The Ice Hotel Part 1 of 2

The Ice Hotel
Part 1 of 2

Working for a large international company has its pros and cons. The opportunity to travel to different places, see unique sights, and experience diverse cultures falls into the "pros" side. Sometimes, the travels are glamorous and exciting; other times, they can be better described as dreadful.

Dreadful was the first adjective that came to mind when I learned that our March management team meeting would be held at the Ice Hotel in northern Sweden. My boss at the time was a proud native Swede who wanted to show off his homeland and share some Scandinavian culture with those less familiar with life in the Nordics.

Winter has never been one of my favorite seasons, so when traveling, whether for business or pleasure, I tend to migrate toward the Equator, not the polar ice caps. Call me a wimp if you'd like, but give me the option between a warm, sunny beach anywhere in the world and a snow-covered tundra, and you can safely bet I'll opt for the tropics every time.

Like most naïve Americans regarding world geography, my knowledge of Sweden was limited. I thought it might be worth finding out a little more about Sweden before I jumped to any conclusions, so I did what every thirty-something geographically challenged guy does in this day and age: I "GOOGLED" the Ice Hotel. Maybe my initial thoughts about Sweden and the cold weather were wrong. After all, weren't Swedish models famous for modeling swimwear?

My momentary delusions of blue-eyed blonds wearing skimpy bikinis and frolicking around in the sun were quickly replaced with more realistic visions of me freezing my ass off when I clicked on the web page for the Ice Hotel. Imagine the joy that rushed over me as I read the opening line from the website:

"A Hotel Built of Ice and Snow."

That was the headline on the home page. The text immediately beneath the headline did little to bolster my confidence.

"The Ice Hotel is situated in the village of Jukkasjärvi, 200 kilometers north of the Arctic Circle in Sweden."

For some people, spending a few nights in an igloo, excuse me, an "Ice Hotel," 125 miles north of the Arctic Circle, might seem like a vacation. I didn't happen to be one of those rare people. Unfortunately, this was business, and the option of saying no to this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity didn't seem like the best career move on my part. You have two choices when the boss sets up a meeting in his home country and books rooms in a hotel that sells out a year in advance. You jump before a car to break enough bones to get a sympathy reprieve or lie through your teeth and say, "Sounds like fun; I can't wait!" I chose the latter option.

The plans were set. I was scheduled to leave Cincinnati on Sunday evening and arrive in Stockholm on Monday morning. From there, I would fly to Kiruna, where someone would pick me up and take me to the hotel. I would be in Jukkasjärvi by early Monday evening. We had meetings scheduled for Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, and I would fly home on Friday.

I arrived in Stockholm right on schedule. I had booked an early flight, so I had plenty of layover time, given that there were only two flights each day from Stockholm to Kiruna, one in the morning and one in the evening.

Missing the evening flight would mean I couldn't get to the Ice Hotel until midday. I was also scheduled to meet up with the rest of the team in Stockholm, so missing the connecting flight would mean I would be on my own for transportation once I got to Kiruna, which I did not want to tackle.

One of the pains of traveling internationally is that if you check luggage, you must pick up your baggage when you land at the first international stop, hand carry it through customs, and then re-check it to your destination. This meant I had to claim my checked suitcase in Stockholm and re-check it for the flight to Kiruna.

No problem. I've traveled internationally often, so I was familiar with the routine. I had been to Stockholm several times before and was familiar with the airport. It wasn't until the last piece of luggage came down the baggage carrousel, and the conveyor stopped that I realized there might be a problem. I had arrived safely in Sweden, but my suitcase had taken a detour somewhere.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Cochran," The Delta Representative apologized. "Your suitcase was not put on the plane in Cincinnati."

If any color was left on my face after the ten-hour flight from Cincinnati, it must have drained immediately as reality hit. Not only am I a hundred miles north of the Arctic Circle, but I'm a hundred miles north of the Arctic Circle, and I have no clothes—GREAT! I was not looking forward to this trip before; now, I am not looking forward to it.

Luckily, the Stockholm airport has a large shopping area where I could pick up some essentials, such as a razor, a toothbrush, a couple of shirts, etc.

I was able to find all of the necessities to get me by for a day or two until my suitcase could catch up with me.

