I knew Stockholm spreads from the mainland across 14 islands in an archipelago of 30,000 islands, but I thought the islands were on the Baltic Sea and would smell salty and damp, which would cause the elegant old buildings to stink of mildew. But that was my ignorance. The islands are in Lake Mälaren, and the crisp lake air smells clean and fresh as an ultra-detergent promise, but better, because the scent of lilacs is pure. The old buildings I entered, didn’t smell, which is how good buildings should be. (My Wyoming bias)

Our tourist guides talked about the bad old days (19th century) when the lake was foul. Now it is quite clean and the treated tap water is so clean that the most elegant restaurants, like the Grand Hotel’s Terrace, serve regular water from stylish, hotel-branded bottles. You don’t need lemon slices or tea to mask the flavor — Stockholm water tastes like it was just dipped from a mountain creek.

I wish I had a glassful now. On this humid, high-ozone July day in Washington, D.C., when it is time to boil water again and replenish the pitcher of iced rooibos tea, I envy Stockholm’s well-thought out and well-funded “naturalness.”

Stockholm, Sweden — The Hollywood version of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo will be more Swedish than the Swedish version, my pal Ronny Stoddart said, quoting Soren Staermose, the Swedish producer of the Millenium films and co-producer of the Hollywood version, which is due out Dec. 21. She had interviewed him earlier in the week. [See her article in USA Today: ‘Dragon Tattoo’ tours lure visitors to Stockholm.]

Ronny and I were at travel writer Doug Landsky’s home in Stockholm, having dinner with he and his family and two other travel writer/editors. What does more Swedish mean, we pondered. Dark, we assumed. Stark, like Ingmar Bergman. I remember well how Bergman’s black/white movies were too black for me. I predict we’re right. Hollywood’s trailer stalks through dark, snowy woods, as black and white as color allows.

As we talked, Doug’s oldest daughter paid no attention. She was trapped with Anne Frank in her attic, like many tweens including me at that age. But unlike the somber Anne on the cover of my book, in the Swedish version, Anne smiled.

But why? If the Swedes suffer oppressive gloom, why does their Anne Frank smile? Is it because her death becomes more poignant for her living joy — because the Swedes with their summer midnight suns and winter dusk at noons understand the darkness is deeper when brightness has been lighter.

Or is it simply globalization? When I went to Amazon to grab a picture of the grave Anne on the U.S. edition, I discovered that she now smiles for readers here too.