Kulturkrock

A few years ago (and it frightens me that I still remember what I wrote nearly three years ago and can dig it up and link to it but whatever), I wrote about childcare in Sweden. Not because I actually have children, but because it’s a pretty popular topic. People the world over comment on the parental leave, the daycare, the child allowance all provided by those high taxes that Swedes pay.

In that post, I mentioned in passing about a Danish woman who ran into some legal trouble in the US for leaving her child in a stroller while she went into some sort of business establishment. Eventually, the whole thing settled down and she managed to even get some money out of the whole thing. Well played Danish woman, well played. Now a Swedish woman is in the exact same situation in Massachusetts. She left her kid outside in the stroller and spent gasp, 10 minutes in a restaurant. By the time she came out, she was facing charges of neglect. Bummer.

This is the ultimate kulturkrock. A culture crash of the kind that leads to serious problems and demonstrates a lack of understanding on so many levels. From both parties. I think this is a ridiculous overreaction by the Americans. I also think it is a little ridiculous that the Swedish mother in question wasn’t savvy enough to realize that this sort of thing doesn’t necessarily fly in the US. Silly, but you might want to pay some attention to what is socially acceptable in different cultures. I don’t eat bacon while wearing shorts and a tank top when I visit mosques in Istanbul.

All that being said, I sometimes forget just how Swedish I have become. Aside from the lack of cultural awareness, I see nothing wrong with this. Leave the kid to sleep outside. Don’t drag a huge stroller inside a crowded, or even empty, café or restaurant. Hell, some places in Stockholm have signs posted forbidding strollers from entering the building. It’s smart really. And I know, what if the child is kidnapped? It’s the big bad United States of America where nothing is safe…

There’s no need to be paranoid. That’s all it is, unwarranted paranoia. The statistics of kidnappings from the US Justice Department bear this out. Very seldom is a child just grabbed by a random stranger. Very, very seldom. Too often I hear the, well Sweden is just so safe so that this is completely acceptable. I believe it has less to do with actual safety and more to do with perceived safety. Yes, there are some places in the US you don’t want to be late at night. Of course, the serial rapist who was victimizing Flemingsberg while I lived there would suggests that there are some places in Sweden as well. Overall though, it seems my views on childcare for the hypothetical child that I don’t have, have suddenly been very much influenced by my Swedishness.

Welcome to the US. And kulturkrock.


Subscribe to a Swedish American in Sweden

(Not) Breaking the Law, Breaking the Law

I love stereotypes. I like to play with them. I like to joke about them. Sometimes I even like to live up to them. One stereotype that has always kind of surprised me is the Swedish law-abiding citizen. Usually this stereotype plays itself out in an everyday example. Cross walks. Apparently, Swedes never cross against red. Which is a damn dirty lie.

I learned earlier this summer that this same stereotype carries over to other countries in Scandinavia. Namely, Denmark. I found myself on a tiny little back street in a tiny little town with a tiny little American man with Danish ancestry. As I walked across the street against a very red light, he hustled slowly behind me. And yes, he hustled slowly. You know exactly what I mean. Because as he hustled slowly, he called out to my heels, you know, this is illegal. My cousin told me that he knew someone who once got a ticket for doing this late at night. Aah. Well in that case, we should always believe the “a friend of a friend of a friend told me once that” story. Those are always credible sources. I called out that I liked my chances of not getting a ticket. Lo and behold, I was not ticketed.

I tell you this story to demonstrate that this stereotype is alive and well in at least two Scandinavian countries. But last Sunday, I found myself staring at the stereotype come to life. I was back in Sweden. One last time before heading back to the US. I had a lovely meal with my family, but before seeing them, I tried getting a bit of shopping done. And by shopping, I mean candy buying.

I wandered into an ICA and found my candy of choice. And I paid. I was slow to pack up because I was too cheap to buy a plastic bag so it was necessary to shove everything into pockets and the (free) produce bags they offer. I managed, but in the meantime I watched a scene play out in front of me that I’m still not sure I witnessed.

A mother and two sons came up to the counter, maybe five and seven years old. They had a few things to purchase and two winning scratch-off lottery tickets. The mother was holding one ticket, the older son the other. The cute little kid held out his scratch ticket to the woman behind the counter. She looked at him then looked at the mother. I can’t accept this. You must be 18 years old to play the lottery. Ha ha I thought. Very cute. Cracking a little joke on a Sunday afternoon. What a friendly Swede. But I think we all know where this is going. I wouldn’t be writing about this if this was where the story ended. The mother chuckled a bit, I assume because she had a similar reaction to mine. The cashier did not chuckle. Stone-faced.