When I arrived at the gate for the Kiruna flight, the rest of the team was already there. I was the only person flying in from the States; everyone else came from somewhere in Europe. There were eight other gentlemen besides me and one lady. At thirty-six, I was the youngest agent in the group, with the average age being somewhere near sixty. Margret was the only bright spot amongst the old geysers. Thirty-something and very attractive, Margret could turn heads in just about any crowd. The boss rarely went anywhere without his "assistant," so it wasn't a surprise she was along for the trip.

The flight to Kiruna was about three hours long. There were no commercial airplanes at the airport when we arrived and only a handful of private planes. The airport terminal was a building that looked more like a pole barn than an airport terminal. One building, airplane, and bus picked us up, not precisely JFK or Chicago O'Hare. Later, I found out that there were only two options to get from the Kiruna airport to the Ice Hotel. You can go by bus, or you can go by dog sled. I was glad I didn't miss the bus!

When we arrived at the Ice Hotel, we headed for check-in. The plan was to sleep in the actual Ice Hotel the first night and then in standard cabins with more modern conveniences, like heat and running water, the other nights.

The check-in clerk instructed us to drop our luggage off in our cabins and head to the supply room. You will need to get a snowsuit, hat, gloves, and boots to wear for the duration of your stay. Ensure you're back here by six o'clock for the mandatory survival training."

I thought this kept improving as I headed for the supply room to get fitted with the essential winter gear. Here I am, a warm-blooded wimp who shivers when the temperature drops below freezing. I'm walking across a frozen pathway in a remote place of the world 125 miles north of the Arctic Circle. I'm wearing the only set of clothes that arrived with me, and I'm headed for my first lesson in survival training. In hindsight, jumping in front of the car might have been the better option.

The survival training was educational and not nearly as intimidating as the name implied. We were assured that no one would die and given a few pointers about staying warm. Probably the most helpful advice we were given was to drink carefully in the Ice Bar inside the Ice Hotel.

"The temperature inside the Ice Bar stays around -5C," instructed the resident expert. "At that temperature, your body metabolizes alcohol much slower than normal, so you can drink several drinks and feel no effect."

"The problem," she continued, "comes when you have to go to the bathroom. The bathrooms are outside the Ice Hotel, so they can be heated and have running water. When you enter the warm bathroom, your body temperature accelerates, and so does your metabolism. All of a sudden, if you are not careful, you find yourself staggering back to the bar or passed out on the floor."

I would have never thought about that one alone.

I was wiped out and ready for bed by ten o'clock the first night. Between the cold air and the jet lag from flying in from the States, I could only stay awake. I wasn't quite sure how well I would sleep in an igloo on a block of ice, but it turned out that I slept like a baby.

The beds were made of ice. On top of the ice was a layer of reindeer skins that provided a remarkably effective insulation layer. On top of the reindeer skins was a heavy down sleeping bag. Although the temperature inside the hotel was -5C, I crawled into the sleeping bag with only my boxers and a tee shirt on, and it was perfectly cozy. Sleeping in a fur-lined hat to keep my ears warm was unusual, but it didn't prevent me from getting a sound sleep.

The following day was a typical business day. We had reserved a conference room and spent the day having a typical business meeting. The meeting ran until six o'clock, dinner lasted until almost nine, and then we called it a day. Those of us who slept well the night before on those beds of ice headed for the Ice Bar for a drink. Those who didn't sleep well the night before headed for the comfort of their warm cabins and soft beds to get a head start on what they hoped would be a good night's sleep.

All my colleagues, except Margret, had decided to call it a night by eleven o'clock. My boss was the last group to leave, and I was surprised Margret wasn't right behind him. Maybe I was wrong. Perhaps the relationship between the two of them was purely professional.

I had always assumed that the reason Margret traveled with the boss had nothing to do with professional courtesy and everything to do with the 38D boobs she proudly displayed.

Margret had an incredible body that she loved to show off. The thought of snuggling up with that hard body and sharing some body heat and a little friction was something that I had fantasized about on more than one occasion. Could tonight be my lucky night?

"What can I get you to drink?" I asked her as we sat on an ice-carved bench.

"I need to get to sleep," she replied, looking at her watch for about the tenth time in the last five minutes.

"Come on, Margret," I pleaded. "Can't you hang around for just one more drink? My biological clock still thinks I am in the US, where it's only four o'clock in the afternoon. I'm wide awake and need some company."

