Friday June 23 – Midsommar Eve
Therefore I think I am not in the night;
– William Shakespeare
Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company,
For you, in my respect, are all the world.
Then how can it be said I am alone,
When all the world is here to look on me?
When I think of backpackers traversing the globe as near as twenty three years ago compared to now, the difference is so stark it’s astounding. Coinciding with season one of Dawson’s Creek sure does put a time stamp on the state of the world, a time when I remember a budding Mapquest changing the face of road trips alone. Now, in a foreign country or not, where travelers could either book through a travel agent, stumble upon lodging and hope it’s open, or heed the recommendations of fellow road warriors. Nowadays there are sites and apps like booking.com and hostelworld.com (my personal recommendation) that conveniently place hotel or hostel options all in a row. For those wanting to be social there are reddit forums , Wikipedia facts, and any number of Tips and tricks attuned for Facebook groups.
When preparing for my trip, I turned to such recommended aids as Facebook for my plight. You see, any number of summaries of How one can celebrate Midsommar was found in plenty. As to the Where, nothing could tell me more than it was customary to go to a summer cottage and celebrate with family and friends. As a solo female traveler with no friends and my Swedish Cousins AWOL due to a family situation (unless I’m mistaken, emergency leg amputation was stated as the situation. . ???) I was open to options in the area. With the Host a Sister webpage and a Swedish buddy, I thought the answers would be within reach.
When asking my Swedish cousins about I had reached out on the Facebook group at Host a Sister, but nobody offered any info. It was a with a midnight google search of nearby Midsommar events that I stumbled upon a listing for Skansen. I reversed, double clicking the page. I knew that name. That was home to the Cirkus theater I’d attended, the last performance of Sandro Cavazza. It was a lovely venue, personal to Mr. Cavazza because of its connection to the grandfather who worked as a light tech in theaters. Skansen itself is an expensive outdoor park with children’s museums and play areas.
So, without a summer cottage to fall back on, and determined not to spend the biggest holidays of the nation alone, I what-the-hell’ed-it and purchased a ticket. It was about an hour later, while I was confirming arrival times with Olov for his farm workstay, that he asked what my plans were if I wasn’t with my family anymore.
Olov: Stockholm city will be totally empty tomorrow. No midsummer there, only lost tourists.
Me: I actually just bought a ticket for Skansen On Midsommar Eve, I made sure I wasn’t a lost tourist at least once (insert laugh cry emoji)
That was two days prior to Midsommar. Up until then I did my thing, worked on writing, and tried to quietly await the event I’d more or less waited on for the last three years. Hoping beyond hope and praying beyond prayer that it would be worth the wait, determined not to be a lost tourist at least once.
. . .
It was quiet upstairs. The bottom level of the hostel, complete with a common room and showers, could be pretty busy when occupied by card games, chatting, and the intermittent shower. Upstairs was quiet and home to a wooden desk of which I’ve been posting up at nearly every night since arriving. It’s where I’ve found refuge and stillness to write these past logs, as well as tick away the time I still spend more or less awake at night. I was taking a break, heading to the kitchen for my standard cheap meal of sorts: ham and cheese on toast with a bit of lingonberry jam, to taste. A German girl was sitting, crocheting, her afghan blanket large with different colored and textured striations.
“One color for every city I’m in,” she explained.
Her buddy I recognized as the cereal-eating gentleman who was so jazzed to see what I was gonna do with a flower bouquet and string.
Which he immediately remembered.
“Oh, I haven’t done them yet, I just got back gathering supplies.” By that, I mean I visited (aka “raided) nearby parks, snipping and at times chopping branches and stalks of greenery with hostel scissors I pocketed borrowed when no staff was looking. It was novel to me to be able to walk around at bona fide night, the golden hour extending well past 10:00pm. Listening to music and handling flowers was something that brought back the times I’d worked at Mountain Bloom on their holiday bouquets. And it was that working discount that allowed me to make flower crowns for both my sister-in-law’s and sister’s weddings. It was because of this Raquel and I paraphrased the words of J-Lo in The Wedding Planner with “those who can’t wed plan, or at least do bouquets.”
“Hey, you’re the one with the flowers!” he grinned. “How did it go?”
