9:05pm – Thursday June 22, 2023
I rush in the building, the heavy glass double doors propped open to let in the warm summer breeze.
I would not make a good Swede based on perpetual tardiness alone. . .
The directions on my phone took me up and around the east side, so I missed the entrance completely. The white vinyl letters glittered in an intricate design on the glass: Mr. Cake, it read. I shot out a quick text on Instagram messenger, hoping Andy would see it quickly.
Okay I’m here! In the doorway!
I send the text, checking the time. 2:05pm. Five minutes late may not be much to an American, and nothing at all to a Latina or Polynesian. But in Sweden? It can be the difference between a good first impression and a social train wreck.
Despite running errands in sweats and my now-favorite Calgary long-sleeve, I was in an evergreen floral dress and seafoam backpack. (Others might not differentiate the colors, but after working in the floral industry, you realize the differences in color are important.)
A guy in the back waves me over. His Chicago baseball cap and style of beard instantly set him apart from the rest of the clientele. He immediately wraps me up in a bear hug, smiling in a warm greeting. And instantly, without words and by common cultural camaraderie alone, my tardiness concerns fade away.
We had a delightful conversation that lasted more than an hour. Within that time, however, we had hit all the hard topics: his life’s goals, what I’m writing a book about, his desires to return to the US, and lastly who I had a closer relationship with, my mother or father.
. . .
How to Fika like a Swede
- Arrive on time at the latest.
- Order your selection of sweet treat, beverage, or both.
- Enjoy the company and conversation of a new or old friend.
. . .
For those of you new to Swedish culture, fika is a coffee break. It doesn’t necessarily include coffee or a snack, but either with those or without, it is an opportunity to take a break from work and have an excuse to chat with another human being.
Seeing fika as part of the authentic Swedish experience, I gladly took up the opportunity to meet with a native Swede. (Or in Andy’s case, as an American working in Sweden for four years and counting.)
Andy was a friend of Sam’s – funny enough, he too was at the Sandro Cavazza concert last April, not too far away from the Networking Queen herself. When she heard I’d be headed to Stockholm for round two, she instantly introduced us digitally, and the rest was DM. Once we established our musical interest commonality, the rest was easy. There weren’t many Americans in his line of work or social circle, and though the Swedes speak impeccable English, “It’s not quite the same,” he explained.
That I can understand. I can express myself in Spanish just fine. But there are native nuances I lack, and cannot fully express myself like I can in my native tongue, even at the peak of my linguistic skills.
The Irish playwright Brian Friel explored the intrinsic link between language and identity in his seminal work Translations. In it, the protagonist helps the English survey and Anglicize their Gaelic townships and lands. With each word taken away, a little more of their core culture, and consequently identity, is silenced and suppressed.
Then again, there are cases that prove that theory not completely accurate. I knew a married in couple in California who met and dated each other not knowing each other’s native languages. Having to ask the local bilingual Christian missionaries for the phrase “Will you have matrimony with me?” Against all linguistic odds, they did get married – despite not communicating in their fluent languages on either side. I for one could not do that. While you might assume the culture, in reality it’s the language barrier on my part only confining me to not be able to express myself with precision. And that’s assuming precision is involved at all, for communication is an imperfect art form.
Moroccans and Italians are some of the most linguistically flexible peoples I know. Given their locations centralized as points of trade throughout the centuries, being a language gymnast might just be in their blood.
“It’s more of an attitude. Or rather, a state of mind,” Ana once explained to me. The way Italians see it, that’s just how it is. Similarly natives of Switzerland know two or three languages, based on where they are in the Alps. Learning English is a way of being in the European Union now, using English as as connector language. So maybe we Americans just aren’t exposed to other languages, and we need to change our attitudes. While I’m not denying there could be some attitude readjustment for a lot of my paisanos, I think there’s more to it.
. . .
We humans are funny creatures. Highly adaptable, shows like Alone show what kinds of feats one in extreme conditions can accomplish, even in complete isolation. But, however introverted one seems or purports to be, there is an innate need to be connected in a community, to others, or even just one other that is just as much a need as sleeping.
For example:
As I sit here typing, I am amazed to see the bonds and friendships formed with little more than an interest in card games for common ground. An Australian couple traveling together recounts their adventures across the world over their four months together.
Sometimes I feel like a prisoner released into society who isn’t sure how to proceed. So for now, I’ll content myself with doing what I do best: listening and observing.
“I thought the Dutch were hard to understand in Amsterdam – then I came to Stockholm!” the kid laughed, all joining in.
“What’s this game called?” the newcomer asked.
“Shithead,” the couple replied in unison. That earned laughs all around, myself included.