"I really can't," she nervously countered as she stood up to leave and looked at her watch again.

Now, it made more sense. The boss didn't want the rest of us to see the two of them leave together, so he must have told her to meet him back in his room at a particular time. That was why she kept checking her watch every two minutes. It was either a nervous habit, or the anticipation was killing her, making each two-minute interval seem like hours. Either way, if someone was getting into Margret's panties tonight, it was not going to be me.

Once Margaret left, the bartender and I were the only breathing life forms remaining in the bar. I'm pretty sure even bacteria couldn't survive in that cold, and even if they could, they would be hunkered down, hibernating under some ice block, and not out trying to reproduce. With no one else in the place, I took the opportunity to explore and check out the bar in greater detail.

The bar was impressive. Everything in the bar was made of ice. The bar was excellent; the bar stools were made of ice, and the small benches and tables scattered around the bar were all made of ice. Even the glasses used to serve the drinks were made of ice instead of glass. Each glass was good for three of four refills before the rim melted away from the heat of your lips when you took a sip. If you were smart, you rotated the square glass and drank from alternating sides to make it last longer. The bartender was kind enough to give you a discount each time you reused the same glass.

The drinks themselves were unique as well. Sweden's own Absolute Vodka sponsored the bar, so every drink on the menu contained some vodka. Each drink was colorful and inviting, with names like "Blue Passion" and "Tangerine Tango." The trick was to avoid drinking too many too fast and find yourself being used as the latest example in next week's survival training class.

In addition to the ice furniture, the bar was also decorated with several ice sculptures. A ten-foot ice polar bear greeted you when you entered the bar. Behind the bar was an eight-foot-tall ice rendition of a bottle of Absolute, complete with the name etched into the front. There was an ice orchestra complete with a functional pipe organ made of ice, and an ensemble of string instruments made entirely of ice except for the strings. It was impressive, and the bartender swore the instruments were functional.

After a quick bar tour, I plopped back down on one of the reindeer skin-covered benches and started sipping on my fourth different drink experiment. This one was a bright red concoction of some sort that was called "Luscious Lingenberry." Like the previous three drinks, the vodka-laced fruit drink went too smoothly.

With the now empty glass in hand, or "in glove," I scampered back to the bar to see what was next on my list of new drinks to try. As I was standing at the bar debating over my following selection, a young lady snuck past Mr. Polar Bear and slipped into the bar. I say young lady, but that was a guess at the time. Dressed in the customary snowsuit, complete with hat, gloves, and boots, it isn't easy to accurately gauge details like size, weight, age, etc.

Given that we were the only two in the bar, except for the bartender, it didn't take a tremendous amount of courage on my part to strike up a conversation with the new arrival. The only potential stumbling block was whether or not she spoke English. When she entered the bar, her initial conversation with the bartender sounded like it might have been Swedish or German, but it certainly was not English.

"Sprecher sie English?" I asked her as she stood leaning against the ice bar.

I would be in trouble if she said no. That was one of only about three German phrases I could speak, and if she only spoke Swedish, the number of phrases I knew in Swedish would be even less.

"It's your lucky day," she replied in perfect English. If you had said, "Sprechen Sie Italian or Sprechen Sie Mandarin, I would have been in trouble, but Sprechen Sie English is not a problem."

"You speak English quite well," I replied somewhat surprisedly. "And it's even that funny dialect we speak in the US instead of the Oxford English spoken in the motherland."

"Four years of undergraduate studies at Duke and a couple of years of graduate work at Princeton," she added.

"It's tough to survive in the universities unless you master the language."

"By the way," she continued, "My name is Kaysa."

We spent most of the next hour chatting about each other's pasts and what had brought each of us here.

Kaysa grew up in central Sweden, about halfway between Stockholm and the block of ice we were currently sitting on. She went to the US to study business, but after getting her Master's degree, she returned to Sweden to be closer to nature and the homeland she loved.

For the past two winters, she has been a tour guide for Ice Hotel, providing guided dogsled tours to guests.

That is just about as close to nature as you could ever hope to get.

After another couple of drinks, the jet lag or the vodka weighed heavy on my eyelids. We both agreed it was probably time to call it a night and parted ways with an agreement to continue my education in Sweden the following night in the same place.

"So, what did you do for fun today?" Kaysa asked me as I plopped beside her on an ice bench the following evening at the infamous Ice Bar.

