to come to bed feeling stuffed? No I didn't. Far better to eat reasonably light before hitting the sack.

The Arlanda Express at Stockholm Central 

For some reason I thought it was minus 13 outside, maybe because that's what it said on my hotel room's television set (flatscreen screwed to the wall). But it turns out to be just minus 4, which is good. I stood outside in what I thought was minus 13 and it wasn't that cold, but when I was told it was only minus 4, well, I thought yes, that's probably about right, and then took the lift to the top floor and my room, which is great. There are wood floors, a decent wardrobe, a fine bathroom and a flatscreen television, which I'll probably watch in a few minutes before hitting the sack. I was going to have a shower, but I'll leave that until the morning now. In fact, I'll probably pass on watching television, who needs the stimulation before trying to get some sleep? Not me.

Room 709, Birger Jarl, Stockholm

I'm here for two nights, which is great as I hate staying anywhere for just one, there's no point unpacking. It's nice to know that I don't have to up sticks in the morning, it means I have some kind of base, which I like. On Wednesday I take the night boat to Helsinki and suddenly I feel like a spy. I always feel like a spy when I travel abroad. Jason Bourne, somebody like that. Whenever I'm on a train in Europe, as I've probably said before, it's as if I'm in The Great Escape. Big X being questioned by the Germans and then being caught out by the Gestapo. "Bartlett!" And then that great scene as Richard Attenborough is running through the quiet streets of France. "Your German is good and also your French I hear. Your hands...up!" I'm just hoping that the bad guy from No Country for Old Men isn't milling around looking for a large sum of money, but fortunately I don't have it so my conscience is clear. 

It's gone 2200hrs and I'm just lolling here with the lap top on my lap. Being on the seventh floor there's not much traffic noise, which is good as I'm ready to hit the sack. I can get breakfast at 0630hrs in the morning, which is good as I like a decent hotel breakfast and it'll be good to see what the Birger Jarl has to offer. I'm expecting great things and I'm hoping they won't disappoint as breakfast is the most important meal of the day as we all know. I'm hoping it won't be minimalist (like tonight's dinner) although I was more than happy as I don't really want to over-eat. 

The Birger Jarl is a quirky hotel and it's kind of the icing on the cake for me as today has been rather special. I've had little cause to be upset with anything or anybody. Perhaps I will treat myself to some Swedish television, but only for a short while as I want to get a good night's sleep. In fact, sod the television, I'm going straight to bed and I can't wait.

En route to Verona...

 I wanted to take the train. Train travel is by far the very best there is, but sadly it's very expensive and, oddly – you would have thought it might be the other way around – air travel is ridiculously cheap. We all know why this is: air travel is heavily subsidized and, as a result, it's not the haven of the glamour puss any more, no longer the place you'll find supermodels and film stars. Or rather it is, but they all fly in First Class and hide away from the plebs in the lounges. That said, I once bumped in to Jimmy Somerville, I spotted a stand-up comedian whose name I can't remember and I think that's about the level of my airport celeb spotting.

The train to Verona is possible, but it would have meant arriving at gone midnight and that simply wouldn't do. Why? Because I was being picked up, by 'Maria' and driven to my hotel, which is located in a place called Storo, which I'm guessing is a fair way from Verona. I won't be seeing the famous Romeo and Juliet balcony on this trip, unless I can fit it in on the return journey, which is not out of the question. From now on, however, if I can take the train, I will. I'm going to Dusseldorf in June and the plan is to train it all the way as it's only around three hours from Brussels.

The Grain Store café and bar, Wednesday 15 March 2023, noon.

