Back in high school I took drama. My teacher was an eccentric older woman who condemned us when we displeased the Thespian Gods by a committing such theatrical faux pas as having the stage blocks the wrong way around (the seam would steal the show). What I gained from this class that I could use to survive in the real world was minimal, with the exception of one game.
The game is called ‘Yes, Let’s’. It’s a theatre sports game where one player comes onto the stage, suggests an activity and the only permissible answer is a hearty-
“Let’s feather and tar ourselves and run through the hyena enclosure at London Zoo.”
“Let’s stalk Mike Tyson and say mean things about his mother.”
While I would encourage you to keep the aforementioned activities to the safety of your high school drama room, the ‘Yes, Let’s’ game works very well for travelling in pairs.
Recently my best friend and I had a week to spare in Europe and didn’t know what to do.
“I’ve never been to Sweden.”
“Do you want to go to Sweden?”
We arrived in Malmo, the city on the tip of Sweden a stone’s throw from Copenhagen, in the early afternoon with no plans.
“That looks like a nice restaurant, should we get a bite to eat?”
In Stortorget (the ‘main square’) we dined al fresco on herring and a summer salad, sipping an Italian white wine, watching the famously beautiful men of Sweden bicycle past.
“We’re very close to Denmark, wouldn’t it be a laugh to do a bar crawl across two countries in one night?”
We started at a small place by a canal, soaking up the last rays of the sun while enjoying a Carlsberg where the (also beautiful) waiter tried to teach us Danish.
We then wandered past the Royal Palace where our very own Princess Mary lives and mused for a moment that we, too, could one day be in a bar on Darling Harbour in Sydney and find ourselves talking to a real prince.
On our route to finding the next watering hole we passed a place called Serenity Cupcakes.
“Shall we get a cupcake?”
We sat at little white tables with posies of pink roses, nibbling on something called a Bohemian Rhapsody and a Tangy Lime. Lækker! (delicious)
Following this we changed the tune and drank a Tuborg at a grungy looking hole-in-the-wall on Grønnegade. The place was run by a large, surly woman who was decidedly unenthusiastic about our presence.
We may have had more than one Tuborg, because when I looked at my watch it was almost midnight.
We raced back to the station to catch the last train back to Malmo, then hitched a taxi to Lilla Torg and ended our bi-national pub-crawl at a place called Mello Yellow.
“You want to dance to some strange Scandinavian techno music?”
We continued on until the early hours of the morning when we dragged ourselves back to our beds.
At midday we took a train to Stockholm.
Upon stepping out onto the street we were greeted by a mob of protesters in trucks, each one blaring a different style of music, with hoards of people dancing behind them.
“Excuse me, what’s going on?” I asked a woman holding a large sign in Swedish.
“We’re protesting against banning dancing in bars that don’t have a permit.”
“Banning dancing? That’s awful!”
“Shall we join the protest?”
The woman handed us a sign and we spent the afternoon salsa dancing all the way through the streets of Stockholm in protest. Until you’ve seen Stockholm from the view of a dancing protester, you haven’t seen Stockholm