Skansen

Last week I wrote a little bit about Djurgården, Stockholm's garden island, where the wonderful Rosendal cafe is located. Well, there's actually a whole lot more to that island, much of which I still haven't seen yet. It's definitely my favorite place in the city—I think I could spend every weekend there.

On Saturday, I went to a part of Djurgården called Skansen, which includes an open-air museum depicting early Swedish culture, a zoo, and a children's amusement park. There was an autumn festival going on, and people in traditional Swedish dress were selling all kinds of foods—fish soup, crisp bread, sweets, honey, fruit, etc., while children played simple country games. One game featured a bunch of porcelain plates on shelves. Each child was handed a rock and given three chances to break a plate, to the wild screams of the crowd. Another "game" was simply a giantic pile of straw, placed next to a paddock full of sheep. At first I thought they were making scarecrows, but it was far less complex than that. The game goes like this: Roll in the straw, then throw some at a sheep! Pretty amazing.

I was expecting Skansen to be a bit like Colonial Williamsburg, or a Rennaisance Festival, or some bad combo of the two, but it's really well done. Many of the old buildings are authentic former residences, and some are cool reproductions of the nomadic dwellings of northern Sweden's hunting communities.

The craziest part, though, was the zoo. There's a section devoted to Scandinavian animals—owls, moose, bears, foxes, etc.—and then there's a bunch of random exotic animals, like huge Amazonian snakes and all kinds of different African monkeys. Most remarkable was a huge, three-story wire enclosure filled with stripe-tailed lemurs (see photo above). For 198 SEK—about $30, on top of the initial $15 you already paid to get into Skansen— you and your kids can go into the lemur cage and play with them. Now, as much as I wanted to play with some lemurs, this is highway robbery. I couldn't believe it! But I stood there for the better part of an hour and watched other people become lemur jungle gyms. Really good fun.

Vampire Weekend

I’m back from a wacky weekend that included a trip to Estonia, a visit to Stockholm’s lovely Skansen open-air museum, and my 31st birthday. Sounds like a barrel of monkeys, right? Well, actually it was more like a cage full of lemurs with a $30 admission fee.

Rebecca and I boarded the Tallink Romantika Thursday evening, ready for a low-class adventure. We were picturing 36 hilarious hours of drunk, Borat-like men, skanky teen girls, tumbledown village streets replete with bargains and old ladies in headscarves, possibly a Dracula sighting… but really we only got the first two. The Romantika was a nicer boat than I was expecting, but the Swedes and Estonians onboard didn’t really cut all that loose. There were roaming packs of teenage boys, faded women looking for action, middleclass Estonian honeymooners, a couple stag parties, and they were drunk, sure, but the vibe was sort of… lame. We did the best we could, shutting down the bar in the company of a random crew of people from northern Sweden celebrating somebody’s 50th birthday. We were entertained by a Bulgarian singer crooning “West Virginia Mountain Mama” (he had no idea what he was saying) and a troupe of surprisingly talented showgirls and showboys (blurry pictured above) called “Estonian Dance Factory.” Rebecca cut a rug with a retired firefighter, who bought us mojitos. I lent her my wedding band so we each had a ring for fending off creepy advances. And the next day, we awoke hung over in Tallinn.

We set off to wander through the old town, maybe go to a spa, and eat some interesting Estonian food. For some reason, though, we ended up just walking and walking, searching for some sort of fun that wasn’t really there. Downtown Tallinn combined streamlined modern architecture with bombed-out stone houses and concrete nuke shelters. Versace and Dolce & Gabbana stores rubbed elbows with sweat shops, peep shows, and erotic massage parlors (which cast a smudged sort of light over the birthday party revelers from the night before. Ooooh, that’s why you’re going to Estonia.)