So, the airport. I took the train to Gatwick, mainly because I hate cars almost as much as I hate planes and I hate taxis just a little bit more. First, they're a rip-off, second, the driver is invariably racist and won't stop talking in a derogatory manner about the Mayor of London and lastly, I just can't be bothered with cabs when I can walk to the railway station and just jump on a train: no hassle, no chat, no nothing other than looking out of the window, which is what I did until I reached Gatwick and then, of course, the shit begins in earnest. Fortunately, my British Airways flight was leaving from the South Terminal so I didn't need to jump on the monorail and head for the North Terminal, that's a relief. But then I did have to endure the capitalist scumbags, yes British Airways, but hey, any airline can be allocated the same description for the simple reason that they do all they can to make more money for themselves and they don't care if that means inconveniencing the customer – me!

They've now got auto bag drop systems. No longer the human being who checks your passport, hands you your boarding pass and takes your bag. Now it's a queue for a machine, which somehow defeats the purpose. I've always been of the opinion that if a machine is involved it's allieviating something, ie queues, but not any more; these days people queue for a machine, but guess what? The queue for the human beings is even longer. I couldn't stomach it. I was standing there in the zig zag of travellers thinking 'this is going to take ages' and after trying to stick it out twice I eventually relented, walked to the auto check-in kiosk, took my boarding pass from the machine (I took the liberty of booking myself a window seat (28a) and then queued in the smaller queue for the machines. I nearly sent my bag to Tampa, Florida in the process. The guy before me pressed something, I'm not sure, but when I reached the machine it was still thinking everybody was going to Tampa. When my tag was printed it clearly said 'Tampa' so I moved to another machine and it kind of worked, although the conveyor jammed and I had to call an assistant and then it was alright. But my problems weren't over – better make that 'hassles'. It's just a hassle going through security, putting the laptop in a separate tray and so forth, but, I suppose, in all honesty, it wasn't too bad and once I was through with it, all I had left to deal with was the society of the spectacle. I had to run the gauntlet of perfumes and alcohol, watches and God knows what else. I had no intention of buying anything but I did squirt myself with a liberal amount of Davidoff Cool Water, just to make myself smell good. I always smell good when I'm on a plane, thanks to the testers.

I'm now sitting in the Grain Store café bar sipping a cappuccino and nibbling (to my own disappointment) an almond croissant. This, I know, has to stop. Yesterday it was my colleague's birthday and she brought in a caterpillar cake. I would have just had one slice, but I found myself irritated by somebody else in the office who, it seemed, was intent on playing 'the old man'. I hate that. When people play the old man, the pensioner or whatever when they're not that old and should really be just getting on with life without whingeing. There are loads of 'old people' words that I try to avoid: Lumbago, Sciatica, Secateurs and, of course, the Daily Mail. I don't want to hear people moaning about their fucking gout or how their knees are playing up, this is the stuff of old people and I won't have it. I know people get these ailments, of course they do, but whingeing about them in an old person kind of way just makes me annoyed. Why, I ask myself, do they wish to be considered old before their time. My mum IS old, she's 93, she can moan, but not one of my work colleagues. But it's not just him. I've heard celebs (who are not old) moaning (in a jokey manner) about ear hair, nose hair and how things just ain't working they way they used to. Fine! Moan! But moan on your own, in a locked room, a soundproof room in the middle of the desert because I don't want to hear it, do you understand me? I don't want to hear it.

I arrived at Gatwick "well early" so it looks as if I'm going to get the full two-hour slob-out. The last thing I want to do is buy any food or drink in the flight so I'm going to order something else before I vacate my seat at the table of this rather nice little café. But hold the bus! This place ain't cheap. The 'mains & grills' range in price from £14.75 for vegetarian chilli to £21 for grilled salmon, there are desserts (if I'm to make out that my almond croissant was the main course) but do I really want to scoff key lime pie, pecan pie or even a pavlova. There are burgers, salads, pizzas and 'small plates' but the latter are piss poor and I can't very well order another pastry or another cappuccino, that would be a little piggish. Perhaps another coffee? But cappuccino is roughly 135 calories a go, making 270 in total. Do I want that? I could order tea, that's zero calories if served black and not much more with a smidgen of milk. But do I really want more or am I just in need of comfort. The most legitimate would be the Full English breakfast, but really? Imagine when it arrives and I stare at the bacon, sausage, egg and hash browns, not forgetting the baked beans, the mushrooms and the sourdough toast. Do I really want it or am I simply being a huge pig, a rare breed lump of pork who needs to eat no more and just make do with the still mineral water that stands before me? No, I can't eat more, it's wrong on so many levels.