With another night of insomnia to look forward to, I chomped my toast, ready to make some magic. While I am confident working with flowers will not be my full-time gig anytime soon or possibly anytime, my God, it is a beautiful experience. It’s a creative medium with products that are unique and delicate. It’s humbling to me to use products that are also creatures – they grew, had lives, and are things of beauty used to adorn us. So when I pick them, when their earthy oils are released and coat my hands in that perfume of sweet and umami that can only be described as the scent of Green itself, I asked their permission. For continuing their journey with me. And I say thank you for lending their beauty into my life, however long or short it may be. So when I had the chance to work on writing by myself upstairs or work on flowers with such lovely German friends. . .let’s just say the choice was simple.
Starting with Stuttgart native Dan Thizzl, I learned I can vibe with Germanic peoples. They were a pleasant pair, and their dynamic as traveling companions was neat to observe as they interacted with each other. While they crocheted and chatted, I worked as in silence. I’d brought colorful embroidery floss for when I had down time (ha!) and even without the floral tape or wire I was used to using, the floss got the job done. To experienced hands adding the garland wasn’t hard, but the floss kept tangling at the end, interrupting the tautness. What would have been easy with simple wire had to be double-wrapped, tucking in the multiple tendrils and weaving in the ends of the loose blooms. I felt like Westley in The Princess Bride, only instead of a cloak, what I “wouldn’t have given for a roll of .8 gage floral tape.” In that trademark German logic and practicality, my newfound friends understood I was concentrating, and weren’t offended in the least I wasn’t chatty.
Their reactions were priceless when they finally looked up. The girl was genuine in her delight: its coronal shape fitting well, setting her natural amber eyes and honey-colored tresses off perfectly.
As for the smell. . .I don’t know what the branches were with their dainty white flowers, but the scent resembled that of early morning jasmine. She looked like a dryad maiden straight from a Brothers Grimm fairy tale (and yes, that’s a German reference, I couldn’t help it). She looked so stunning, her guy friend immediately googled if men wore one, too. I told him to live his best life and I’d make him a masculine one with greens and some blue flowers I found by a park bench, to match his eyes. Out of materials for myself, I set my alarm to 7:00am, ready for an early morning raid.
. . .
From all corners of the city they came. The traffic in cars declined as foot traffic increased exponentially. The closer I got to Skansen, the more people, then groups converged in a central line, as if following some other worldly tune from a Pied Piper.
I didn’t quite realize the scope of the park until I rode the funicular up the mountainside. A funicular is an electric tram, usually with hick glass on all sides, for riding up inclines. Crammed tight, we took the ride up a substantial incline, which served as my first clue to the size of the park.
The second clue was Tingsvallen. That was the name of the area the program listed as the location of the Maypole. Due to me getting lost in the inner city even with Google Maps, I was late to the erecting of the pole, and I was kicking myself for not leaving earlier in order to factor in time impediments. One of which was my calves swelling to alarming sizes they actually hurt, especially where my shoes cut into my skin on my ankles. I postulate, with the help of WebMD, this was 50% due to wearing jeans on a ten hour flight (the other 50% the universe trying to impede me from going). It’s odd something similar happened on my first rodeo going to Skansen, though that’s a story for another time.
But back to Tingsvallen – This outdoor stage and large grassy area was filled with music and movement. Men, women and children of all ages were standing around, watching the action unwinding from the pole at its center: a woman in traditional clothing introduced the different types of dances and songs, instructing the crowd on how to do them; a ring of dancers spread out, swaying in time to the songs, their traditional outfits of flouncey blouses and embroidered bodices so lovely. (As a side note, I wondered how they weren’t boiling inside those long sleeves and long skirts.) The famous frog dance I walked in the middle of, content to watch and be close to the action. For the next dances though, I couldn’t help but join in. For the parts that required partners, I grabbed a girl in her 20’s who had also come on her own. I could tell she appreciated not being picked last for kickball, so to speak, and in a folk line, she pulled me along. It was fun, and we laughed, even though we danced poorly and not on rhythm. But we didn’t need language or dance skills to enjoy ourselves.
As soon at the dances were over, every family whipped out a picnic blanket and lunch on the spot. Shaded corners of trees rimming the large space were coveted and largely taken, but because I was a party of one, I scooched in a bower of foliage.
