Saturday June 24 – Midsommar Day
I heard the familiar ping from the messenger notification. It was from Pernilla, my Swedish cousin. Her boyfriend Peter counted as a cousin too, since with my mother’s cousin’s half-family relation I’m equally as un-related to him as I am to her. Even though I’m only distantly related to sort of Pernilla, I still consider them as family. As I think they do, too.
Va svenska midsommar som du hade tänkt dig?
Since she doesn’t feel super comfortable in English, we have an understanding where she speaks in whatever language she wants, and I make use of Google Translate.
Was the Swedish Midsommar as you had imagined?
I considered my candid answer, thinking back to the day before.
. . .
It wasn’t raining; it was pouring.
What started as a gentle drizzle became much more. Water now fell from the sky as if poured from buckets by some masochistic heavenly hand. The field teeming with crowds only minutes before now lay scattered as cockroaches banished from the pantry by a midnight lightbulb.
I joined fellow refugees under some birch trees, knowing full well it was only a quick fix. If it came down harder, my wonder dress wouldn’t hold very well against the deluge. The once-airy dresses of the Bacchanal maidens around the park were now unwitting contestants of a park-wide wet T-shirt contest. I buttoned my denim shirt all the way up, covering my own white peasant dress, determined not to be runner-up.
I ran.
Not very far, mind you; There wasn’t anywhere to go. Any and every canopy, any semblance of shelter was packed with former-revelers. Now veritable factions were huddling under the limited spaces. I headed for the closest vendor’s canopy, making a spot for myself at the rim. About eleven of us, including a big-ass stroller, squeezed ourselves underneath the vendor awning. Water gushed from the canopy cover, splashing in vast puddles up my leg and dress, my back growing chilly in the gathering winds. But it was better than the alternative.
So we waited for the rain to let up. At this point even the peppy folk singer had paused, no doubt unable to ignore safeguarding her electric equipment from the onslaught. The only sounds were of the now not-so-distant thunder and its accompanying deluge. Babies cried. Bodies shifted. And I waited for the something to break. There were thousands of us, pent up in cramped spaces. I wasn’t anxious exactly, just cold and bored, but I couldn’t help but feel like I was missing something. Something was going to happen, and in my experience when given the chance, it would turn sour. So I waited for it to turn.
It did.
Only. . .not in the way I thought. Instead of swearing or frustrated voices, I heard something I didn’t expect.
I heard laughter.
I don’t know where it started, if it was in front or behind me. But there was a genuine, non-sarcastic, delighted laugh. Families walked by shielding themselves with picnic blankets, marching and looking like a Greek phalanx. But there were people, a few at first, then more, who went out into the pouring rain on purpose, and started dancing. A few children splashed around with that vivacity reserved for the young. But there was a woman in her 50’s and her partner, sporting clear plastic ponchos, the kind I’ve packed for summer camp every year but have never actually worn. She too was jumping in puddles, and dancing to some unseen yet joyful tune.
A guy behind me giggled. The couple next to him joined in. Soon all eleven of us were smiling, including the covered baby, who by this time had quieted. We were all, by some mysterious magical hand part of the Joy, too. Then by some heavenly reprieve, the rain quieted, now into a misty drizzle. The clouds parted, opening my chance, which I took. I zoomed out from that awning, racing down the muddy gravel path. It was about four miles to my hostel, but I could make good time since the weather was good.
I didn’t make it far before the rain came down. This time harder than ever.
It was an Indian family that came to my rescue. Seeing my plight, I hurried over. To their undying credit, they made room in their shelter, taking me in, no questions asked. They’d formed a waterproof shelter with a red gingham picnic cloth for the roof, and a large wool blanket on two sides. The tree they were using as a framework had perpendicular branches, making a large boxy shape roomy enough for a whole family. And indeed, had to be a family. The three pairs of men and women were various ages, all seemingly family, according to how similar they looked. One woman was clearly white and presumably Swedish, whom I surmised must have married into the family. A girl in her twenties eyed me, not with hostility, but with incredulity. Like, “Who’s this rando?” but she gave me a smile anyway. Maybe because with our matching dark wavy hair, long noses and green eyes, we actually looked related.
It took some maneuvering to keep the water out, especially with puddles gathering on top, but soon the youngest girl played music on her phone and started dancing to pass the time. She had to move for the river of water rising to our ankles in the flooding grass, but I didn’t mind, dutifully holding up my corner of the blanket. After a while the rain ebbed for real. The sun came out, the clouds cleared, all looking like nothing ever happened. When the family took down the shelter we all laughed in relief. I thanked them for helping me, and took a selfie as a memento. (Later even Raquel noted how similar the girl and I looked.)
The walk home was long, but lovely. I took off my denim shirt, my clothes and hair drying in the sun. The water by Gamla Stan was blue and deep, and the air was fresh. With every passing boat, I imagined Pacey Witter somewhere at the helm of True Love, not too far away, even for someone like me.
Maybe it wasn’t Pacey Witter, but I had found true love, even in the small things, that day. Dancing with strangers in flower crowns, laughing; the man from Dubai; holding up an ironically American flag-themed wool blanket in a shelter with randos; I may have come on my own, but I was never truly alone. The rain at Skansen at first seemed like it ruined a celebration. If anything, somehow, sharing that experience in the rain connected me to the humanity and kindness of others. I wouldn’t have felt or found that without the storm.
Say thank you to the rain, the thought came from deep inside. It’s the rain that brought you together.
. . .
I stared at my phone. Opened the tab for English – Swedish translation.
My Midsommar certainly was different, but so much better than I could have imagined. The only thing that would have made it better was my sisters. But I’ll still take this as a win.