"Did you go snowmobiling? Did you go on a dogsled ride? Did you go reindeer sledding?"

"Let's see," I stammered, glancing at my watch. "I was in the conference room from eight this morning until about six. We had dinner at the restaurant from six until nine, and it's ten o'clock now. Tough to say which of those exciting events was the most fun."

"I can't believe you came halfway across the world just to sit in a conference room. You can't leave Jukkasjärvi until you've experienced some local culture and activities. When are you heading back to the States?" she quizzed me.

"I have another full agenda scheduled for tomorrow, and then I fly back on Friday. Looks like I'm going to miss out on all the fun," I responded.

"You can't," Kaysa said like a Swedish Chamber of Commerce ambassador. "You can't leave until you've experienced the real Sweden. Stay here Friday, Saturday, and Sunday and fly back on Monday. I'll be your tour guide and activities planner for the three days."

If she had made that offer when I arrived on Monday, my answer would have been quick and decisive.

"Thanks, but no thanks, or maybe even a no, and hell no." Three extra days in sub-zero temperatures would not have even come under consideration. I was starting to like this place, though. What little I had seen was fascinating, and seeing more of it sounded pretty good. I didn't have to be back in the States before the following Wednesday, and my suitcase had finally arrived from the States, so staying through the weekend was certainly an option.

"I'm sure this place is sold out," was my feeble attempt at gracefully saying I'm not so sure about this.

"Not to worry," Kaysa quickly shot down my poor attempt at an excuse. "This place may be booked a year in advance, but there are almost always vacancies because somebody doesn't show. This is not exactly New York or Chicago, where many people look for hotel rooms every night. You don't come here unless you already have a reservation, so when somebody cancels late, there aren't people waiting to take the room. Besides, she continued, if all else fails, you can stay at my place."

"What could I say?"

My colleagues boarded the bus back to the airport on Friday morning to catch the early flight back to Stockholm. I convinced them my flight was later and that I would take the late bus back to the airport. What I somehow forgot to mention was that the bus I was taking would be on Monday, not today.

Friday was a free day for Kaysa since most guests were heading home from their week-long adventure, and the next round of adventure seekers wouldn't arrive until Monday or Tuesday. Lucky for me, Kaysa decided to use her free day to show me the real Sweden.

In the afternoon, they started with a dogsled tour deep into Lapp land, the countryside of northern Sweden, where the native Sami still hear and raise reindeer the same way their ancestors have for hundreds of years.

Kaysa's team of dogs was excited and thrilled to be running through the countryside, even if it meant towing a sled and two passengers behind them.

They were chomping at the bit to run, and they did.

After a three-hour tour of the countryside, the dogs were finally ready to rest, and my chilled bones felt the need to thaw out somewhere where the mercury was on the positive side of the freezing mark.

"I have the perfect solution," Kaysa offered in response to my hints that it might be time to go inside and soak up some heat.

"The best way to warm up after an afternoon in the elements is a sauna," she quickly added. "Let's head back to the hotel and hit the sauna."

My naïve American perspective on world cultures was again challenged as we prepared for the sauna. In the US, if you went to a sauna, there would be a men's sauna and a separate women's sauna, or if they were shared, the dress code would require bathing suits. This was Europe, though, and the rules were different.

As we entered the sauna, there was only one dressing room—no men's or women's—simply "The Dressing Room." I think Kaysa recognized my hesitation as I was caught off guard, and she laughed as she said, "Yes, Brian, there is only one. Close your eyes if you must."

Two minutes later, Kaysa was out of her snowsuit, out of her jeans, out of her sweater, and out of the camisole and panties that provided the last thin layer of protection in her multiple layers of clothing. I couldn't help but stare at the magnificent beauty standing naked before me as she reached for a terrycloth robe.

This was my first time seeing Kaysa without her multiple thermal protection layers. I had previously recognized her pretty facial features and warm and inviting smile, but buried beneath the required survival gear, I had no idea if she had an athletic, toned body like the stereotypical Swedish swimsuit model or if she was packing her layer of insulation in the form of a few natural layers called body fat.

There was no longer a mystery to that question as she stood completely naked in front of me.

"You're going to get a little warm in that snow suit inside the sauna," Kaysa laughed as I sat there, still fully clothed, almost frozen in disbelief.