Old Tallinn was pretty cute in that typical Eastern European way: winding cobblestone streets and stuccoed pastel buildings with flower boxes… but the prices weren’t cute at all. About ten years ago, my family went on a trip to Hungary and Czechoslovakia, and Mom brought home armfuls of lovely and cheap Baltic amber, most of which subsequently disappeared when our house was robbed. I figured I’d buy her some presents to replace the stolen jewelry, but nothing—not even the junkiest-looking string of amber beads—could be had in Tallinn for less than $100. Other local specialties included linen, lace and wool products, which were also highly pricey. Rebecca and I bought bottles of water and shared a piece of marzipan, wondering what in the world happened to the “almighty dollar.” Rebecca noticed that locals walking the streets in Tallinn tended to trudge around pale and scowling, like the undead. This rule seemed to apply even to children, but especially to working women, who followed us closely around their shops and snatched whatever goods we weren’t buying briskly back to their shelves.

After living in Polish Greenpoint (a neighborhood in Brooklyn) for a couple years, I developed some not-so-flattering observations about the Poles, and sort of decided I’d seen enough local culture that I didn’t really need to go to Poland. It’s hard to describe, but there’s a certain Eastern European feeling that permeated both my old ‘hood and (at least my first impression of) Tallinn. It’s a feeling of grim wariness, like whatever you have might be suddenly taken from you, so it’s best not to trust anyone. (And as a corollary, since the world is untrustworthy and others might screw you over, it’s acceptable to preemptively screw others over as well.) Eastern European women are particularly wary of other women, presumably viewing them as competitors in the race to marry a gainfully employed man while their looks are still good. All these impressions I had about the Poles resonated in Estonia as well. As I walked around Tallinn, I felt somewhat guilty for being a bit of an ungracious visitor, empathy for a people with a long history of hardship that’s just now lifting, and a clear sense that I’d be just fine if I never saw the place again.

Meanwhile, Rebecca was growing crankier and crankier. She hated Tallinn, and at a certain point she realized she sort of hated Sweden, too. After the trip to Estonia, we were both a bit sick of seeing high prices for items of low value, and sick of being around people who generally exuded no warmth toward strangers. When we got back to Sweden, Rebecca started noticing that people failed to make way for us on the sidewalk, walking four abreast so we had to swing way off our walking course for them (a big New York no-no). They butted in front of us in checkout lines and squeezed us out of the way in shops when they saw interesting goods on the shelves in front of us. I hadn’t really noticed these behaviors before, or, if I had, I just wrote them off as cultural differences, which is exactly what they are. Rebecca pointed out that “if people acted like this in New York, they’d probably get punched,” which I found both tragically true and a bit funny, considering that New Yorkers are considered some of America’s least polite people.

I discussed the “manners” issue with both my Swedish teacher and with Niklas, and I found their answers enlightening. I told my Swedish teacher that I worry I’m saying things incorrectly or rudely, because requests for things in this language often sound like demands. In Sweden, one simply says “I want a coffee.” Or “Two hotdogs.” Or “Can you help me?” There’s no “please,” no “I was wondering if maybe…” no “Would you mind…” no “Excuse me, may I” etc. etc. It’s a stripped-down language, and the wordy pleasantries are left out. Or maybe they just haven’t been developed yet. Niklas’s theory is that it’s only been about 50 years since Sweden was primarily a rural country where people lived in isolated homesteads. In the best estimation of the people, they are shy and reserved. In the worst estimation, they can be a little bit coarse. It’s not that they’re rude, they just don’t do the little social dances that foreign visitors might expect.

Cruisin' For a... Former Soviet Republic

One of the most interesting things about Stockholm is that it's surrounded by water, which means that recreational activities often involve boats. I think Rebecca is going to be a bit sick of boats (hopefully not literally) after this week's visit. So far, we've already been on a sightseeing tour boat, and we're planning to take a trip out to the archipelago this weekend. But tonight, we're going on a Baltic cruise... to Estonia. Random, yes. But of all the cities in close Baltic cruising distance (Helsinki, St. Petersburg, Riga, Copenhagen), Tallinn sounded the most exotic. It's a medieval city of winding streets, ancient buildings, cheap booze and ubiquitous spas.