There's over an hour before my flight departs Gatwick and I know that outside of the café is nothing but the society of the spectacle in the shape of rubbish clothes and electronic goods, books I don't need to read right now and stuff nobody really needs. They're capitalizing on people's boredom, that's what it is and there's no way I'm going to play ball. What I could do is go to Starbuck's and order a tea and simply sit there until it's time to make my way to the gate, now that's got to be the plan. I can continue reading Buzzin' by Bez, my latest book. Yes, I finished The Bear Comes Home by Rafi Zabor, which turned out to be reasonably good in the end. So, listen, I'm going to sign off. 

Last day in Stockholm...

I awoke this morning and immediately found myself thinking about the shower in my hotel room's bathroom and how I was going to spend an inordinate amount of time trying to set it right and get some hot water. It's not something I particularly relish; I don't want to be fretting about something so minor, but that's the way it is. There was some faffing about, I knew there would be, but somehow I managed to get the water hotter than yesterday, although there was a risk that it would get dangerously hot so I did what I had to do and got the hell out.

Cramped bathroom in NOFO's room 315...

Drying in such a small room is nigh on impossible. In terms of swinging cats, which people always discuss when a small space is involved, it wouldn't be possible, so you can imagine how problematic it was to dry myself down. It became a two-location process: first, a general dusting down while in the bathroom and then finish the job out in the room, although even then there are issues.

The word 'faff' is a good one as it explains so much about NOFO. It's a nice hotel, but there's an element of faff about it. First, the faff of the cold water coming from the shower, then the faff about the teabags. You may recall that yesterday I was baffled by the napkin-like pieces of paper that were supposed to be teabags, well, they ARE teabags, I discovered today. In essence, the hotel expects its guests to make their own teabags. What I thought were napkins were, in fact, open teabags. All you have to do is spoon your chosen tea into the bag and then leave in resting in the cup until the tea is infused in the bag. Fine, but why oh why be put to all that trouble when a simple teabag would do? That said, this morning, out of principle, I did have a go and it was fine. I enjoyed a mug of English Breakfast tea after initially giving up and going for the safe option of coffee.

Breakfast, by and large, was the same as yesterday: muesli, fresh melon, coffee, a few biscuits but no rice cakes. They were there, I just didn't fancy them.

Locally brewed beer at Bistroteket...

Check-out is at noon, but I've got to be at the airport by then so I'll have to get a move-on. Last night I enjoyed a really good meal at a place called Bistroteket (Bondegatan 54, 116 33 Stockholm). I'd been scouting around the area for somewhere to eat and eventually decided that I'd give Bistroteket a go, even though, initially, I thought I'd made a big mistake. I hadn't. There was no English menu available so the waiter explained what was on offer and I chose cold meats (charcuterie) with salad to start followed by salmon steak with asparagus and a couple of locally brewed beers from Stockholm, not forgetting a cappuccino.

The restaurant's clientele was mixed, old and young and the place had a kind of French vibe about it. There was low-hanging lighting, marble sills and table tops, black and white floor tiles and a retro bar area. There were single candles on each table and there was music too. Afterwards I found my way to Bistro Boheme for a last beer before bed and then, after a fairly good night's sleep I got up, faffed around in the bathroom and then went for breakfast.

I'm going to repeat my outward journey of Monday in a minute. In fact, I did a dummy run after breakfast and realised that Stockholm South railway station is only 10 minutes' walk from the NOFO Hotel, just a straight road. On the way back I bought some Lipton's teabags in a Co-op close to the railway station and now, here I am, back on the blog with just minutes to spare before I need to be on my way.