Brought me own sack lunch, a miniature Swedish platter. I also brought my own plastic goblet, just for my own kinda fun, with pear juice from concentrate to toast the occasion. Realized too late how friggin sturdy the cardboard boxed beverages are, so. . .nix on the toast.
It wasn’t long before a guy next to me was asking my name and if he could join me. Sure, I said, why not.
He was from Dunai and visiting for work. He arrived just after the Maypole dances, and had no idea what was going on. He traveled quite a bit for work and was in the area. I listed off some suggestions for things to do or see. He said something I found interesting.
“No matter where I am, it doesn’t so much matter what it is I do. It’s who I meet. Like this right here. I could climb all the mountains in the country, and I would remember nothing except this conversation right here, sitting with you in the shade on a sunny day, with you looking so beautiful.”
Dunno if he was spitting game or being honest. But I knew what he meant, about the people being with you really making the experience, not even so much where or what.
I finished up my miniature feast, ready to explore the park. Skansen is best described as part outdoor park, historical village, fairground, and zoo. It even has scientific museums and and outdoor theater for musical performances, its view looking out over the flip side of Gamla Stan.
. . .
“Exclusivity.”
The word resounded somehow in the busy café air. The fika conversation lasted a long time as we asked about each others’ lives in scope of the big stuff, skipping over the small talk entirely. When he begins the conversation running the numbers on how little eligible dating options he has in the city of Stockholm (the options were narrowed down to about 4o, btw) and you tell a random stranger about why your father is in prison, you kinda can say whatever you want after that. Nothing sounds too crazy or too personal.
Which brought me back our current topic. Andy nodded in contemplative affirmation, his brows knitting together.
“Yes, you could say that,” he conceded, continuing our conversation. “Swedes are. . .exclusive. They have groups of who they are, and it’s hard to break into that. It’s taken about two years for me to be invited to a Midsommar party, and even then, it’s tentative at best.”
“I did get the feeling you gotta know somebody first, then be accepted, but they’re kinda testing the waters to see if you’re one of them. But then once you’re in, you’re in.”
Andy thought for a second. “I feel like in America, inviting a buddy to a party, whether it’s a backyard BarBQ or big ole Fourth of July shindig, we’re pretty chill about it. The admission process is bringing a dish to the potluck. But Swedes. . .” You could almost see the four year’s worth of experience flashing behind his eyes, and how he could translate it into something I could understand.
“You ever heard of the bystander effect? If that were on Stockholm’s streets, every person would turn a blind eye, ignoring the conflict so as to not offend others, and have an excuse not to join in.”
I moved the last of my red velvet croissant crumbs in my plate with my fork, in thought. I thought of how I hadn’t noticed I’d dropped my glasses on the street. A random woman ran to make sure I got them. Or the time when my ghetto grocery bag burst and the man pulled a fabric grocery bag out of his pocket, assuring with hand gestures that it was alright, I should keep it. Other people had gone out of their way to help me in Sweden. Something in me disagreed to at least part of his sentiment. Maybe it’s because I’m a girl, and the club politics effect. But I’m also a short, foreign-looking girl, and he’s a white male, so maybe that’s a cancel-out-combo.
He went on though, explaining his thoughts almost more to himself than to me.
“It’s changed how I interact with others. How I am more and more introverted, becoming someone who doesn’t belong here. And I don’t like who I am here because of that. It’s time for me to go home, to be with my people, mostly so I can be myself.”
We talked about something else, but it made me sad for him that he felt that way. It also explained why when I told him I loved Stockholm, he seemed genuinely surprised. Not so much for the city itself, I now realized, but for how he felt in that city. When I was in Stockholm both times, I’d found friendship and connection from strangers and family. Perhaps that was the difference.
“Not that it’s a bad place to live. Honestly, for raising families and being in a relationship, it’s a great place to be. Just not if you’re looking for someone to be in a relation ship with,” he laughed drily.
Back when I worked at Summerfield, one of the residents would try to set me up with her grandsons. I told her, quite gently, that I was waiting to go to Europe and meet a rich and handsome Swedish prince. That earned a laugh from one of my favorite CNAs. Not because she was ridiculing me. On the contrary – I despite my good-natured tone, she knew I was dead-ass serious.