I took the day off tomorrow, so tonight we'll go on this crazy low-rent cruise ship called the Tallink Romantika (pictured above). The brochure promises bars, dancing, a dinner buffet and gorgeous views of the Baltic. This reminds me very much of a Norwegian ferry I took with my family when I was a kid. The memory my brother and I share of that ride was the horrible fishy, gamey food. I will be sure to let you know how the Tallink ship compares.

Rebecca and I were torn between this and another, destination-less boat called the Birka Princess, which just ambles around the ocean, but features a series of pools and hot tubs, and a year-round solarium complete with sun-bright tanning lamps and palm trees. I'm thinking of taking my parents on that one when they come, but we ultimately chose the Tallink so we could actually get off and spend the day in a weird former Soviet country.

Bonnier actually owns some newspapers in Tallinn, which I find interesting. Our company has an ethic of spreading free speech, so we opened a few publishing houses in Latvia, Estonia and Russia just after the Soviet Union collapsed, to help the spread of democratic, true, non-state-sponsored news.

Anyway, my own goals for tomorrow are not nearly so lofty. I plan to walk around Tallin's old town, eat and drink at a kitschy (but apparently very tasty) medieval restaurant called Olde Hansa, and go to a spa that promises 12 swimming pools and hot tubs, and a poolside bar.

Pretty sure there won't be WiFi on the ship, so I'll report back on our adventures when we return this weekend.

P.S.: There is no Swedener Q&A this week because I received no questions! What an incurious lot you readers are. Please ask me something. Set me a task—I love research.

I Love Swedish Food... And New Mexican Food

There are definitely Swedish foods I could live without, as you know if you've read my other food posts (aside: I just learned there's horse meat on the smorgasbord spreads around town. No! Frenchy!!!), but there's some pretty lovable cuisine going on here, too. Actually, scratch "cuisine." Make that "grub." As is usually the case, the simple foods eaten by common people are some of the best Sweden has to offer. For instance, Swedish fish may be a myth, but Swedish meatballs are for real. And they are excellent. I'm pretty sure they're crafted from the meat of adorable baby cows, for whom I have far fewer emotions than any anonymous horse—but I didn't tell Rebecca that last night as she was happily tearing into a plateful. She ordered them at this cool place we went to called Tranan, while I virtuously nibbled a salad. (Okay, not so virtuously. There was also a bunch of chevre, and some homemade bread. But who's counting?) We traded bites, of course, and her meatballs were definitely spectacular. Big, meaty delights drowned in the richest gravy I've ever tasted. It was probably made with veal stock, bay leaf, butter roux and a hint of allspice.

The bread in Sweden is to die for, and although I try to steer clear, (since carbs often find their merry way directly to my hips), I have a weakness for rågbröd, literally "rye bread"—but that doesn't do justice to the dark, moist, wholegrain/molasses reality. I'm so glad I found the awesome Rosendal cookbook. I can't wait to cook all those delicious Swedish recipes for my family in the U.S.

Next week I'm going back to Allt Om Mat for another lunch, and it's really fun to see what they cook. We're actually meeting to discuss a feature I pitched, in which I'd prepare a New Mexican Thanksgiving meal. What fun, to have a feature in a Swedish food magazine, right? Whether or not we end up doing it in print, my friend Mark (with whom I used to cook in tke pastry kitchen at SantaCafe) and I are going to prepare the meal together for our families in New Mexico over the Christmas holiday.

Here's the proposed menu:

Starters:
Turkey caldo tlapeno (turkey, roast corn, chipotle soup thickened with pinto bean puree and garnished with cojita, avocado and cilantro)
Mincemeat empanaditas (little crescent-shaped pockets of dough filled with spiced, brandied fruit cooked in suet)
Red chile-pork tamales

Main:
Turkey enchiladas with served with green chile sauce or mole negro
(could also just prepare a turkey, but I think the leftovers are the best part)

Sides:
Green chile mashed sweet potatoes
Cranberry, blood orange and ginger chutney
Winter green salad with roasted parsnips and shaved fennel
Roasted brussels sprouts with pepitas and pomegranate seeds


