Life in shades of grey

There are many things that you tend to forget when you've been away from a place long enough -- particularly those that you took for granted while you were there. They're not always good things, and this can make for a tricky homecoming.

For instance, I'd repressed the memory of winter in Sweden being an almost entirely monochromatic affair. The snow on the ground is a brilliant white, the sky is always grey and overcast, and the almost infinite expanse of spruce forest fades from dark green into black. It's a peculiar kind of beauty, and one that often seems more depressing than not:

The other thing that strikes you like a bowling ball to the back of the skull is the darkness. I'm currently up in Umeå, which is on the same latitude as Nome, Alaska -- not that very far from the Arctic Circle. At best, days are about five hours long this time of year, and the semi-permanent cloud cover ensures that you won't see the sun in any case. I remember spending weeks waiting for the damn thing to pop out for a few hours when I was living up here. But this wasn't a serious problem: as darkness gradually enveloped the land through the Fall, you kind of got used to it. This time, though, it hit me right in the face. I can honestly say that a day hasn't gone by in Laramie when I haven't seen the sun at least for a brief moment, and a typical day offers up to ten hours of blinding glare. The net effect of the transition is best likened to a descent into Hades, and I have a sneaking feeling that Seasonal Affective Disorder is in the woodwork (the acronym is quite appropriate). Suddenly, I recall some of the reasons why I left Sweden in the first place.

But all is not doom and gloom. I had very Merry and relaxing Christmas, a pleasant New Year's Eve and right now I'm visting with family up north. I've spent my days gorging on filmjölk, lingonberry jam, left-overs from the huge and traditional Christmas Eve dinner (many, many parts of pig) and all the other Swedish goodies that cannot be bought for money, love or the blood of my firstborn over in the US. Some of my old friends I've caught up with, some I'll see soon, and some I won't be seeing until next year (bummer!). Even with the hop over the Atlantic behind me, my buddies from not-so-way-back have spread out enough over Sweden/Europe that I'd need a private jet to see all of them. But hey, once that Nobel Prize lands in my pocket...

There are a few other cultural things that are easier to spot when you don't live in the middle of them. One is the way everybody looks around here. I'm not talking about the beautiful Swedish women (they're kind of a given); it's more of a fashion thing. Swedes are, by and large, quite well-dressed and stylish. I've heard comments from exchange students about feeling slightly intimidated by all these chic people, and I certainly remember thinking that Americans dress like slobs when I first came over. The latter is true, of course, and it only serves to highlight the difference. But once you get past the surprised stage and look beneath the surface, you'll soon find that everyone sports the same style. I'm guessing most people shop at some combination of H&M, Dressman, Lindex and so forth, and while the clothes are certainly well made and expensive, they do tend toward a certain uniformity. If you're even slightly aware of what the High Lords of Fashion dictacte this year, you can spot a Swede a mile away. The tight jeans/leggings, the faux-eighties sneakers and the short-ish tunic gives them away every time:


Another vast difference between Sweden and the US is the sad fact that Swedes are, on average, a dour fucking bunch of people. I mean, say what you will about Americans (and there's certainly a lot to say!), but at least they talk to you. It's often superficial and glib, but it is conversation. Around here, though, people pretty much shut up. The nine-hour bus ride I took to get here included probably half an hour of talking, tops, and that was between husband and wife playing cards! The rest us did what Swedes always do in these situations: spread out as much as humanly possible and avoided eye contact at all costs. This does make sleeping a lot easier, but come on, would one little word hurt? But the habit is deeply rooted. Just consider the Swedish word for "small talk": "kallprat". Literally, "cold talk". Ergo, not something you would engage in unless forced to.

The same goes for interactions in e.g. retail or beaurocracy. "Service", a well-developed concept in some countries, is not in evidence beneath the Swedish sky. No "How are you?", "Can I help you?" or even a "Thank you!" when you hand the cash over. This probably boils down to the absence of tips around here: the minimum wage is astronomically higher than in a hard-core capitalist economy, and hence there's no particular incentive to provide special service to anyone. It is a commendable state of affairs for society in general -- waitresses suffer way less here than elsewhere -- but not that great for the customer. And yes, I do know that any warmth and attention you get from a half-decent waiter in the US is as fake as a North Face jacket from Bangkok, but I don't care. I'll take fake politeness over real indifference any day of the week, especially for 30-second interactions that have little or no relation to the rest of my social life.

With that rant, I think I've said enough. I'm even getting myself depressed at this point, so I'll go enjoy some of the things that Sweden and no other place offers: tasty lösgodis, great coffee and the company of my dear grandparents. It's pity Christmas comes only once a year...