A few weeks ago in Stockholm’s Gamla Stan, we had drinks in a cave bar.
Dusk had fallen, and we were walking from Stortorget, the old square where the Nobel Prize Museum sits today and where, in 1520, a king and about 100 of his subjects were executed during what came to be known as the Stockholm Bloodbath.
History can be a lot to carry around after dinner, so our guide and friend suggested we stop for a drink and process the violence of the age.
We ducked into a narrow stone passageway and descended underground. It was a cave, literally. A small restaurant sat to the left and a bar to the right. Always take a right when presented with such options.
We unwound our scarves and settled into one of the dozen or so seats. The rough stone ceiling hung low enough to remind you where you were, but not low enough to force reverence. One woman ran both the bar and the restaurant. Four other patrons occupied the room, which somehow made the place feel full.
We ordered wine.
A shaft of light fell through a fire escape above us. Our friend, who is 58, told us about practising Wing Chun, a form of martial arts.
He is a master of sorts. Which explained why he wasn't drinking. Masters, I assume, must remain pure and sober in case they are suddenly required to strike somebody with the side of a palm.
At the next table, four red-faced British tourists grew progressively louder, as British tourists have done throughout history. We ignored them as one should ignore hooligans.
Five hundred years ago, cellars like these stored beer, wine, salt, and imported goods in the cool underground. Others served as taverns where sailors gathered under flickering candlelight to trade stories, spread rumours, gamble away wages, and arrange questionable transactions with prostitutes. In short, fun times.
Five centuries later, the candles are gone, the sailors have been replaced by us, tourists, but people still come underground carrying the same cargo: stories, loneliness, hope and a thirst.
