The General Situation

A Room with a View

As much as I have craved walking around cities, we wanted something besides Stockholm and Copenhagen, so we landed on Wanås in southern Sweden. It's a private 15th-century castle where the current owners have long had a large sculpture garden, not unlike Storm King in New York. A couple of years ago, they turned one outbuilding into a 15-room hotel and another into a restaurant.

I hadn't done a ton of research into the property, so I was a bit disappointed to learn that I wouldn't get to go inside the castle. And would it be too much to ask for a few interior photos in the exhibit about the history of the castle? Or perhaps it's all shag rugs and linoleum inside.... 

The focus is the art, most of which is of the I-didn't-expect-to-see-that-in-a-forest variety.

I didn't recognize most of the artists' names, although there were a few major ones, including Maya Lin (a serpentine mound best admired with Google Maps's satellite view) and Jenny Holzer (aphorisms dotting a brick wall along the perimeter). Lin's earthwork abuts Wanås's dairy farm, so perhaps the cows get to amble over it, which would increase its appeal greatly. As for Holzer: LESS IS MORE.

A few sculptures benefited from signs alerting visitors to their existence. Otherwise, one might have mistaken them for infrastructure.

More successful were the interactive pieces.

There was also a small indoor gallery that didn't excite us at all, except for the clocks on the facade.

The best part of Wanås, by far, was the setting: The buildings and the landscape are gorgeous. (The rhododendron bushes were huge—unfortunately, most were just past their peak.) And because the art park closes at 5 p.m., we were alone most of the time. I wish I had captured the birdsong during the long dusk and dawn.

We regretted not allotting more time for the area, and rented a car instead of taking the train, so we could've explored it more.

P.S. Concerned that I would run out of books on the trip, I picked up a copy of E. M. Forster's A Room with a View, which I hadn't read since the film came out. Reading the book so soon after rewatching the (excellent) film was ideal, because I could really see the characters. And the book is a total delight, with special resonance for anyone traveling in Europe.

 

Greetings from Stockholm

Day 3 in Stockholm and I'm pooped—not from jet lag, miraculously, but from walking and eating. (I must be doubling my normal caloric intake.) So forgive me if I lean more heavily on photos than usual.

We're staying at a special hotel, Ett Hem. The location isn't convenient, but everything else makes up for it: the old building mansion refurbished down to the smallest detail, the intimacy of just 12 rooms, the impeccable decor, the genial staff, the exquisite breakfast.

We had to split our stay between two rooms, because our preferred type was only available for two of the nights. Happily, the nicer room came second. The WC was a bit of a surprise....

We had been to Stockholm in 2006—a winter weekend that I wrote about for Budget Travel. We thought the city was pretty, and that we'd only find it more so if we returned in summer. The weather seemed like it might not cooperate this time, but we've had only a sporadic sprinkle. Unfortunately, the volatility has kept us from exploring the archipelago, so we may have to come back yet again. Instead, we've walked and walked and walked.

It's possible that I, who prefer new destinations to familiar ones, only agreed to Stockholm so I could go shopping to Svenkst Tenn. If you've been to our apartment in New York, you know how we feel about Josef Frank fabrics.

We did make it to two museums, but they weren't a highlight, with the exception of a glorious Matisse at the Moderna Museet.

Only occasionally would I recognize someplace from our last trip here. And there was much I hadn't noticed last time (or at least I don't remember)—including how much bedrock is visible throughout the city and how rain gutters drain out into troughs carved into the sidewalk.

I've been delighted to find a few cafés that forbid laptop usage. At the one pictured below (Espresso Sosta Bar, best coffee so far), the staff made a man put his away or leave!

And I've been positively tickled by this poster, which every snack bar seems to display. I need to get a photo of the condiment dispensers—jugs of ketchup and mustard turned upside down with rubber udders attached to the openings.

The highlight for Adam, meanwhile, has been riding scooters.

And the Winner Is...

Remember that bug that terrified me—and vice versa—every time I opened our mailbox? It now lives somewhere in Adam's car, because he grabbed the mail without looking at it first.

······················

In other insect news, I spotted this beauty today. It was about twice the size of what you see below and not at all skittish about my presence.

······················

And in other wildlife news, just down the road from our driveway, Adam and I spotted what was either a husky coyote or a wolf. Sorry, no photo.

······················

Our friends Tracy and Evan were concerned about where they stood in the totally imaginary houseguest standings, so I had a trophy made. Before you pay, the company insists you check a box confirming that the spelling is correct.