Salmon with aspargus at Bistroteket... nice!

While there are a few white clouds out there and a light breeze, it is still a pleasant day. I need to be at the airport by noon and shortly I'll be taking the train to Marsta and getting the 583 bus to the airport where the plan is to catch the 1410hrs Norwegian flight back to Gatwick Airport and from there a taxi home, or the train, whatever appeals to me at the time. There's little much else to say, other than Stockholm is a nice place and I hope I'll be back soon.

All that remains now is to pack my bags – or rather continue the packing process that started prior to my earlier walk – and then check out. I don't like checking out of hotels, but then I don't like checking in either. Either way it's got to be done so I'll bid you all farewell and see you next time.

Oh well, back to Theresa May and Brexit and all the usual politics bollocks I've come to expect from the UK.

For my Trip Advisor hotel and restaurant reviews, click here.

In Stockholm...

I can't remember the last time I was in Stockholm, but I think it was longer ago than I think. I almost stopped off here on the way to Lulea recently, possibly towards the end of last year, but a pilots' strike by SAS, Sweden's 'national carrier', halted my progress from the UK at Copenhagen and I flew home. But prior to that attempt I have the sneaky suspicion that I last visited the Swedish capital in the last century.

I flew out of London Gatwick Airport this afternoon, around 1330hrs, on a Norwegian 737 (seat 11a) and after a smooth flight, during which I enjoyed a spicy, hot chicken tikka masala and a couple of glasses of red wine, not forgetting some cashew nuts (I hadn't eaten since breakfast) I settled down for what turned out to be a smooth ride into Stockholm.

Stockholm South station, now just a shortish walk in the heat

Once on the ground and through baggage reclaim, passport control and everything else, I bought a train ticket to Stockholm South, which is close to where I was staying. At the airport (Arlanda) I had two options: take a train from Uppsala C or take a bus, the 583, to Marsta railway station, a short bus ride away, where the fare to Stockholm South would be much, much cheaper. For a moment I wavered (I was on expenses so why bother saving the money?) but then I thought why not? There was a big difference in the price. At Uppsala it was something like 150 Swedish Krona whereas at Marsta it was only 43 Swedish Krona. I took the bus and there was a train in the station when it arrived.

The journey to Stockholm South was long, probably around 30 - 40 minutes, but the sun was shining the skies were blue and the weather was the same as it's been in the UK this past week – hot and sunny. When I arrived at my destination, I asked one person for general directions to a region of Stockholm known as Sodermalm and then followed my instincts, which turned out fine. Soon I found myself at the NOFO hotel and was I glad that my sense of direction had been so on the money.

NOFO Hotel, Stockholm

I'm also glad that I picked such a quirky hotel. The NOFO is a strange place; it used to be a brewery and then the Columbus Hotel for the best part of 40 years, but now it's the NOFO and while I was told what the name means, I can't remember, or rather the explanation was a little confusing so I gave up trying to understand.

Södermalm is described as the 'vibrant heart of the city' and the NOFO Hotel is said to be 'steeped in the history of Söder. It was built in 1783 and has served as a brewery and as a barracks for the city guard. Today, Söder is claimed to be one of the world's most stylish city districts. "You will love the enchanting mix of people, bars, shopping, restaurants and culture," says the NOFO's general manager, Desiré Eklund. She's right, it's a very pleasant part of Stockholm and yes, I could live here!

NOFO is both a hotel and a wine bar set in its own quiet courtyard. It's dark and welcoming interior and it's friendly receptionist made the whole experience very warming and I was glad I was here for the next two days as there seemed to be a lot of depth about the place and I was eager to enjoy it to the full.