Desserts:
Biscochitos (crumbly New Mexican sugar cookies made with lard and cinnamon)
Pinon brittle
Pumpkin flan
Pecan pie (pecans are farmed in southern New Mexico)
Smoky chipotle frozen custard

Yuuuummmm. For some separate holiday meal—perhaps New Years?—I plan to serve a totally Swedish jul bord, with Janssen's temptation and smoked herring with all the fixings (boiled potatoes, creme fraiche, chives, radishes and pickled onions). I might even try pickling my own herring if my friends at Allt Om Mat will give me that really good recipe with the tomato and oranges, hint, hint. For dessert, I'll try making the lovely hazelnut cookies from Rosendal. They're made with ground hazelnuts, powdered sugar and egg whites. Almost a meringue, but much nicer, with a crispy outside and a chewy, hazelnutty center. They're so rich and toothsome you don't even notice they're flour-free.

Since I'm in a cooking sort of mood, the links to some of the foods above go to recipe pages, in case you want to try them out yourself. Otherwise, show up at my house in Santa Fe between December 20th and January 4th to see how my own creations turn out.

Paradise in Stockholm

My friend Rebecca is here to visit for a couple weeks, which gives me a great reason to dig deeper into the city of Stockholm and check out all the attractions as I'm showing her around. Yesterday was happily warmer than usual and sunny, so we rented bikes and rode to Djurgården, a gorgeous green island dotted with parks, museums and a few lovely homes (including Jonas Bonnier's). This is Stockholm's answer to Central Park, but it's much more quaint and rural-feeling.

We met up in the early afternoon with my friend Jessika, who knows her way around Djurgården quite well, and had a spare bike for Rebecca. I rented one from the City Bike program, which is fantastic. There are bike racks all around Stockholm with a computerized lock activated by members' swipecards. It's a great bargain at around $30 for a card that lasts the whole season (March through October) or $15 for a three day card. The bikes are fat-tire commuter bikes with both handbrakes and pedal brakes (which I found kind of confusing), and they're nicely maintained by the city.

Anyway, it only took about 15 minutes by bike to get through the city traffic and out to Djurgården, and then it was like being in the country. You go through narrow cobblestone streets lined with adorable Victorian homes, past an amusement park and several museums, and then you're on treelined dirt roads surrounded by meadows and forests. We rode around the coast of the island for a while, checking out cool old boats and views of the city skyline, and then we rode to Rosendals Träadgård—my new favorite place in Stockholm. The garden consists of fields of biodynamically grown vegetables and flowers, dotted with graceful Victorian-era buildings and a row of glass greenhouses that have been converted into a cafe, bakery and market (where the crops grown on-site are sold). The aesthetic of the place is elegant, quirky and countryfied at the same time. Picture Victorian buildings in warm yellows and salmons, weeping willow and Russian olive trees, trellises full of flowers, fields of cabbage, chrysanthemums and big purple kale. Then, you've got rusty, whitewashed iron and glass buildings hung with drying bundles of herbs and tables piled with pumpkins and yellow squash, big glass jars full of sourdough starter bubbling in the windowsills around pale-haired ladies selling sandwiches of crusty bread with cheese and greens. Apple pies, lingonberry tarts and hazelnut cookies stacked on pastry racks; people sipping leisurely cups of coffee at cafe tables, their faces toward the sun.... The place was Megan Heaven—I could go on and on.

While there, I bought a gorgeous cookbook that I suspect will be the first of many I'll give as gifts. It's a cook's dream, with recipes for all the garden-fresh goods grown and baked at Rosendals, and a designer's dream, too, with full-bleed photos and hand scrawled recipes printed on lovely matte paper. It's won lots of Swedish awards, but it's available in English at the cafe. I'm looking forward to coming back to Rosendals in the winter when they hold their Christmas Festival. Apparently there's bonfires, amazing sweets, crafts, a live nativity, homemade glögg, etc, etc.

It's also possible to rent the greenhouses for dinners and weddings. They would look amazing with long tables piled with seasonal flowers and vegetables, and candles everywhere. I wish I could just keep getting married over and over again so I could do it in places like this. (I'd marry John every time.)