Me: The misspelling makes it more valuable.

Evan: It was already invaluable.

······················

Why is stand-up comedy always so terrible in movies? I'm thinking of The Big Sick and Problem Child, in particular, and it casts a shadow over Late Night, which otherwise looks like something I might enjoy.

House of the Blacksmith

Down the hill from our house is Casa del Herrero, or House of the Blacksmith. Without doing much research into it, I suggested Adam and I take his mom on the tour. I assumed that the property had humble origins, but I was wrong with a capital R. George Fox Steedman, whose fortune came from munitions, commissioned architect George Washington Smith to build the house in the 1920s.

The architecture is appealing, if you don't mind the dimness of the Spanish Colonial style, but where the house shines is in the details. Visitors aren't allowed to photograph inside, so you'll have to take my word that nothing was too small for Steedman to obsess over. I was particularly drawn to the stone paving in the motorcourt (first photo below). As for the second photo, Steedman adopted the centaur as his personal symbol, inspired by the "steed" in his name; the creature is all over the house, including this outdoor chair. (It reminds me of Edward Gorey.) There was no shortage of self-mythologizing in this family: The "blacksmith" part of the house's name comes from Steedman's metalwork hobby. His studio is stunning.

The gardens are lovely enough, although they pale in comparison—unfairly, unavoidably—to Lotusland. That's a frog statuette at the top of the third photo below.

If you come to town, I'll encourage you visit Casa del Herrero, but I don't know that I need to do the tour again. (If only one could wander freely....) Then again, I'm sure I'd spot more amazing little details—like the cement (?) drain cover below.

P.S. Brick stairs look so much better this way!

Yoprah!

A real-estate update, of sorts: We made an offer on a house, but our brokers (who also represent the seller, an awkward sitch that's not illegal in California) responded that the amount was too low for the seller to even consider. We decided to wait till after we're back from Sweden/Denmark to decide how to proceed. 

·····················

When folks are visiting, it's important to come up with an outing that's new to everyone. In the case of my friend Tracy, that meant Test Pilot, a craft-cocktail tiki bar in the Funk Zone. Why do mai tais get relegated to tropical vacations? A good one is a treat and a half.

·····················

Naturally, we're running out of things we haven't done that we'd still want to do. Tracy also got walked at the Ennisbrook Preserve, which Adam and I have been to a few times. It abuts Oprah's estate, not that you'd be likely to spot her anywhere near the fence; still, Tracy mulled what she'd say on the off chance we ran into her and insisted that we'd buy her a coffee. (I planned on yelling, "Yoprah!") Instead, we got nasturtiums.

·····················

Some readers of this blog receive posts via email, which is swell, except I occasionally include a video and, even though I know better, assume it'll be emailed out. (You can't embed videos in emails, which is possibly a blessing but kind of strange in 2019...?) Anyone who'd like to watch my Sexual Karma of Laundromats documentary—"a work of genius," was one reader's verdict—can click here.

·····················

This morning, I planned on swimming and then changed my mind, deciding instead to take a long walk on the beach: The tide was low, making it possible to go from cove to cove to cover. I didn't fiddle with the color in these photos at all.

The Sexual Karma of Laundromats

I was an English major, obviously, at Duke University, but I also minored in film and video—which entailed taking a handful of classes on the subject, mainly about appreciation. During my last semester, I finally enrolled in a production class. The first film I made was nonsense; the second, I let get commandeered by the students I was teamed up with. I wasn't adept at the technical side of filmmaking, and I suffered from senioritis. 

I did, however, put some effort into my third film, which I shot on video because it was much easier. The Sexual Karma of Laundromats got big laughs at the public screening—possibly because everyone was tired of all the artier fare—and it even won an award (with prize money!) at the end of the year. Awkward for an English major, I didn't understand the meaning of the word karma, which makes no sense here. Let's pretend I used appeal instead.

Bone Cute

I don't often feel like a prude, but is it really appropriate for the New York Times to use "bone" as a verb?

····················

Highly recommended: Apollo 11, the recent documentary about the first moonshot: "The film consists solely of archival footage, including 70 mm film that was previously unreleased to the public, and does not feature narration or interviews." (Wikipedia.) So much more fulfilling than First Man, despite Claire Foy's charms. We watched it on DVD, via Netflix, but I'm sure it's streamable.