I would have stayed in for dinner, but I got the feeling that the offering was fairly light when what I needed (as always) was a substantial meal. The receptionist offered some suggestions and I set off in search of a restaurant. Only a short walk from the hotel, down Sodermannagaten and then hanging a left on Skanegatan (I'm leaving off crucial accents on some these place names purely because I don't know how to find them on the keyboard) I found a small green, which, according to the map provided by the hotel, was called Nytoget. There were restaurants close to the green, two of which the hotel had recommended, but I chose a place called Bistro Boheme (Skanegatan 83, 116-35 Stockholm). It was hot enough, even around 2000hrs, to sit outside, so I ordered a Czech beer (a dark beer) along with grilled tuna steak (tonfisk) and salad and a Californian Pinot Noir – all good – followed by a Creme Catalana, the Boheme's take on a Creme Brulée. A cappuccino rounded off the meal and I made my way back to the hotel, trying to remember the route I had taken.

Tuna steaks with vegetables and salad at Bistro Boheme...

I'm now back in Room 315 and to say it's small would be an understatement; but despite its cell-like proportions, I rather like it. In fact, I've always been a fan of small rooms (as opposed to huge ones) and I like the Velux window, which means I can see out, but people can't see in – just how I like it, although the view is limited,  just trees and sky, but I'm not complaining. The bathroom is a little compact too, but it's all good and I should really be hitting the sack and getting a good night's sleep as it's now almost 2230hrs here in Stockholm (an hour earlier in the UK).

I stayed up and watched the first Mad Max movie on Netflix, hitting the pillow around midnight. During the night it rained heavily, hitting that Velux window with such force it awakened me on a couple of occasions. While a Velux is fairly quirky there are a couple of downsides: first, heavy rain hitting the glass surface makes a real din; and second, while there is a blind, I left it half-concealing the window and so I was awoken early by the brightness of a summer morning. In all honesty, I like traditional curtains that can be drawn and a more pleasing view than just trees and sky.

Cinnamon cremé brulée

It's 0618hrs the morning after the night I arrived (it's Tuesday) as I write this and a day of work beckons, although I'm a little concerned about the state of my clothes. I've brought two shirts with me, but they've both seen better days and I need to buy some new ones. Likewise my suit, which is now hanging from a coathanger on the wall (there's no wardrobe, just four coat hooks mounted on wood and screwed to the wall). The walls are white and the floors laminated wood. The bathroom floor and the tiny entrance lobby to the room – I suppose in some perverse way you could say I was staying in a very small one-bedroomed apartment – are tiled.

There is a small desk, a wall-mounted flatscreen television, an angle-poise lamp like the one in Toy Story movies (or all Pixar movies) and what is made to look like a make-shift lamp fixed to the wall with a flex hanging down and plugged into the wall, as if a temporary measure. I suppose that alone bestows 'boutique hotel' status on the NOFO. A single bed is crammed into the corner, there's a fire detector on the ceiling and two shelves by the entrance where 'tea and coffee-making facilities' reside on a tray next to a hairdryer. I don't think I've ever used a hotel hairdryer. There's no sign of an iron, but under the shelves a large shoe horn hangs from a smaller arrangement of hooks screwed to the wall. I don't think I've ever had occasion to use a shoe horn either. Three magazines rest on a shelf underneath the desk but they're all written in Swedish so all I can do is look at the pictures. There are four decorative cushions under the Velux window resting on what looks like a huge block of concrete, which has been painted white; I'm using it to spread out my 'stuff' like my mobile phone, travel adaptors, last night's dinner receipt, my glasses case, wallet, maps and yesterday's newspapers (picked up free at Gatwick).

View from Room 315, NOFO Hotel, Stockholm

The weather has changed. The blue skies and sunshine have been replaced by grey skies and blustery wind, more like the weather should be in these parts. I remember coming here when it was minus 26 degrees and then I flew north to Lulea where temperatures plummeted to minus 40 and there were lakes frozen over – so much so that cars could be driven across them, the ice being something like three feet thick.

