Sunday June 25
Balancing a platter on one arm, I successfully maneuvered the door handle without dropping a single roll. If you think about the spherical shape in its very name, you can easily see how that was quite the feat. Ana followed me out the door, the mountain of seasoned potatoes in its container full to the brim. Raquel was already sitting on a couch, asking how if we should use a projector to watch Miss Florence Pugh in action. While most people talk about their prime real estate of back yards of grass and landscaping, we had a back lot – old parking spaces with mulch lining industrial fence. Not the picture of suburban bliss, but hey, when your back fence borders a Walmart and sketchy drug-busted neighbors, it just comes with the territory. Even Penny was adding to the festivities. providing moral support from her lease tied to the old trailer next door.
It was the summer of 2020, when Covid-19 was in full sway, in the midst of toilet paper panic and martial global travel cancellations. The suspect nature of most countries enforced all kinds of borders all but shut down. Seeing its flight status as restricted made Sweden seem even further away than it was (which was pretty dang far to begin with). So, determining to herald in Midsommar anyway despite the wacky spring we’d just had, we pooled our resources, assigned cooking tasks, and got a little creative with our presentation. Basing everything around what we’d read on almighty, omniscient travel blogs, of course Wikipedia.
“Maybe I can just say I’m a travel blogger and travel is necessary for my livelihood. Cross the border that way.”
“Yeah, they’re not gonna check that. There’s no actual credentials besides making a website,” Ana added, shifting a pillow from beneath her.
Because our landlord at the time was throwing away couches, we made good use of them as makeshift luxury seating. And as our banquet-style table, we had a plastic storage bin we had accidentally kept from work.
Hard to believe that was only three years ago.
Even harder to believe I made it to Midsommar yesterday. It’s one of those things I could read endless numbers of blogs or google blurbs about, but experiencing it for myself was more than any reddit thread could tell me.
My hostel infiltration plan a success, I wandered outside of the hostel, basically biding my time until checking in.
The guy checking me in did it within five seconds. Took a nap in my actually assigned bed, confusing housekeeping since I was there before the 2:00pm check-in time. Heard one housekeeper say to the other “No se, toda esta loco.” Ain’t it so lady, ain’t it so.
Woke up in time to make myself presentable for my lunch date. See, I had a reservation for what was recommended as the city’s top smorgasbord experiences. Since I had no Swedish family for the weekend, and Helena was yet to be in town, I decided to treat myself. The meal was minimum $67 USD but hey, I’d sold donated a lotttttt of plasma as part of the trip savings, so I figured I might as well make use of my blood money.
Wearing my lucky green dress, I hurried over, determined not to be late for at least this occasion.
. . .
Arrived nine minutes early. The woman at the restaurant seemed surprised I said I could wait to be seated since I was early. Maybe it was that arriving early is arriving on time.
Or maybe it’s that the restaurant wasn’t at all swamped. A distinguished-looking gentleman whom I presumed to be the maître’d showed me to my seat.
“Would the lady like a seat overlooking the waterfront?” He said it so smoothly. With his professional mustache and very blue eyes, who was I to refuse. And my gosh, was the view beautiful.
The Swedish Monsieur did it again when I asked him about the smorgasbord. “This is my first one, so I’m not sure what to do,” I admitted. Did my guy laugh? Make me feel stupid? Or even hesitate? My guy asked if he could escort me and show me himself where to go and how it was organized. “You can get as many plates as you like, seven is traditional, according to old customs.” And with a smooth walk, he was away.
Wow. My restaurant days included working as a waitress at Olive Garden. And while I always strived to provide excellent service, this guy was unreal.
The meal itself was equally unreal. Because I wanted to try everything, I went back with seven plates, small pieces of almost everything. I’d been told that it’s no holiday without sill, so I made sure to try the several kinds of herring. Most of it tasted the same, though the mustard one was yummy, with the one labeled simply as “green sauce.” I concluded that sill, as with tacos, was best with the salsa verde.
I didn’t notice time passing, I was enjoying people-watching, looking out the waterfront, scribbling in my notebook, and contemplating Billy Collins. He wrote about how he used to feel sorry for old men who sat alone eating in restaurants, but not anymore. Now he understood. I admit, I was enjoying my meal on my own. I didn’t have to make conversation. I just thought and savored. These lines I can see now:
And I should mention the light
that falls through the big windows this time of day
italicizing everything it touches—
the plates and teapots, the immaculate tablecloths. . .
Caught a man staring at me, smiling. Later he invited me to go to church downtown. I politely declined since I had plans for church, but the invitation was kind, and pretty bold for a typically personal business-minding Swede.
The whole meal during its two hours timespan passed delightful, desserts, too. The marshmallow dessert kinda surprised me, though here in the land of godis, I suppose I shouldn’t have been. One dessert in particular stood out as a dream – a little custard tart with a single, whole strawberry in it, not too sweet, but so decadent.
Came to about $85 USD with my tea and sparkling non-alcoholic white wine included. Seven plates in, it was a Midsommar feast indeed, absolutely worth a homeless night.
Worth every penny.
. . .
I was walking around the Veranda Restaurant. The Grand Hotel was less busy than the day before, but that worked for me. I asked the concierge if they had found any sunglasses. Turns out there was one woman still at the Veranda, and she brought my glasses over directly. Y know, one outta two ain’t bad, I’ll take it. I thanked her and left. The young blonde concierge rejoicing at the success, too. I smiled. Maybe Swedes weren’t as cold as Andy had described. I thought of the woman laughing, dancing in the rain. No, there was a warmth to them, a genuine excited nature, ready to smile at the first chance.
I would miss you, Stockholm. You’ve been good to me. When Andy was surprised I’d liked Stockholm so much, I suppose it wasn’t necessarily for the shops or things I did. Really, it was about the people I’d met, and the others back home I wanted to share it with. I would love to visit the Veranda again, an experience that could only be made better with my best friends. Because with them, even a plastic storage bin table spread was a Michelin experience. Someday, we would have our Midsommar feast here, together.
I got my stuff from the hostel. Took one last pee break. Headed to the train station, shouldering my bags of crap. Quietly awaiting what next stage of my journey fate was preparing for me.