Return to Sweden

It's been four days of adventure in Sweden, with Ben, Erin and I going on an all-shopping, all-drinking, all-pagan-festival rampage through Stockholm with the able assistance of our Viking friends. As soon as the plane touched down I realised how much I miss my adopted home (not least because the air is breathable and the water not caustic), and vowed to return more often -- and eventually, for good.

The pain was helped by a 'spontanfest' on Day 1, with Drakenbergsgatan once again the scene of much instant 'welcome home' partying and our guests subjected to the very selective and reptitive playlist of Irina and I, who apparently held the party at our mercy and forced everyone to listen to The Sounds and Sahara Hotnights as we reminisced over our traditional 5am dancing sessions. (Neither of us were surprised to hear this. There is also an embarrassing video to prove it but so far it has not surfaced on YouTube).

On Valborg we attempted to see Ludvig's girlfriend Emma sing in the firelight before enjoying a nice bonfire. Unfortunately, due to an over-eager consumption of tapas, we were too late to hear anything but one song (I tried to take the blame so that Ludvig didn't get slaughtered but Emma was far too smart for that) and there was no bonfire, only a series of large candles. So once again we resorted to the spontanfest, where at least 10 people showed up with various delights, including a bottle of mysterious Thai whiskey called Hong Thong (see Anders and Ludvig's enthusiastic reaction above). Mysterious but not distinctive - when the Hong Thong ran out, Carl (of Sailor Party and Cocktail Party fame) and I replaced it with cheap brandy and yet still the fervour continued.

The other great hit of the evening was Kaisa, a dog who strangely and suspiciously resembled Carl's previous dog although the former had only one eye and three legs...I will leave that mystery unsolved...

By the time we reached the airport, Ben, Erin and I were seriously considering throwing our boarding passes in the bin, faking our own deaths and starting a new life as humble Swedish cafe-owners. But we had to make do with a large bowl of noodles upon arrival in London, and the promise of many more Scandinavian adventures - with or without Hong Thong.

Things I Miss About Sweden: The Sounds

My new(ish) musical obsession, The Sounds. I missed seeing them in London and now I'm going to miss seeing them in Sweden. Reminds me of dancing around the living room on Drakenbergsgatan with Irina at 5am. I also miss the daily songs my Swedish friend Ludvig used to send me via Skype. Tragically, Skype is banned at my new job - something that has inspired me to revolution and prompted certain Greenpeacers to predict that in 40 years from now, staff at this company will be wearing Che Guevara tshirts except it will be my face...now there's a design challenge, my graphically inclined friends!

I Love Tax Forms

No, I haven't gone crazy. I am considering starting up a business in Sweden (ok, that bit might be crazy). Swedish friends kindly sent me the approximately several hundred required documents to peruse, translated into the kind of sensible, friendly, almost philosophical English that first so impressed me with Swedish government information. (My friend Calle thinks that I am a product of the Swedish government designed to encourage people to think that Sweden is great. No comment, Calle. ...Besides, they probably would have designed me to speak Swedish then, no?)

This is my favourite Swedish government quote, and single-handedly convinced me that I'd moved to the perfect country for me:

"Every immigrant is simultaneously an emigrant, depending on your perspective. When Vilhelm Moberg wrote his famous novels about Karl Oskar and Kristina from Duvemåla, who settled in the US, he called the first two books The Emigrants and The Immigrants although he was describing the same people." (For more inspiring literature, check out the Migrationsverket's homepage).

That's opposed to the Australian government pages which are very reticent about your chances of gaining citizenship. They actually state:

"Australian citizenship is not a right, it's a privilege".

For a country that is continuing to encourage women to have babies by offering them cash bonuses (although not paid maternity leave or free education, note, which has interesting social implications and a conspiracy theorist might predict the creation of an uneducated underclass that can easily be manipulated by the monolithic Australian media) I think it's a pretty hypocritical policy. For example if I marry someone or have kids here in Sweden, they won't automatically be Australian. I would have to go and jump through a few hoops (and probably pay off my huge educational debt, which apparently is also not a right but a privilege). Although the marriage bit is probably smart, because I'm sure that otherwise the expat male population of Australia would double overnight as every female bartender in London suddenly got themselves married to extend their visa.

