Vi spadar

The breakfast eaters look like a herd of strangely-patterned zebras as they throng around norimaki, croissants and scrambled eggs. Yasuragi Hasseludden encourage their guests to wear the signature navy-and-white yukata at all times, but whether this does confuse any hunting lions hiding behind the string curtains is unclear.

We had arrived the afternoon before, and as is our habit, we drop on the beds and sleep until dinnertime, when we don our yukata uniforms and find our way to Restaurant Tokyo where a cheery waitress, not dressed in yukata, takes our orders. Neither risotto nor reindeer fillet feels very Japanese, but it’s all very good and dessert is absolutely divine—Honeybuns orders the sampler plate with one of each offering. There are several other parties having dinner at the same time as we, but, whether thanks to the bathrobes or the string curtains hanging here and there, the place never becomes noisy.

Finally we head for the pools. It is no longer as cold as it was the week before, but we shiver when we step outside and quickly dive into the hot water. Steam rises from the water surface and obscures the other bathers sitting just a few metres away, creating private presence bubbles. We half-float in the water and watch the stars—the sparse lighting by the pool is still enough to blot out all but the brightest stars. Honeybuns tells how Stjärnhuset made her fear the violent Orion. Clearly not all childhood trauma is Staffan Westerberg’s fault.

Next morning after breakfast we return to the outdoor pool. Considerably more people are up and about now than the evening before, but somehow the pool never gets crowded. Hot water soothes all that ails me, though Honeybuns grows impatient while I with placid interest watch a sheet of ice slowly sliding down a glass pane.

Thanks Mom for the excellent present.

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