I hit send.
. . .
Highlights:
-Gathered my Midsommar bouquet. According to Google, and I’m assuming somewhere it is according to an actual legend, if a maiden gathers 7 – 9 wildflowers and places them under her pillow, she will dream of her true love. Dunno if it would actually work but hey, where nothing else had really happened for me, I needed all the help I could get. Since I wasn’t in a meadow, I figured cultivated flowers growing in parks counted as wildflowers, so I had no qualms taking borrowing them. Also according to legend, this must be done without speaking.
(I hope it’s not without making a sound, because I definitely tooted. . .)
-Was fully planning on sleeping under some bushes. They were out of sight, so I wouldn’t be bothered by humans. I was going to sleep the Central Station, since it’s open all night, but Andy de–suggested it. “The kinds of people out there at 3:00am are maybe not the kinds of people you should be around as a girl at night.” So I resolved to sleep outdoors, under the stars. At one place by the river it was so lovely, I was about to sit on the moss bank. One second later, a giant brown rat was in the exact spot I would have been in. I booked it outta there. While picking flowers for my bouquet, I saw another brown rat scampering away. Similar squeaks were heard rustling under the foliage, and I cringed at the free roaming rodents. A night in the bushes? Abso-griggin-lutely not anymore. Not as a guest visiting in the ubiquitous rat kingdom. I mentally re-grouped with a new homesless plan: I would roam around, read my book on a park bench, maybe lay down if I got tired, and would see if I could sneak into the hostel at 2:00am, checking in first thing.
-Saw an actually homeless man sleeping on top of cardboard in the park. Have never been so jealous of a bush-less cardboard mattress.
-Posted up on a bench in front of the hostel. It was so neat, reading by lamplight under a sky that wasn’t so dark, even at midnight. The air was neither cold nor warm, so I had on my hoodie, having brought a blanket just in case. Wrapped up in a blanket reading I would put on the sublime list; extra points if a fireplace was involved, even better if a boyfriend was lending himself as a human couch. In one of the meadows at Skansen, I saw a man lend himself as a human pillow for his woman so she could read her book propped up in comfort. That simple image, to me, seemed the purest kind of affection.
-A guy approached my park bench, asking what I was doing.
“Reading,” I replied, gesturing to the book in my hands. Beth Raymer’s autobiographical film Lay the Favorite was a story I could relate to, and was enjoying reading her memoirs.
“I’m from Norway.” His tall height with a Middle-earth face and polite demeanor were a dead giveaway.
I had a one-in-three chance of guessing his hometown correctly. I ventured on Bergen.
“No. Stavanger.”
“Do you need somewhere to stay for the night?” he asked. Not in a creepy way. He seemed embarrassed to be asking.
“Nope,” I lied. I mean, I did have somewhere to stay, it just happened to be this very bench. So I lied again. “That’s my hostel I’m staying at, right over there.”
He eyed the blanket at my feet dubiously.
“Then why are you out here at midnight?” he countered.
“Reading a book. I’ve never experienced a midnight sun, especially on Midsommar Eve.”
He looked amused. Either he thought I was lying (which I actually wasn’t) or he thought I was crazy (which was, admittedly, debatable). But I wasn’t the one trying to convince me I was homeless.
I asked him the same thing.
“I am drunk,” he explained, matter-of-fact. “So my roommate told me to go and get some McDonald’s. But I don’t know where it is. He said it was close, but I don’t see it anywhere.”
I looked the location up on the map, giving him drunken-easy-to-understand directions.
“Maybe I’ll see you later,” he waved, cheerfully.
He seemed nice, but that was the deal-sealer: I packed my crap, heading for the hostel.
-Snuck into the hostel kitchen, determined to pull an all-nighter. Since I didn’t have a bed or bush to sleep in, and didn’t want to see that Norwegian dude again, it was about my only option. I felt certain nobody would question my presence since they’d seen me all week, but still, I wasn’t certain. There were plentiful couches and chairs in the common room, but I didn’t want anybody asking any questions about why I didn’t simply go to bed. I figured if I was working, then I could get away with being in the room unmolested. Besides, hostel-dwellers and staff alike had witnessed my insomnia of the previous days. They would just assume I was dutifully writing. I could sleep all I wanted the next day after 9:00am check-in, I told myself. Surely I could hold out until then. That, or take a nap with the rats in the bushes.
The choice was a no-brainer.
I did nod off in front of my computer once or twice, but it was organic. Plus the sight of a poor schmuck exhausted from computer work is one that engenders pity, not suspicion. I put notebooks, books and pens around me, staging a scene of extreme business.
-Checked in at 9:00am sharp. Or at least, I had full intentions to: I was out walking that morning. I’s heard the city would be deserted, and I had to see it for myself. Olov was right – the city was indeed empty, with only the occasional garbage man or grocery store owner out and about (which is how I got me a salad at 8:00am to kill time). People were blocking the hostel entrance, refusing to let me in. I could have muscled in, but didn’t know if my door code was accurate, and I didn’t want to answer a lot of questions, etc. In retrospect I think it was the girl’s first day, and while the front door was accidentally still locked, confused German backpackers were congregating at the side door like lost, large, Aryan puppies. I eventually snuck past the random girl, hoping
-Wandered around in the 28 Days Later effect, watching episodes of House. Wondering what these random weirdos I happened to see on the streets were doing at 7:00am on a notional holiday, as I’m sure they wondered the same of me. Also, watching House and wandering deserted streets in the midnight sun bright noonday light even of early morning was delightful. If I lived a thousand years, I don’t think it would ever not be wondrous.