As the cashier continued to stare blankly at the mother, not reaching for the ticket, the mother simply asked, are you serious. Yes. Yes she was serious. The mother, quick thinking as she was, grabbed the ticket from the son then attempted to give it to the cashier. Again, the cashier made no move to reach for the ticket. She looked at the mother and said that once the child had touched the ticket, she was not allowed to accept it. You know, because you have to be 18 to play the lottery.

The poor little boy watched in confusion and eventually tried to explain that it wasn’t really him that was playing the lottery. He didn’t actually buy it. He was just holding it. Farmor bought it. Farmor is way older than 18. Surely she should be allowed to play the lottery. The cashier was unmoved. I don’t make the rules she said.

It was a mind-boggling display of following the letter of the law. The child clearly had not purchased the ticket. The mother had clearly just handed the child the ticket to hold as they waited in line. There was nothing sinister about it. Yet still, the cashier would not budge. While I'm sure there was a hint of, I'm working, I have to do this, it did not shine through at all. Instead she seemed to revel a bit in the ability to fall back on the excuse that someone else was making these rules. She was just the poor soldier following orders.

Finally, in exasperation, the mother asked if she would at least accept the second lottery ticket, the one that she was holding. She did. Of course, for all we know, that ticket may have been null and void. At some point, a child under the age of 18 may have possibly, maybe, accidentally touched the ticket. And you know, children under the age of 18 aren’t allowed to play the lottery in Sweden.

Welcome to Sweden. And law-abiding citizens.

Subscribe to a Swedish American in Sweden

IKEA. In Colorado.

Just a few weeks ago, a brand new IKEA opened in Colorado. This was big news. Such big news that while I was home for a few days this summer, several companies were using IKEA in their marketing. As in, we are located just three blocks away from IKEA. Of course, IKEA was yet to have actually opened, but a large blue and yellow box is hard to miss.

I took great interest in this. And by great, I mean I paid attention when my parents told me that people had camped out two nights before so that they could be the first to get into IKEA. You see, the first 30 people in would receive an IKEA couch. Yay.

Let me first say that I love IKEA. In a slightly creepy way. I furnished damn near my entire apartment in the US with IKEA products. It’s cheap, it looks halfway decent, and it’s cheap. But it’s cheap. And that seems to have been lost on many people in the US.

I have owned an IKEA couch. It was, without a doubt, the worst couch I have ever owned. Granted, it wasn’t the top of the line model, but let’s be honest, nothing is top of the line when it comes from IKEA. There are very few things I would sleep in a large asphalt parking lot for two days for. A couch from IKEA is not one of them. In fact, it shouldn’t be one of them for anyone.

You see, IKEA stuff is made with cheap materials so that it can be sold cheaply in flat packed boxes and put together with one magical tool. These are not handmade works of art. They just aren’t. Swedes know this.

Swedes know that IKEA allows you to get bored and redecorate your entire kitchen every other year without having to take out a second mortgage. Americans don’t seem to understand this. Yes, there are pieces of IKEA furniture that last for decades. I believe some old bookshelves/cupboard thingies that once sat in the basement of my parents’ home were from IKEA. But the vast majority of furniture from the blue and yellow giant lasts a couple of years. IKEA furniture is not handed down from one generation to the next. It is not a point of contention in last wills and testaments. It is sorted at the dump or thrown onto blocket.se. That’s it.

A few years ago, I found a short article claiming that IKEA and H&M played a role in the high rate of divorce in Sweden. Because Swedes were used to changing their interior decorating and their wardrobe for next to nothing, they were also used to changing their partners. It was the kind of pseudo-psychology that appeals to people like me. I can read a poorly written article that probably misrepresents actual psychological research and refer to it in conversation with friends about the recent study I just read about blah blah blah. But regardless of the correlation or causation between divorce and IKEA usage, the fact remains that these giants of Swedish design are designed to be tossed aside for the next great Swedish design. It’s genius really. But it’s something that seems to have been lost in the cultural translation from IKEA Sweden to IKEA US.

What does all this mean? Nothing. Except for that when the next IKEA opens in the US, don’t camp outside. And anyway, they sell stuff online.

Welcome to the US. And cultural translation problems.

Subscribe to a Swedish American in Sweden

Really Sweden, Really?

I miss Europe. And I’m still here. But the other day was rough. I went to Sweden for the afternoon with a group of fellow Danish learners. I was mostly looking forward to being able to speak a language without having to think. And mumble.