Going back to my hotel room's compact bathroom, it is a so-called 'wet room', which basically means the sink, the toilet and the shower are in the same room, with the latter only separated by a shower curtain. For some reason, there is a window cleaner's squeegy lying on the floor and I can only assume it's there to wipe the mirror clean when the hot shower steams it up; except that the water is cold, lukewarm at best, and it took me an age to work out how to get it lukewarm, by a process of trial and error. In the end it was just about bearable and I managed to wash and shave while in the shower. I turned the tap on the sink this way and that to see if there was any sign of hot water, but no, there wasn't; and in my book a hotel without hot water – or a hotel where getting the hot water to work is a serious faff – is not worthy of a return visit. I don't need the aggravation, although I kind of like NOFO so before I decide not to make a return visit, there's always tomorrow's shower – it might work!

Room 315, NOFO Hotel, Stockholm

It's 0730hrs and I'm ready for breakfast... and now, at 0815hrs I'm back and can report that breakfast was fine. I enjoyed cereal (muesli with raisins), some rice cakes and some fresh melon plus a cup of strong, black coffee. Why not tea, you might ask. Well, in all honesty it was a little confusing. They had two huge containers of coffee (with depressable levers to dispense it) and one containing hot water, presumably for tea. Next to the hot water was leaf tea in glass containers, but nothing remotely like a teapot in which to place the tea prior to dispensing the hot water. There was also a small glass jar containing 'tea bags' but on closer inspection these appeared to be paper napkins (I couldn't see any tea inside them) so rather than engage in more faffing around (the shower had already proved a bridge too far) I opted for black coffee and enjoyed my breakfast watching a muted BBC World News – Brexit talks and the passing away of Otto Warmbier after returning to the US from North Korea featured.

And now at 1648hrs, the blue sky and sunshine back in place and the tree outside my Velux window swaying slightly in the breeze, I'm back in my room. The bed has been made, as I expected it to be, but all else is quiet. I keep thinking about going downstairs for a glass of wine, sitting in the courtyard and relaxing with the newspaper, but there's work to be done and by the time I've finished it, it will be dinner time and then, tomorrow, I fly home. It's whether to go back to Bistro Boheme or try somewhere different, but I'll make that decision later, after I've completed my work.

For my Trip Advisor hotel and restaurant reviews, click here.

At least the cushions aren't on the bed!

In Nashville... Day One

It started badly.

Driving along the A23 towards the M23 and then, supposedly, the M25 and Heathrow's Terminal Five – or T5 as I pretentiously call it. I'm in a taxi, or rather a 'minicab', a strange phrase as the car is roughly the same size as any other.

"Just so you know, it's Heathrow I'm heading for, not Gatwick," says I with a smile.

The driver acknowledges me so I relax, but then he takes me to Gatwick anyway. I mean, why not? I want to go to Heathrow and I make it quite clear that I want to go to Heathrow, but I end up in Gatwick. I look at my watch. There is still time, I think, and the traffic is thin, it being a Saturday morning when most people are chilling out, watching a bit of Saturday Morning Kitchen, munching a slice of buttered toast and sipping tea. Not me. I'm up with the lark. In fact, I didn't sleep that well. I never do when a long flight stands between me and a decent night's kip.

Unnecessarily grand and too many pillows

There's a long, long stretch of M23 between the M25 turn-off and Gatwick Airport, but all I can do is look at the long road ahead and wonder whether or not I will get to the right airport – on time. The driver, of course, apologises for his complete and utter ignorance (what else could he do?) and I do my best not to show I'm annoyed, but I am. It's just the start of Hasslesville.

There are big queues so I decide to use the machines to check-in – always a faff at the best of times. Glasses on, documents out, I key in my flight reference number and eventually two boarding passes appear, one for London to Chicago, the other for Chicago to Nashville, and then I head for security and the hassles it entails.

Once through, with relative ease, I find my colleague, we have a snack at Giraffe (granola and fresh fruit plus a mug of tea; my colleague has a soft drink) and then we head for the gate and a relatively smooth flight in a BA jumbo jet – BA 0295. I had the best seat in the house for an economy seat, 28a, plenty of legroom, but I can't settle, I'm not relaxed, I'm agitated so I spend the flight looking out the window or standing in the galley area chatting. I spend a lot of time looking at my watch and sectionalising time. In my head I'm always saying stuff like, "In an hour from now there's only five hours to go," that sort of thing.