Anyway, yet again I digress. While going through all those forms, this one took the cake:

"We at the Swedish Tax Agency and Swedish Enforcement Service wish you every success. Ask us if you have any queries. "

Isn't that nice? It sounds like you drop in for a cup of tea with Karl Svensson or Eva Lundquist and have a balanced, reasonable chat about your impending prison sentence for tax-evasion.

Bear in mind that was at the end of a document explaining the implications of not paying the correct tax. In Australia, the closing paragraph would no doubt have read:

"Taxes are not a privilege, they're our right. You can run but you can't hide. Pay up, bastards."


P.S. Calle also remarked that I seem obsessed with marriage lately (he can talk, he's the one who's been teasing me about that psychic lady's prediction that I will have four kids. Here's what he thinks they will look like.)

Don't worry mum, it's only because I had a very unpleasant run-in with authorities at the Spanish Embassy, where they threatened not to renew my citizenship...until I said I was single. "Oooh, are you a millionaire?" the guy asked me. Smiling mysteriously, I just filled in the forms as fast as possible (my "translator" for the day, Patrik, was very excited that we managed to "charm" the Spaniards into even giving us the forms). I guess I wasn't very convincing as a millionaire, because it's four weeks later and I still don't have an answer from the Spaniards (but considering they usually lose the first three sets of documents you give them I guess that's not surprising). But I'm getting a bit scared about my EU residency, I wonder if a cup of tea with the very reasonable people at Migrationsverket would grant me refugee status?

Scary Puppets

There are not many things I hate about Sweden, but these puppets really scare me. There is a general obsession with puppets or 3D characters in Swedish advertising, including a particularly scary one where you see an innocent woman lying in bed and then she rolls over... and a horrible 3D man is snoozing peacefully between her and her husband, looking suspiciously like he wants to spoon with the unsuspecting couple. It's the stuff of nightmares.

Anyway, the picture above is my personal horror. That woman is utterly creepy. The animated commercial is part of a series (which always seem to involve champagne - it's kind of creepy in itself, this little parental couple that seem a bit stuck in the 70s prancing around their house like Mrs Robinson from The Graduate bestowing champagne on their innocent -- and much younger -- visitors...but I digress). The second ad in the series had the "woman" above, who I see now is apparently called Gunilla, proclaiming the miraculous effect that Com Hem broadband had on her life. "We get everything off the internet!" she cries, "That chair, even Ziggy!" she points to her son-in-law, also a creepy puppet of course. And then, she breaks into a laugh that is so utterly horrifying in an inexplicable way that even David Lynch would be scared. "HO HO HO" she says, holding her belly, looking at her family's inexpressive plastic faces. (Irina has dared to impersonate that laugh in the kitchen and nearly got a bowl of pasta thrown at her head for her troubles).

To add insult to injury, Com Hem has managed to get my name out of a database somewhere. The other day, as if they knew that I cowered under a blanket every time that ad is on TV, they dared to send me an envelope featuring a LIFE SIZED photo of one of those puppets' befreckled faces (not Gunilla at least, but her deranged looking son). The thought that those puppets could have a head as big as mine, and bodies to match, makes me cringe.

I stuck the picture to Irina's bedroom door. It's still there. Which might be scarier than the puppet itself.

UPDATE:
Once again the lovely Ludvig has come to my assistance. He also hates the "in bed" guy mentioned above. Ludvig tells me the scary character's name is Robert. Ludvig has a theory that Robert is the true subject of the Avalanches hit "Frontier Psychiatrist" -- the bit where they say I'm afraid that Dexter is criminally insane. ("They keep saying Dexter, but I'm sure they mean Robert," says Ludvig). I have found the mysterious Robert, screenshotted him from his elusive background, and pasted him here for easy identification. Now tell me, would YOU sleep with this...man??