I arrived to a street filled with European football fans dressed in the local colors surrounding at least 10 police vans. We were told that there was a derby match about to happen. And at one in the afternoon, the Swedes were apparently properly liquored up. Because suddenly, sirens erupted, riot police charged, gas canisters were detonated (whether they were tear gas or not, I don’t know), and a throng of football fans spread out into the streets in all directions at a drunken sprint. It was like nothing I had ever seen. I once saw the beginnings of a riot at the University of Oregon several years ago, I’ve seen several large-scale demonstrations, but I have never seen riot police in action. It was intense. Because I am a responsible young man, I walked away. It was not a good first impression for several of the people who had never been to Sweden before.

Next, we headed to the old town. Because every proper European city has one. Obviously. On the way down a large set of stairs, a lighter came flying through the air and whipped against my hand. I looked up to see a pudgy, middle-aged man in a white shirt with a drunken, albeit sheepish, look on his face. My arms flew into the air in the international what the hell was that gesture. My words then flew into the air in the Swedish vad fan var det gesture. His response was one of the most disgusting things I have heard in Sweden in quite some time. Ursäkta, det var inte meningen. Jag missade negern bakom dig. As if that somehow makes it ok. Some Swedes will argue that the word neger means negro. To be perfectly honest, that’s bullshit. It’s a word that should not be used. Ever. I just looked at the guy, shook my head, and walked away. I didn’t know what to do. It just kind of hurt to hear.

At this point, my brow is furrowed and I’m not exactly happy to be at the head of a gaggle of foreigners trying to show off a country that I quite like and a city that holds a whole lot of amazing memories. So off we went to a medieval church. Because if there’s one thing that can cheer me up it’s a medieval church. Instead I saw three men, penises in hand, urinating on the walls surrounding the church grounds. Awesome.

After three strikes, the skies opened above us and rain started pissing down. You know, just for good measure. Needless to say, it wasn’t the most successful day trip to Sweden.

Welcome to Sweden. And drunkenness, hooliganism, racism, and public urination.

Subscribe to a Swedish American in Sweden

Using Your Inside Voice

The other day I wrote that Americans should use their inside voice when abroad. It was meant to be a smart ass comment that was halfway funny. Mostly because it is a stereotype that lives on and sometimes is based on a kernel of truth. However, I thought I should explain what I meant also, not because I received any scathing e-mails, but because behind the smartass comment there was something I meant. Surprisingly, there usually is.

Americans tend to be loud when abroad. Not overly so, but loud enough. It’s not just that though. Lots of people are loud. Lots of people make fools of themselves. Lots of people call attention to themselves. That’s not reserved just for Americans. I’ve seen countless languages do things that would make their mothers cringe. Or at least make my mother cringe.

But other languages can get away with things on a different level. It does not give them a license to act an ass, but it does give them license to say things that may be rude. Part of the reason an inside voice is so useful for an American is the simple fact that those Americans tend to be speaking English. And a vast population abroad speaks English. And when a vast international population speaks English, those little comments you make that you think you can get away with because you are abroad. Gross, it stinks here. Look at that person. Do I really have to eat that? Why don’t they do it this way? Those comments are understood. By a lot of people.

So whether they are loud or not, they are heard. Is it fair? Probably not. The group of Finnish guys may be saying the exact same things. I don’t know. I don’t speak Finnish. Chances are that you don’t either. And neither does the vast majority of the population.

While in Istanbul, I ran across a group of Americans. Probably a few years younger than me. I did not talk to them. They were standing outside a large Turkish bathhouse. They were talking. Someone in the group I was with made a comment about the stereotypically loud Americans. They weren’t. Not in my opinion. They were no louder than the other groups of tourists right outside of the bathhouse. The difference was they were in the middle of the classic tourist bitch session. We’ve all been there. I’ve seen Swedes do it in Mumbai, I’ve seen Canadians do it in Sweden, I’ve seen Americans do it all over. It’s a great way to blow off some steam when the homesickness hits. The difference between Swedes doing it in Mumbai and Americans doing it in Istanbul is that there aren’t a whole lot of Swedish speakers in Mumbai. There are a whole lot of English speakers in Istanbul. So all those rude comments were understood. Loud and clear. Minus the loud.

It’s frustrating to see this happen, it’s frustrating to see stereotypes beget stereotypes. Some of them deserved, I won’t deny that. Some are not. But when traveling abroad, it helps to be aware of those stereotypes. Because that inside voice may not break down the loud American stereotype, but it sure as hell will help. Even if your inside voice is understood by your surroundings as well.

Welcome to Europe. And inside voices.

I Miss You Europe

I miss you Europe. And I’m still here. And I’ll be here for another four weeks. I have plenty to look forward to when going back to the US, but I miss you already.

