If you genuinely want to feel like you’re living in Stockholm, don’t just stroll through Gamla Stan or enjoy coffee at a cosy, candlelit café. Do something more each day — more genuine, more quietly local: catch the Tunnelbana late at night after an event.

Stockholm’s metro, affectionately called the Tunnelbana, is more than just a way to travel across the city. It serves as a moving museum, a subterranean canvas where artists have transformed bare rock into striking public art. Stations like Kungsträdgården and Stadion are not merely transit points; they are galleries hidden beneath the city, painted with vivid colours and filled with mosaics, sculptures, and murals that turn every journey into a cultural experience.

I’ve carried gear and heavy cases through those tunnels at three in the morning—eyes burning, shoulders aching—and still found myself pausing to look around. That’s the strange magic of the Tunnelbana: even when you’re utterly exhausted, it compels you to notice it.

Kungsträdgården, near the Royal Palace, feels like stumbling into a forgotten civilisation. The walls are painted in deep greens and reds, resembling an overgrown archaeological site, with fragments of classical columns and statues scattered as if uncovered during an excavation.

Stadion, one of the most renowned stops, bursts with rainbow arcs stretching across sky-blue walls. Built to commemorate the 1912 Olympic Games, it feels celebratory, almost childlike in its joy, as though the underground itself is cheering you on.

It’s this clash between the mundane and the extraordinary that makes late-night Tunnelbana rides so memorable. You’re simply heading home, but the space insists on being something more.

The idea of the Tunnelbana art programme began in the 1950s. City officials aimed to make art accessible to all, not just those able to visit museums. By embedding artworks into stations, they democratised culture, turning journeys into moments of artistic encounter.

Some artworks are playful—colourful mosaics of animals or abstract geometric murals. Others carry political messages, reflecting Sweden’s history of social movements and its commitment to environmentalism and equality. Many stations feel like time capsules, capturing the spirit of the decades during which they were constructed.

I remember one night, dragging an instrument case after a late rehearsal. It was the kind of exhaustion where your body is on autopilot and your mind is foggy. I descended into Kungsträdgården expecting nothing more than fluorescent lighting and linoleum. Instead, I found myself in a cavern that glowed a greenish hue, with walls resembling moss-covered ruins.

Despite the weight on my shoulders, I paused. I looked around. The station felt alive, breathing history and imagination into the stale air of the early morning.

That’s the paradox of the Tunnelbana: it’s built for movement, yet it compels you to pause. Even when you are in a rush or utterly exhausted, the art demands recognition.

Tourists, naturally, will visit the Tunnelbana. Guides will tell them which stations to photograph, and they’ll descend with cameras ready. But for locals, it’s different. You don’t ride it to see art — you ride it to get home. The art simply exists there, woven into the rhythm of your life.

Catching the Tunnelbana late at night after an event—when you’re tired and not in “tourist mode”—is when you start to feel it in your bones. You’re not just observing Stockholm; you’re inhabiting it. You’re part of the flow, sharing the same routes as students, workers, musicians, technicians, and nurses, all moving through these painted caverns together.

That’s what “living here” feels like: not the big attractions or the curated experiences, but the everyday rituals filled with quiet beauty.