P.S. The ad is menacingly called Robert in your whole house. By their own admission, even your kids aren't safe. We warned you.

SECOND UPDATE:

I forgot to say that my allergy to Swedish advertising-puppets has one strange exception that defies medical logic.

It's these guys. I think they're cute, the way they scrunch up their little noses. Oh no, they've finally beaten down my defences and got to me haven't they?

Schlager!

Firstly, it's been a long time between drinks, as a certain old friend who is now a famous rock star would say. I guess I have been living in denial that I have to leave Sweden so didn't want to write about it. So today, to make up for it, I will pay tribute to an aspect of European culture that so fascinates (or repulses) Australians: Europop, and it's ultimate incarnation as SCHLAGERfest. Full disclosure: I have to admit at this point that I have a nostalgic love of such Scandinavian delights as A-Ha, although I hate the ilk of Britney Spears.

According to Wikipedia, Schlager (from the German, natch) means "something that hits" or, more loosely translated, "a hit", and is "a style of popular music that is prevalent in northern Europe". In Australia, it's known by it's common name, Eurotrash, and conjures up images of spandex-clad blonde men, although we obviously forget that we have given the world such craptacular auditory stimulation as Savage Garden (known in their hometown as Average Garden), Gina G, and the long-forgotten Collette (of "You Can Ring My Bell" fame).

Schlagerfest (or officially in Sweden, melodifestivalen) is the Pop Idol style competition that leads up to the selection for who will compete at the Eurovision Song Contest. I hate Pop Idol, but I have become strangely fascinated with Schlager.

The Swedes at least take the whole thing with tongue planted firmly in cheek. Their host is a sarcastic comedian who has actually appeared in a skimpy purple number impersonating the loser of the competition the year before. Last night, someone asked him if you could vote for two songs at once. His reply on national television? "Well, you could, but then you'd be f*cking stupid." And my personal favourite event this year was Swedish band The Ark (the lead singer of which proudly boasts he has never written a bad song) decided that the music on Schlager was crap (an opinion no doubt supported by everyone who has ever watched it) and have mounted a stunningly witty challenge including a giant winged costume, fireworks, and a bit of axe-wielding guitar choreography at the end.

Weirdly, a schoolteacher has also entered her sad little ballad. I think people voted for her because they felt sorry for her - a testament to the kind heartedness of the Swedes, because she would probably get slaughtered in competition. I base my analysis of this on the fact she reduced Irina to tears. But there must be no mercy in Schlager -- probably why the Brits are reportedly entering Morrissey to depress us all to death.

Anyway, last night I sat down to watch Schlager with my friend Stina. We were so bored after 5 minutes that we had to go and get a DVD. I am considering asking if Australia can join the EU, this way my visa issues will be solved without marrying a random Swede; the Australian socio-political situation would be forced to become more aligned with international diplomacy, we could develop balanced welfare and immigration policies and have less US-style swagger, and more importantly, we could sure shake up Schlagerfest.

Stockholmers and the curse of the Tvättstuga

There is a curious reverence attached to washing here in Stockholm. It's not something you might casually do when you get home after a few beers, and chuck the lot in the dryer to have awaiting you, warm and fresh, when you awake. I call that the Sydney System. It's not even something that you might drop off at the launderette before work and pick up on the way home, as in the Amsterdam Arrangement. No, it is a carefully planned event that you must arrange your life around, regardless of how many years you have been waiting to see Jarvis Cocker in concert or how many good-looking Swedish men have suddenly decided that they must start drinking in the establishment immediately adjacent to your office. The washing machine is your master.

This is because everyone in your apartment building (if you're lucky) or block (if you are unlucky) will share your laundry. Usually, being Sweden, the laundry (tvättstugan) is well-equipped and clean, possibly with equipment that no-one knows how to actually use. To access this equipment, you need to book a time. This is done using a special key that unlocks a tiny metal placeholder in a calendar. Each placeholder is marked with a mysterious number that may or may not match one on your front door (if you forget which of the little placeholders is yours, you will have to test each and every one with the key. My hairdresser informs me that he has taken his washing to his mother's for weeks because no matter how many he tries, he can't find his placeholder. That's how serious it is. I told him he should just shove a piece of paper in the placeholder with his apartment number on it. He looked at me wide-eyed and couldn't believe an Australian had just given him the wisest washing advice in Sweden).