I miss learning bits and pieces of new languages. Because there is no better way to make a foreign friend than comparing swear words.

I miss meeting people from different countries. Because here people are actually from that country. For the record, you are not from Sweden if your great-great-grandfather moved to the US from Skåne in the 1800s. You’re just not.

I miss people speaking at least two different languages. Because your four years of B-work French in high school doesn’t count ten years after the fact. It just doesn’t.

I miss being able to jump on a plane and exploring a new country. Because Poland or Greece or Turkey or Italy are right there. And paying next to nothing to do it.

I miss five to six weeks of paid vacation. Because I’m on vacation right now. But it sure as hell isn’t paid.

I miss taking my shoes off when I walk into someone’s house. Because it’s just gross not to.

I miss laughing at the skinny guy in skinny jeans and a skinny t-shirt. Because you look ridiculous. Even if it is fashionable.

I miss boobs on TV. Because they’re just nipples. We all have them.

I miss being able to pick out the American tourist from a mile away. Because you wear tennis shoes everywhere. And are carrying a water bottle. And just a tip, use your inside voice.

I miss naked kids on the beach. Because when you’re three years old (or even 27 years old), there are few things better than running naked into the ocean.

I miss laughing at European stereotypes. Because Germans wearing socks with sandals is just funny.

I miss the history. Because as much as I love American history, there’s nothing like a medieval church.

I miss the museums. Because all those years of colonialism sure made for one hell of a museum collection.

I miss bitching and moaning about you. Because even though I love you, sometimes you need to get over yourself. I know. So does, the US.

I miss working my ass off to understand you. Because I hate the Ugly American. And I hate being the Ugly American even more. So be able to identify more than three countries. Read a newspaper. The international section is a good place to start.

I miss my adventure. Because you were the best adventure I’ve had so far.

I miss running away to hide only to realize I found so much. Because nothing can compare to crossing an ocean. For friendship. For education. For work. For love.

I miss you Europe. And I’m still here.

Welcome to S(candinavia). I think I’ll leave. Probably.

Subscribe to a Swedish American in Sweden

Blonde Hair, Blue Eyes and Swedish Stereotypes

Sometimes I forget about Scandinavian stereotypes. And sometimes I forget that there is often a basis for those stereotypes. And sometimes it takes a bunch of international student trying to learn a Scandinavian language to point those differences out.

I am somewhere between red-headed and blonde-headed. I do not have blue eyes. I am half-way tall. I am pushing 200 pounds. I have broad-ish shoulders. In short, I can look the Swedish part if needed, although I may be a bit broad overall to be completely convincing. But this isn’t meant to be some sort of weird personal ad, although, ladies, I do enjoy a sad country song. You know, because I’m sensitive.

The point is that a certain look is expected from Swedes, and Scandinavians in general. That look is tall. Blonde or red-headed. Blue eyes. And little kids are expected to be either well-dressed or running around naked with their blonde hair and blue eyes.

So when I found myself in front of a delicious Danish ice cream shop teeming with small children none of this was in my mind. At all. I Was focused on my rapidly melting ice cream and the copious amounts of whipped cream and strawberry jam running down the sides.

What I saw in front of me was background noise. Just a bunch of Danes and Swedes enjoying ice cream and sunlight. As anyone should really. Until one of the several eastern Europeans I was with decided to chime in. About the children. In a good way. But it was a simple comment. Look at all the blonde hair! And the blue eyes! And so I did.

And he was right. They all had blonde hair. And they all had blue eyes. Every. Single. Child. While there were a couple of siblings in the group, not all of them were related. The numerous pairs of harried parents gave that away in a heartbeat.

Today at the beach, in one of those rare summer days when the sun is warm, the water is warm, and the ice cream is cold, there were little kids nakedly running around on the beach. And they were all blonde. Again. Every. Single. Child.

I don’t remember being two years old and running around in Sweden, but I’ve seen pictures. And I fit the bill. I was blonde blonde. Cute too. I don’t know what happened. It all went downhill from about the age of six. When my family moved to the US. Coincidence? Maybe.

But it’s quite the image when walking through town, or sitting on a beach, or riding a train, and realizing that all those kids running around really are blonde. Really are blue-eyed. Really are fitting every Swedish stereotype. It isn’t always that way. It doesn’t always stay that way. But next time you’re out enjoying the Swedish (or in my case, Danish) sun, look around. You may find yourself surrounded by living stereotypes.

Welcome to S(candinavia). And blonde hair and blue eyes.

Subscribe to a Swedish American in Sweden