. . .
Swedes picnic hard.
That’s what I thought to myself, observing Swedes in their natural holiday habitat. I had been following the many paths around the park, killing time before the folk dance performances. As if heeding some silent cue, every family dibs’ed their own patch of grass of shade or glade, stretching out in naps amid their substantially-sized picnics. One guy I saw set up camp in an idyllic pasture, complete with a long dining table lined with wine glasses and silverware styled like some advertisement out of a Martha Stewart magazine. And he looked positively jazzed to be doing it.
Lounging was also hardcore. There is a part that’s a series of miniature bridges in a marsh, with trees dipping in green water, moss covering very living surface. If you would have told me magical elves came out of their at night, I would have believed you, so thick in the air was foliage and heavy with earthiness. But people were lounging by those mystic pools, some leisurely laying down, all chatty and happy. Mind you, this was all whilst they wore their flower or birch branch crowns. Some were in the cheery Swedish blue and yellow, ribbons dangling. A lot of flowers crowns had some sort of white, matching airy white or light-colored dresses. But the majority were made of birch, their leaves in their trademark diamond shape with their ragged edges. The birch branches have been worn traditionally as a nod to birch branches being used to cover fields, protecting them from exposure. Now I could see families braiding the birch stems, one or more exasperated dads’ expressions wishing for some .8 gage wire, too. I feel that, my guy, I really do.
. . .
The music was almost hypnotic. The program said the trio was the premiere folk band in Sweden, and I believe it. The woman’s sound was pure but precise, even when it quavered, the violin filing in the trills during the bridge.
I was seated on my shirt, listening to the outdoor concert. Tingsvallen field was again filled with crowds, only this time most were seated, enjoying the concert in the late afternoon heat. It’s a strange feeling to be seated next to so many, even while sitting alone.
The sky was turning cloudy. I ‘think much of it, as we were so high up, and the clouds didn’t look close at all. I heard a slight rumble of thunder, but that couldn’t have been close. No way was it going to rain, it was still sunny. Well, now that I was looking up, it wasn’t as sunny as it was a few minutes ago. An unrest in the crowd belied the general consensus. But I thought not much of it, settling back into my contented seat.
It was then the rain came.
. . .
Moral of the Story today:
-Flower crowns make you instant friends.
-There is a disproportionately large amount of good-looking Swedes. Like, hot damn, Alexander Skarsgard is just one of a dime a dozen over here. All of you look like Hollywood model families, even in the goofy birch crowns. My writing group friend always said when the viking Swedes invaded other shores, they killed the ugly women, taking the beautiful ones as prizes back home overseas. I always thought what he was saying was a load of crap to justify his claim that blondes made superior partners with his Nordic ancestry. But maybe he was on to something. Not in his own life of course – he married a petite, Italian brunette.
-Don’t plan your time around Ana, because she might just cancel a hike on you.
-Don’t sleep in bushes, it’s already claimed by a kingdom of rats.
-Say thank you for the rain; it’s what brought you together.
All of these (and more) will be explained in next time’s blog post, so stay tuned! Thank you for your patience in these not being quickly updated, though I did want to share as much details with you as possible, forgive the wordiness. More soon on the rest of Midsommar Eve picking wish flowers, dodging homelessness and/or the advances of drunk Norwegians, and of Midsommar Day feasts.
Meals:
-Late night snack of toast with ham, cheese, and lingonberry jam.
-Breakfast of the same, except add tomatoes and strawberries.
-Picnic lunch I took to Skansen with me and ate in the shade of the lawn: Bread, assorted black licorice godis, strawberries, tomatoes, miniature dill pickles, fika cookies from Brod&Salt, Marabou chocolate, walnuts, and of course the green marzipan treat that’s ubiquitous in stores and yet I still don’t know the name of. Forgot the sill (herring) which I was so jazzed about.
-Dinner was toast with cheese and mustard sill. (One jar down, two to go.) A girl commented good-naturedly how authentic our foods were, with the sill and such.
-Other midnight snack the rest of the Brod&Salt cookies. My gosh, are they amazing.