Even lunch isn't as enjoyable as it should have been, although the food is fine: roasted chicken with mashed potato and peas in one of those foil containers, a decent chocolate mousse and, of course, a couple of those small bottles of red wine. The wine is non-descript and does little to relax me, but one of the cabin crew excels herself. I enquire about Island Bakery Lemon Melts, a biscuit's biscuit in my opinion. I'm worried that BA's move towards M&S food on short haul flights (that customers must pay for) will mean the end of this classic biscuit. She investigates. Normally when cabin crew say they'll investigate they forget and I never hear from them again, but not this time. She returns, not with a pack of Lemon Melts, but with another variety from the same company. I was impressed.

The man next to me in seat 28b says nothing. He's reading a management book, something like Seven Ways of Improving Efficiency, I can't remember, but it's keeping him occupied. I read the Sun, the Telegraph and the Times plus a chapter of Hotels of North America by Rick Moody.

More hassles in Chicago. The hassle of immigration, the hassle of baggage reclaim and the hassle finding Terminal Three, but then I'm in my favourite restaurant opposite gate H3, Romano's Macaroni Grill. Pollo Caprese, a green salad and a bread roll, plus a Stella Artois. Much needed. We meet a white-haired man in a checkered shirt traveling to China, he tells us he's in healthcare and that he's written a novel about time travel but hasn't bothered getting it published. I tell him to publish on-line but he doesn't seem interested, he's moved on. He tells us about his wife. They're now divorced. Met on-line. It lasted for 10 years and now he's living in Wisconsin and she's somewhere else. He said where but I can't remember.

We head for Gate 17 and the short hop to Nashville. A pleasant, albeit cramped flight and then more waiting around for baggage reclaim. I draw some dollars, my colleague goes his own way. "See you tomorrow," I say and eventually take a cab to the Best Western. It's around 0130hrs in the UK but only 1930hrs in Nashville.

At the front desk I am given a goodie bag: two small chocolates with a nut in the middle, a small bag of Cheetos and some gluten-free Sweet 'n Salty Mix. I eat the chocolates but leave the rest and decide to take a walk around town. I find a street full of bars and being as I'm Nashville, the music city, there's a live band so I stop for a beer, listen to a couple songs then head back to the Best Western.

The hotel room is fine. Unnecessarily grand furniture, a large wooden desk, huge bedside lamps, obligatory flatscreen television, an average-sized bathroom, an empty fridge, but at least I can open it. A huge red couch and a coffee table. Wifi is free. There are heavily patterned curtains and a below average view out of the hotel window. A skip full of rubbish and some new houses are being built across the street.

I write the blog and then hit the sack, waking twice. It's now 0516 and I'm back on the blog. Outside the birds tweet and somebody is running around in the corridor outside, probably kids, it seems that way. I'm feeling fine and can't wait for breakfast. I could make myself coffee but it's another hassle. How the hell to use the machine first – a device made by Hamilton Beach Commercial. I consider the Sweet 'n Salty Mix and the Cheetos but I'm not that desperate. Perhaps I'll shower, get dressed and mosey around.

I'm in the Midtown district and it's a one-mile walk to the downtown where my colleague is based.

Those birds have upped the ante on the tweeting front as I reach for the literature stored in a wooden container on top of a big wooden sideboard with two doors. Inside is the aforementioned empty fridge.

"Respected Guest". That's me. "For your convenience, Best Western Plus Music Row serves a sumptuous Hot Breakfast featuring our ever popular 'Make Your Own' Belgian Waffle, each morning in the Breakfast Lounge. Breakfast includes Country Biscuits and Sausage Gravy."

I write a lot of hotel and restaurant reviews on Trip Advisor, which can be read by clicking here.