I think what amazes me most about human beings is the ability to reach across culture and race to connect, to hold on to what is familiar even with differences, and vice versa: with the mundane that makes us similar, we can work better together with what complements our uniqueness in our community.
Between a civil engineer, law student and law graduate, the conversation was interesting. But most of all, their was a flow, a comfortable rhythm without one awkward pause.
I could stay here forever, listening to these disparate individuals create something warm and substantial, not having known each other more than thirty minutes ago.
Favorite excerpts from the convo:
-(from a Canadian) “Wow, you’ve seen more of Canada than I have.”
-(from Australians) “Out mentality is that because we’re so far away, we’re gonna see it all.”
-“It’s a typical capital city – see a museum, walk around, that’s kinda it.”
-“There’s a Canadian history museum, and it’s word for word from my history textbook, so I feel like I know that stuff and don’t really need to visit more museums.”
-“Beaver tails are really good.”
Their conversation was joined by another recently returning from the sauna, who effortlessly joined the conversation.
I posit the open conversation wasn’t just about speaking words. There was a communication of something more, of sharing stories, but maybe more so of listening, of knowing what they said mattered and was responded to by those listening, encouraging all others to listen in return. Not to sound like a Gen-Zer, but there were good vibes all around.
Those who began as strangers are now something else, brought together by little more than simply setting aside time to talk.
That’s the power of fika. Maybe with a little more coffee, pastries and Shithead, the world be a better place. At least, I like to think so.
. . .
Highlights from Today:
-Went out early to H & M for a pair of shoes and a necklace I spied yesterday. I did that thing where I was in the checkout counter and forgot my wallet, soooooo I left the items at the self-checkout and slipped out without a word. By the time I came back today, the shoes were on the rack where they were yesterday, ready for a round two. I justified the purchase because the white canvas shoes were A) on sale since they were the smallest adult/child size in the pile, which I highly doubt fit any Swedish adult. And B) They were the perfect complement to any dress or jeans. Since I’m still trying to save my running shoes for the Camino trail in July, I figured I’d give them a rest and wear out another pair to give the others a fighting chance.
-Went to ICA, a grocery store chain. Had fun shopping for my own miniature Midsommar Eve feast based on traditional staples of what blogs and articles recommend the Swedes typically eat. In their floral department, I bunch of white daisies caught my eye, the yellow rose buds and purple statice a striking contrast. With greenery from a park diagonal to the hostel, I noted a patch of purple flowers and fillers to construct my own crown at night (when no one in the park would notice them missing, mwahahaha)
-Oversized shopping bag in hand, he could see I lacked the height to place the bundle of goods on the top shelf. I assured him I was fine, scooching a chair to aid my plight. To his credit he looked genuinely concerned for the pickled herring’s welfare, but he gets points for offering to help. Seeing the bunch of flowers in my hand, my German compatriot chuckled. He was munching on cold cereal and milk, amused I made room next to cheese and jam on my fridge shelf for flowers.
“That’s odd,” he commented drily. No judgment, just observation.
“The cold keeps them fresh and closed until they’re ready to be used. In the heat, the blossoms open. I’ve worked a bit with flowers,” I explain, seeing his stunned expression.
“Wow.”
“It’s for tomorrow. For a flower crown.”
He looked positively blown away. “You’re going to make those? Into a crown??” He went back to his cereal, impressed. “I would like to see that some time.” If he was around while I was doing it, he was welcome to it, I politely agreed. Though I had a feeling whatever itinerary I had for the day I would be running late to. But I smiled to myself, reminded of another German buddy I met in a hostel, years ago in Colombia. Dan has to hear about this, I thought to myself, mentally noting to message the guy’s Instagram all the way in Berlin.
-Fell asleep to the band next door playing in full swing. Because my eight bed mixed dorm is underground, the jazz music above in the courtyard was something you could feel more than ear. But oh, what a way to be sung to sleep. The singer’s voice was sweet and smooth, as all good jazz singers should be, with a kind of finesse akin to cleverness incarnate.
-Raided nearby parks for crown greenery, found some neat blue flowers and grabbed a handful. Listened to Ray Charles’ “Georgia on my Mind” that almost brings me to my knees it is that good; “Between the Raindrops”; and Felix Sandman. Borrowing branches form bushes and flowers really it better with a soulful soundtrack.
Meals Today:
-Kefir with a packet of stateside honey bunches of oats, with a spoonful of jam for good measure.
-Leftover soup and meatballs, with cheese and lingonberry jam on toast.
-Red velvet croissant (filled with a vanilla creme) from the fika café Mr. Cake. Highly recommend that place, by the way.
-Schweppes Tonic & Hibiscus. This non-alcoholic rose substitute is great for fueling nightly writing. Only lightly-sweetened, it’s both dry and pleasantly fruity at the same time.