····················

We had reserved a loaf of bread at Bettina, our favorite restaurant in town, but I didn't want to get in the car, so I walked down to the restaurant to pick it up. More impressive, I walked back—up, up, up the hill. The trip was about seven miles total, and it left me plotzed. I was reminded, however, how much more you see when you walk. Like this sign. I can just see someone starting to dig rather than attempting to make a collect call.

And check out this house marker, wedged between eucalyptus trunks.

I do like a retro sign like El Cielito's. I wonder what they thought of me when the reviewed the footage from the security camera.... The second photo, meanwhile, is of a sign shaped like a sprouting acorn (although the leaf looks more like a Matisse); the words say "Pay Dirt." Odd name for a house.

And then there are the people who had the temerity to name their plantation house Tara.

Sifting Sands

Someone with whom Adam wanted to network for his charitable endeavor said he'd be participating in a beach clean-up, so we tagged along. I was under the impression that we were also doing it for socialization reasons, but we were sent off to the far end of the beach. "I didn’t come to meet people," said Adam. "I just wanted to pick up trash off the beach." We can add that to the list of sentences I never thought I'd hear him say.

I'm not prepared to categorize the two hours on the beach as fun, but it was satisfying. (Then again, I love a grabber tool.) Locating trash is the hard part, because the beach has all sorts of natural detritus on it. You have to focus intently, training your eye to search out unnatural colors and too-perfect shapes. It's prudent to look up every now and then, in case you're about to step on a rotting bird corpse or a sleeping homeless person.

Non-homeless beachgoers looked away whenever I approached. Did they think were petty criminals doing penance? Since I haven't committed any crimes lately, I tried to think of past misdeeds that I may have forgotten to atone for. 

I wish I could report amusing finds along with the cigarette butts and fragments of plastic. (Adam got a syringe!) There was some pathos in the many flowers on the beach, probably left behind after a wedding or proposal. Having turned competitive, Adam declared that the flowers weren't acceptable garbage, but my feeling was that anything a human leaves on the beach should be removed.

In total, our group of 10 do-gooders gathered around 75 pounds of trash. It's a start.

·····················

With a grape jelly chaser?

Snack on the Run!

I like tuna salad, but I don't think I've ever really needed it.

······················

The day after I patted myself on the back for being comfortable with my body, I had an appointment with a dermatologist. The assistant directed me to the gown on the examination table, but those things are worse than being naked; having the doctor lift up various parts to try and see your skin is awkward and silly. I asked if I could just sit there in my underwear, which she said was fine. Had I known I'd be waiting 15 minutes, I might have chosen differently. In any event, I had ample time to be dismayed at the monitor in the exam room. TVs in waiting rooms are bad enough—worse, actually, because the volume is invariably on—but we're not paying doctors enough if they have to supplement their income by selling ads.

······················

Adam made the most delicious mashed potatoes with some purple majesty potatoes—named after Prince, obviously—that we bought at the farmer's market. They're nicely in synch with the jacaranda trees no in bloom across the area.

······················

Someone is going to make me watch this.

Hell-Bent for Uni

We did something new today: Before the farmer's market, we went to the Saturday Fishermen's Market, held at the harbor. Adam was hell-bent for uni: Santa Barbara is known for sea urchin—you can find it on menus in New York City—but the restaurants here don't seem to really showcase it. 

There were around eight stalls, selling uni, crab, abalone, and fish. We made a beeline for the uni. "You going to eat it here?" asked the appropriately crusty vendor. We took a pass, explaining we'd wait till lunch. He went to work, using a tool out of Dead Ringers to pry the urchins apart, in order to harvest the gonads. The spines wriggled all the while, turning the experience a shade gruesome.

I distracted myself by buying an abalone shell. I knew the nacre inside abalone shells is pretty, but I didn't recall the exterior being so nice. Or maybe these had been cleaned up?

In a classic bait-and-switch, Adam had promised me an uni-and-crème-fraîche omelette for lunch, but once we got home, he decided we should just eat it on pieces of nori.

The farmer's market, meanwhile, is nearly in full summer mode, although not quite to tomato season. We bought far more stone fruit—peaches, nectarines, cherries, plums, and apricots—than we'll likely be able to eat. (I may have to make a galette.) I blame Adam's aunt, Tracey, who heard Adam say he wanted a wagon for the market, sent us L.L. Bean's largest model. The wagon has taught us the virtue of being limited by what you can carry. 

·····················

Kids these days! Part of the joy of water balloons is the struggle to get them filled and tied.

·····················

Sorry, Joan. Mom sends her regrets.