Anyway, once you have booked the timeslot, you'd better hold onto it for love or money. If you're half an hour late, you lose it. If you book more than twice a month, you lose it (assuming you don't resort to sneaking down at night or worse, pretending that you mixed up your booking time and stealing a slot from the old lady downstairs. Not that nice people like us would ever do that, even when we have to catch 5am flights the next day and have no clean clothes for our travels).

On Sunday we cooked pancakes over an open fire in the snow, complete with kaffekask (vodka and coffee). One of Irina's friends couldn't come because she was washing. Last night Jarvis Cocker was in town. One of Irina's friends couldn't come because she was washing (no, it was not the same friend).

I have to go now since Miss I. is summoning me to remove our laundry from the drying room. You have one hour to remove it after your agreed time slot. We don't know what happens if you fail to do this, but we don't want to have to wait another two weeks to find out...

Might as well face it, you're addicted to glögg

There are few things I love as much about Sweden as the strong sense of tradition. Even if people rather half-heartedly embrace the meaning behind them, they are at least very aware of the appropriate form of alcohol to consume.

At Christmas time, that form of alcohol is definitely glögg. And I have to admit, I'm completely addicted to it. It now replaces tea as my Sunday afternoon defrost beverage, and with almonds and raisins makes a good replacement for Ben & Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk ice-cream (and coming from me, that's saying a lot). I suspect that glögg has health properties we have never dreamt of, including mending broken hearts (fingers crossed on that one... or thumbs held, as they say here) and taking the edge off Christmas shopping.

Of course, there are many other beautiful things that I feel I've always missed - putting seven different flowers under your pillow at Midsomers to dream about your future husband (obviously they didn't take into account the amount of snaps you will no doubt have consumed by then, making sleep more like a coma than a dream-filled vision of a rosy future); putting seven candles in your window to celebrate Christmas (currently accelerating climate change as no-one can be bothered with real candles any more and an electric version can be purchased for 5 bucks at the department store) and surströmming (I thought the Dutch had the jump on horrible ways to eat herring, but I think the Swedes take the cake. Recipe: Step 1. put it whole into a barrel for a year. Step 2. Eat. For more on this horrendous food and handy tips on how to apply surströmming in a highschool prank, check out EscapeArtist.com.)

No seriously, there really are some fascinating things including the use of birch branches in saunas, but that's a whole different story. And at least Santa is nice here, and doesn't have an evil racially-stereotyped sidekick who will take you to Spain in a sack if you're bad, like in Holland (I never really understood that, I can't say I'd have minded packing up my bikinis and leaving the grey skies of Amsterdam and heading for Barcelona).

Anyway, back to the glögg. For my Aussie friends, you might either need to wait until July to really enjoy this - or go to the nearest movie cinema as my sister and I used to do whenever it was too hot. (They sure crank up the aircon at Birch Carroll & Coyle.)

Here's what you'll need. You can get a great recipe here, and an even more delicious one for glögg with vanilla ice cream and caramelised almonds here (in Swedish).

1 cup rum,or vodka or 50/50
1 bottle of a full bodied red wine (ex. Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon)
dried figs
75 ml (0.3 cups) sucanat (or sugar cubes)
blanched almonds
raisins

spices
3 cinnamon sticks
1 teaspoon whole cloves
1 teaspoon ground nutmeg
2 orange peels
5 whole cardamoms
1 small piece of ginger, chopped
20 raisins

p.s. What's the photo? I hear you ask. While trying to get to grips with my camera, I tried to take a photo to illustrate all those candles in the windows of my neighbours. Unfortunately I over-exposed it, but I still like it. And no, I wasn't trying to portray the view with glögg goggles on (or should that be glöggles??)