I thought you'd be taller

"I was expecting everyone to be seven foot tall and blond," I said. "I still feel pretty tall."
"No, we're just like anybody else." Our host, Axl, was blond but wasn't a giant. He was teaching us how to make kroppkakor and telling us about life in Stockholm.

Potato dumplings with bacon and onion drizzled with melted butter and a lindenberry sauce. Doesn't count unless you cook it yourself.

Earlier that day he had sent me to his favourite cafe in Stockholm, a few blocks from the hostel. I asked the mustachioed barista if he knew what a flat white was.
"Of course," he said. "We were not born yesterday." One of their staff was from Sydney, he told me, and flat white training had become mandatory. When he brought it to my table he boasted, "That one is so flat."

Better than passable, it was really good coffee.

With a coffee and a sandwich to fight jetlag, I explored central Stockholm, following the mall until I reached a huge building with guards. It took a few minutes to find the signs; I had found the royal palace.

Just guarding the crap out of it

In a way Stockholm reminded me of Sydney; a city designed with the landscape in mind. It's built across a number of islands in the mouth of  Lake Mälaren and I walked along the water's edge, crossing any bridge I came to.

There are many boats in Stockholm. Here's one.

Not wanting to be late for dinner, I strolled back through the streets towards the city center. As I went I passed these guys.

It took me a couple of goes to see that their story was told around the statue.

The kroppkakor were good, the linden berries were fresh and tart and set off the potato well. I let the others tell me about what they had seen and done so far in Stockholm to get a sense of what I should do the next day. One thing kept coming up.

You've got to see the Vasa.