It happened: I walked out of a ministry building onto the bustling tourist walkway of Drottringgatan and realized that I was done. Done with case study interviews. A lot of feelings at once competed to express themselves. Luckily a pack of twenty people wearing "I heart Stockholm" shirts passed by me at that moment, just surreal enough to pull me from what could be some sort of embarrasing outburst in the middle of downtown Stockholm. Why do people travel in coordinating outfits? Why? This is not the first instance. In Ostermalm the other day I saw eight Swedish girls dressed in kimonos? Blue kimonos with that massed produced hawaii -inspired theme. You know the one. But why on a Kimono? And why on eight little girls, their blonde hair pulled back into stiff ponytails? What discursive messages are at work, I ask?
It seems I've drifted onto something that was not the point of this post at all. I feel compelled to write some sort of ode to Stockholm, to the little time I've spent roaming her streets, looking for important people in buildings with codes to get in (everything has a bloody code here, everything). So here's to you Stockholm. Here's to your locked doors and special codes (because if you don't have the code, should you really be there?). Here's to your tall tanned men with their hair slicked back with hair gel (oh so much hair gel). To that pop song that kept playing all summer (jag kommer, jag kommer!) --the best rendition of which was performed at three in the morning by a gaggle of drunk teen girls on the tbana. To the fact that the sun happened to be rising at the same time, and to Johan let me fall asleep a little bit on his arm even though I had locked us out of a party for half an hour (n.b: every door has a lock and code).
Here's to roommates (Johan and Sabina) who were willing to try my crazy Canadian cuisine and who even had the audacity to like it! Here's to Johan's unbeatable dance moves and Sabina's great taste in Northern soul. Here's to Stockholm University students (Moe, Helene, and Kyle)who let me crash their laundry parties and political parties and taught me how to play Kubb (see illustration below for clarification).
Here's to turning professional relationships into evenings spent with cans of Folköl by the lake in Haninge, and afternoons in grassy parks (of which there is no shortage in this fair city!) Here's to discourse prosodies,Adam Curtis films and so many spoonfuls of instant kaffee. (Rivalled only by our scandalous consumption of fil)
Here's to hearing my first ever Swedish rendition of Ani Difranco songs, thanks to the acoustic talents of Annelie. And here's to all the politicians, policy-makers, disability activists, civil servants, project leaders and so on who replied to my carefully worded e-mails and calls,and taught a little Kanadensiska what disability policy in Sweden is all about (well, we'll see if I actually learnt anything won't we).
It's been wonderful and I'm sad to move on. But adventure beckons. I'm heading south, soon to be rejoined with the Margaret Mead to my Ruth Benedict. You know who you are, Lyns.
Yesterday my roommate and good friend Johan turned thirty. I am very proud of him, and was honored to attend a garden party at his parent's BEAUTIFUL home. As is to be expected at any big social event where a foreigner is present, the conversation inevitably derailed into Swedish habits and peculiarities. Here's some things I learnt:
1. Shoes are not worn in the home (this seems to be in line with what we do in Canada, though maybe not in the States...where everyone thinks I am from at some point)
2. About the "swedish corner": say you have a cake (as one often does at a birthday party). Swedes will cut away at the cake until there is just a little bit left. It is rude to take that last piece of cake. This last piece of cake causes Swedes a great deal of anxiety for they may really want it, but they cannot, MUST NOT be the one to take the last piece. Instead, they may take half of the last piece, and then a half of that half and so on until there is but a crumb left on the plate. While hacking away at this last piece, one must also insist to others that THEY take this last piece. The others must politely refuse and insist that half of whatever is left will be fine for them, thank you very much.
The result: there was a little bit of each cake left over that night. As a foreigner, I considered it my duty to put these polite party-goers out of their misery and finish off all the chocolate, blueberry and coffee-cake that was brutalized into little pieces on the plate.
Funny funny Swedes. I will miss you dearly.
Another anecdote from the internet's worst blogger. To encourage myself, I will write in smaller doses, like dipping my toe into the water. Today, I dropped by the system bolaget (state-owned liquor company) to buy three cans of beer. I took time picking out a variety of cheap beers whose liquor per kronor count was desirable (yes, this is an apparently Swedish way to calculate things). Having picked out three tall cans that shimmered beneath the fluorescent light, I proceeded to a really long line-up filled with old men. It was that time of the afternoon on Friday where the promise of a sunshiny weekend (and the certainty of ridiculously short opening hours for saturdays) provoke white men between the ages of 40-55 to go nutty and pack baskets with 24 individual cans of the SAME beer.
And here was I, bright eyed and twenty years of age, with my three cans tucked under one arm and my Ontario drivers licence in my other hand. I eagerly placed my beers on the conveyor-belt-contraption (is there even a word for it?) behind those of a bespectacled pensioner who was quick to reach for the divider and quarantine my own purchases from his. At long last, it was my turn.
The man working the cash looked friendly but worn down, having performed the same gestures and uttered the same requests for hours on end by now. While he swiped through my beers, I extended my ID out to be examined, preparing myself for the impending scrutiny. I still hold my breath during this process, ready for the request of "a second piece please" or " could you tell me your birthday please?" This time around, the cashier took an exceptionally long time staring down my card. Mentally, I got in the zone for combat. "September 27th 1990! " I would roar into the stale air of the mall, and "you need a second piece of photo ID? Take my passport! My student ID! My copy card!"
Just when I thought he was about to pitch the card at me in disgust, something happened. A little smile in his eyes, as he reached behind him to retrieve---and I shit you not about this part--a little tin of MINTS. He handed back my ID with the mints and nonchalantly told me that the total came to 41 Crowns.
"What is this?" I asked, reading the top of the tin in vain: " Tack för att du vissar leg!" (google translate delightfully translates as "thank you for the leg!").
"It's for handing your ID to me without asking, " he explains as he places the cash into the till, "you're under 25. It's a reward that you get sometimes." And then he playfully wiggles his finger at me "sometimes, but now always!"
I left the mall on some sort of natural high, thinking to myself "yes, Sweden has got it. That is exactly what one should do. Mints! I have mints!" To complete the moment, a truck full of male highschool graduates passed me, wearing their customary sailor hats and --in spirit of the excellent weather and being ridiculously fit--were shirtless and covered in beer. In a way, I felt as though they were cheering for me as they danced around to electric pop. For me and my socialist mints.
