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And that’s when the problems started. I quickly realised the only experience I’d ever had of Sweden was through the pages of my older brother’s rather extensive collection of adult magazines. As I didn’t think this would be a particularly suitable opening topic of conversation, I struggled to think of something else I knew about the country. Of course, I was convinced like everyone else in Britain that all Swedes spoke like the Chef off of the Muppet Show, that they drove very safe, if somewhat boring looking cars and that the greatest contributions Sweden had made to the modern world were dynamite, Anni-Frid, Agnetha, Benny and Björn. As it later turned out, I was greatly misinformed. The Chef from the Muppet Show is clearly Norwegian and Volvos can be sexy. Just don’t park one next to a Porsche. The bits about dynamite and Abba are true though. A sudden knock at the door jolted me into action. I opened it find not one but two beautiful Swedish girls smiling expectantly at me. It was a vision so perfect I almost wept. Åsa and Sara were, quite simply, stunning. Like many Swedes I went on to meet, they seemed to radiate good health, as though they’d just stepped out of a hairspray commercial rather than the number 37 bus. I was particularly taken by Sara, whose blond hair and blue eyes reminded me of Fröken February 1972. Amazingly, the attraction appeared mutual, so I immediately did what any amorous Englishman would do – I took her down the pub. It must have worked, as we got married four years later. It could have
been the beer I suppose, but over a packet of pork scratchings I managed
to talk my way into spending that Christmas with Sara in Sweden.
Eager to impress, I decided to try and master a few Swedish phrases before departing for Sara’s home city of Umeå (which I pronounced you-me-a). However, a quick search of the high street book stores produced nothing. If I had wanted to learn ‘Business Swahili for Beginners’, or perhaps get to grips with ‘Tibetan Tongue Twisters’ I’d have been in luck. Swedish, at least in the little corner of England I occupied, had apparently ceased to exist. I’d have to dig deeper. At my local library I struck gold. Hidden among the shelves in the back of the building where people normally only went to look at the saucy pictures in biology books I found it – in mint pristine condition and rather optimistically entitled ‘Learn Swedish in Three Months’. I figured as there were just six weeks to go before Christmas, I could at least learn half the language. That should impress her enough to lead me into the bedroom. If that didn’t work, I could always resort to my usual technique of begging. I returned home with my book and spent the next few hours feverishly flipping through the pages. What I saw horrified me. It quickly became obvious that the author of the book was either completely mad or Norwegian – I still have difficulty separating the two – and therefore had something of a head start. I’ll confess I didn’t pay as much attention at school as I perhaps should have, but one thing that had been successfully drilled into me was that the alphabet consisted of 26 letters. The Romans had designed it this way, and if it was good enough for Caesar, then it was good enough for me. But apparently not good enough for the Swedes, who had thrown in three more letters for good measure and decorated them with little dots and circles. Not only that, but the number of vowels had suddenly increased from five to nine, all my favourite diphthongs had disappeared and there wasn’t a single word to be found (excusing names) that began with the letter W. How, I thought, did a Swede ever manage to spend a wild weekend away, take 40 winks after a wearisome walk through the woods, or ever figure out which one is which. How, I wondered, could they ever wonder? To achieve the correct pronunciation of these new found vowels required me to perform the oral gymnastics of a trumpet player with a mouthful of marbles. My face became painfully contorted, resembling that of a man trying to pass wind in a church or a young child that had just been told that Santa Claus was actually the insurance salesman who lived next door. It was not a pretty sight. Back on the plane I looked out of the window as we descended through the snow clouds and got my first glimpse of Umeå – the city I unknowingly would soon call home. Although it was only 3pm, it was already almost dark, and as I struggled to make out the shapes of houses and landmarks under the thick layer of snow below, I prayed the pilot was not experiencing similar difficulties locating the runway. After landing safely I started to disembark from the plane, but lingered a moment at the top of the transportable steps to take my first ever deep breath of minus 25 degree air. It froze both my nostrils instantly shut. I genuinely thought I had come to Sweden well prepared for whatever the weather could throw at me. My concerned mother had bought me a rather fetching Marks & Spencer matching two-piece thermal underwear set and some thick socks, and I had managed to borrow a skiing jacket off a friend who had been to the Alps and, against all expectations, had managed to return. This jacket
was a Jackson Pollock-inspired work of art, covered with patches of purple,
lime green and orange. Rather than being lined with Gore-Tex™, it was lined
with Bangalore-Tex ™, a cheap Indian imitation which rather than seal in
my body heat and let moisture out, sealed in all the moisture while allowing
my body heat to dissipate rapidly into the artic air.
It wasn’t difficult for Sara to spot me approaching, and after catching her up in the car park she drove me at speed through the city to her flat. Although quite dark by now I noticed how the snow reflected what little ambient light there was. It was like glow-in-the-dark snow, which had somehow stored up sunlight during the day and was slowly discharging it through the dark hours till sunrise. Passing through the centre of Umeå, I quizzed Sara about her home city. I discovered that Umeå is considered the capital of the North, with a population of just under 110,000 people, making it the 11th largest city in Sweden. It is the seat of the county administration of Västerbotten, which occupies one eighth of the total land mass of Sweden. Put that another way it’s a county the same size as Denmark with only 255,000 people living in it. I figured the chances of getting lost up here were very high indeed. The city itself is split clean in two by the River Umeälven, which is Umeå’s greatest asset, and also its most overlooked. Driving over one of the four city centre bridges I wondered why the riverbanks, rather than being lined with cafes, bars and restaurants, were lined with Pay and Display car parks. It seems town planners are universally incompetent regardless of the country they come from. Arriving at Sara’s flat, I got my first experience of communal living. Swedes are, in general, a nation of renters and often live in apartments with communal facilities. This usually includes laundry rooms, saunas, recreational rooms and gardens, but in Sara’s block it also included sharing the toilet and shower with the young guy living in the apartment across the hall. I never met him, but know he had long dark hair and a weak bladder. The following week flew by in a high-intensity blur of emotions and new experiences. I had my first ever proper white Christmas, marvelled at the amount of cheese, coffee and bananas Swedes consume (in that particular order) and was introduced to the expression “there’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothes” and realised I was wearing most of them. I also learnt how the nation becomes riveted to the television at three o’clock every Christmas Eve to watch a compilation of Walt Disney cartoons. And they say Britain has a ‘special relationship’ with the US! I mastered the art of eating seven different types of cookies, and how to add the perfect amount of sprite to a glass of hembränt in order to make it physically drinkable. I ate ham, meatballs and ribs for every meal – including breakfast - for four days after Christmas until I was in danger of being refused entry on the flight back home due to weight restrictions. But mostly
I remember that first Christmas in Sweden as a time I fell in love – with
the lady and her country. It’s a love affair that continues to this day.
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