It wasn't until I wiggled out of the snowsuit and was preparing to pull the sweater over my head that I realized that Kaysa's unconventional striptease had not only left me stunned but also left me sporting a raging hard-on.

The snowsuit had easily covered my situation, and even now, with my jeans on, it might not be evident that I was in such a state of arousal, but the next piece of clothing that I would remove would be my jeans, and then there would be no hiding my condition.

I hoped to get out of the remainder of my clothes and into a robe before Kaysa noticed my condition, but she would have nothing to do with that. Just as I had watched her undress, it was now my turn to be in the spotlight as her eyes were fixed on every move I made.

As my jeans slid down over my erection, my stiff cock snapped briefly inside my boxers before letting my jeans slide free. I heard a soft moan of approval and caught a coy smile on Kaysa's face as it was now apparent to her that her simple act of disrobing had left a lasting impression on me.

With Kaysa standing three feet in front of me wearing nothing but a smile and a bathrobe that she left open in the front, and hope that my erection would relax in time for me to make a graceful removal of my boxers was nothing more than wishful thinking. The more I thought about it, the harder I felt myself getting.

As my satin boxers hit the dressing room floor, Kaysa handed me a matching bathrobe. With a wink and a grin, she giggled briefly and said, "Come on, big boy, let's get that thing in the sauna and see if it shrivels up."

The sauna was about thirty strides away from the dressing room. As we reached the door, Kaysa removed her robe and hung it on a standing rack outside. Assuming this was standard protocol, I followed her lead and did the same. The thirty steps between the dressing room and the sauna were too few to allow for my erection to subside, and a quick flash of fear shot through my head as I realized there were two other robes already hanging on the rack.

Kaysa didn't hesitate as she flung open the sauna door and entered the steamy interior. Two other young ladies were sitting naked on the bench directly across from the door, their bodies glistening with moisture, indicating they had been in there for at least a few minutes.

Kaysa headed straight for our two sauna-mates, and as they stood to greet her, she hugged each of them and kissed them. My erection had dwindled a little during the walk from the dressing room, but the sight of these three girls standing there naked and hugging each other was just the fuel my cock needed to lurch back to the entire staff.

"Brian, this is Marissa and Anna," Kaysa introduced me to her friends. "Marissa, Anna, this is Brian. I'm giving him the special guest tour this weekend."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Kaysa continued apologetically, "How could I be so rude. This is Woody," she continued, laughing and pointing to the part of my anatomy now standing tall and begging for attention.

As it turns out, Marissa was the resident survival trainer I met on my first day of arrival; I didn't recognize her sitting there naked and not dressed in the standard snowsuit and hat. Anna worked in guest relations and booked parties and large groups for the Ice Hotel.

After about fifteen minutes in the steamy sauna, we were all pretty much thawed to the bone and drained of just about any remaining energy. The heat and steam were relaxing and a great way to melt away the day's chill in the cold, but I could only stand fifteen minutes.

As we rinsed off in the community shower in the dressing room, Kaysa asked Anna if they had any cancellations for the weekend, filling her in on my predicament about needing a room.

"I know we have at least one cabin open," Anna replied. "Stop by the front desk after you get dressed, and I'll set you up. The honeymoon suite in the Ice Hotel is open tonight if you'd rather sleep there instead of the cabin," she added. "The lucky bride and groom that were supposed to be staying here got cold feet and called off the wedding at the last minute."

"I'd love to sleep in the honeymoon suite," Kaysa responded. "I've never slept in that room, which is gorgeous."

"It's yours," Anna countered. "I'll fill out the guest register under the name of Mr. and Mrs. Woody E. Rection," she laughed, giving me a sexy wink and smile.

As we finished drying off and getting dressed, Kaysa told me she had some work to do to prepare for next week's guest arrivals. We agreed to meet back at the Ice Bar at nine o'clock for our nightly ritual of drinking and chatting.

When Kaysa arrived at fifteen past nine, I was already on my second glass of Absolute Something. My latest drink selection was the "Blue Passion," believing the drink's name might improve my chances of consummating my friendship with Kaysa later in the honeymoon suite.

For the next two hours, we drank and chatted just as we had on the previous nights, reflecting on how much fun we had and how appreciative I was that she had taken the time to help me see the real Sweden.


To be continued