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There are different types of land. A lone coach with a lone player and thirty balls in a Heden soprano is a kind of void.
A single spa guest dangling his legs in Gothia’s high-rise pool on the same day that 100 other employees in the building were notified of the layoff is also a picture of neglect.
And a leafy Allé in uniform gray humidity where food stalls with giant buckets on their backs represent the only form of rush hour traffic is truly a desolate street scene.
Read more: Amusement park managers on the crown year: “Brutal, terrible, disaster”
On a gray winter night, the DN team finds themselves behind the gates of a deserted Liseberg. The figures of the carousel rest on pallets under the roof of the radio cars.
Photo: Veronika Ljung-Nielsen
But nothing is so empty when it’s empty like Liseberg.
Here there will be music, flashing lights and people’s lives. But now a gray tarp hangs like a heavy curtain around the entire pony carousel, the slippery floor of the car radio is covered with packing bags, the swing is cushioned, and all the logs in Flumeride have been palletized on the asphalt. Without playing, without rapids, without father.
A crowd of snowmen would welcome the guests if there had been a “Christmas in Liseberg”. Now the giant figures stand alone with empty pebble eyes inside the closed main entrance.
Photo: Veronika Ljung-Nielsen
If the Christmas market had taken place here, visitors would obviously have been greeted by a lively snowman mingled in an artificial fir forest. Right inside the entrance, it’s as if the park is billing an audience that we now know will never arrive this year. And the large greyish-white figures that stand there to welcome the winter saga only signal despair with their straightforward smiles and empty pebble-like eyes.
Liseberg’s main stage is blocked by giant thighs. They came here, but not anymore. Neither Halloween nor Christmas decorations have been unpacked this year.
Photo: Veronika Ljung-Nielsen
The big stage is locked from large collections with slightly different festival decorations. Scary Halloween characters and warm Christmas decorations from time to time. The thighs were pulled out of storage but stopped midway. Tricks packed. An elephant at Christmas stares at the wall in the candy store. The amusement park is moving away.
When the children don’t come to Liseberg, the toys are stacked along the walls. Many of this year’s decorations have been chosen in the hope of changing conditions, but preparations have always been forced to go wrong.
Photo: Veronika Ljung-Nielsen
A flat mop roars through the twilight on the chocolate wheel. The driver is as divided as the DN team upon suddenly meeting another person in the area. We see a guard on patrol, a leaf blower, and an innkeeper.
There are no fields in Balder. Nobody plays on the toy wheel. It is difficult to find something more gray than an amusement park that has been forced to close its doors for an entire season.
Photo: Veronika Ljung-Nielsen
The one who seems to have the most to do right now is the acting supervisor of the mechanics department, who will soon rise to 100% after many months on the job. Now all equipment must be checked in detail to remedy any wear for the upcoming season. Wear? Minimal, but everything has been tested between laps to be ready just in case.
Some lone loops light the way for patrolling security guards and the occasional gardener. Hibernation in Lisberg is palpable.
Photo: Veronika Ljung-Nielsen
As darkness descends, a single small tree with lights glows alongside the river that runs through the park. And a blue pergola lights up across the main street and leads us outside. “See you soon” announces the sign above the front door, but you have to concentrate to read the message. The board is off.
Gray sky over Liseberg. 2020 was the year of canceled premieres for Swedish amusement parks.
Photo: Veronika Ljung-Nielsen
Also read: “The heart of the city has become a dark spot on the map”