Here's some photos of Djurgården and Rosendals:

Then Comes Sambo With a Baby Carriage

Love and marriage... In Sweden, not so horse-and-carriage-like. Shacking up is incredibly common here, so much so that there's even a politically correct (but silly) term for the act. It's a much more fun word than the vague and sanitized "domestic partner": Here, unmarried folks who live together (and often have families together) are called sambos.

I actually learned this new vocabulary word from my Swedish-language lesson book, in which two characters featured throughout the text are Linda and Hassan, a multiracial pair of sambos who are expecting a baby. How progressive! The textbook is typically used to teach the language to immigrant workers arriving from Africa, Asia and the Middle East, so I figure they decided to introduce this concept as early as possible (chapter 2) to get people prepared for the real-live Sweden. ("Yup, we openly live in sin. Hope you're cool with that. If not, there's a ferry to Estonia leaving at 5 pm sharp...") There's no stigma whatsoever about raising a family out of wedlock, and sambos receive all the same legal benefits as married people. This is true in both the larger cities and the rural areas—there's no discernable slide into right-wing thinking the closer you get to corn fields.

The effect is that marriage is on the decline in Sweden. Many people see the institution as antiquated and the wedding ritual as an unnecessary expense. But those who do get married seem to do so in high style. August is the most popular month for weddings, and in the first few weeks I was here, a few of my friends went to weddings and reported that they included course after opulent course of food with alcohols to match, tons of toasts, and drunken reveling well into the night.

So, I decided to quiz my coworkers about whether there's any stigma around pregnancy. If marriage is a non-issue, what about age? For instance, what do they think of the hub-bub over Bristol Palin? Is teen pregancy a problem here? (The legal age of consent in Sweden is 15.)

My informal pollees reported that there are very few teen pregnancies here, and some quick research on the Web suggests they're right. Whereas, in the U.S., 84 out of every 1,000 teens become pregnant, in Sweden, pregnancy affects only 25 out of 1000 teens. There was an interesting interview on Chicago Public Radio last week with Margareta Larsson, associate professor of women's and children's health at Uppsala University. She discussed the differences in attitudes about sexuality in Sweden and the U.S., and explained why she thinks teen pregnancy rates here are so much lower.

Predictably, the answer lies in education. As my colleague Maria says, "sex just isn't such a big deal here." Parents discuss safe sex with their teens, and they expect that their kids will have sex at some point, so they prepare them. Larsson said on the radio that the aim is to help teens have a "responsible, healthy and enjoyable sex life." She goes on: "We never talk about abstinence. We begin discussions about pregnancy at a young age... then we teach about puberty, the impact of media messages about sex, and when they're a little bit older, how to protect themselves against disease and pregnancy." Most revealing was Larsson's statement that there's a "broad political consensus" that this is the right strategy. If you have a few minutes, give the show a listen at the link above. It's refreshing to hear an outside opinion on this issue, especially in the current U.S. political climate.

Bucking the System

Some things about living in Sweden's social democracy are pretty cool—guaranteed health benefits, elder care, free education—and some are downright ridiculous. Take for instance, Systembolaget. System is Sweden's national liquor sales department, and the eponymously named retail outlets are the only places in the entire country (other than restaurants and bars) where you can buy beer, wine or liquor.

Okay, you say, so, System is just a liquor store owned by the government, right? So what's the problem? Well... you know how in U.S. cities, there are liquor stores and bodegas on just about every street corner? And you know how in most states they're open pretty late, so you can grab a bottle of wine on the way to a party? You can't do that here. First of all, there aren't that many Systembolaget shops (I'm not even sure "shop" is the right word—see the photo above.), so you definitely have to know where your local one is before you set out to buy booze. Second, they keep ridiculously short, government-office style hours, so there's no possibility of spontaneous drinking.

For the past few nights, I've walked home in the evening after a long workday and a trip to the gym and thought, "I could really go for a nice glass of wine with dinner." But then I remember that I don't have any wine at home, there's no place to buy any nearby, and even if there was, it would have closed at 5 pm. Damn! A couple days ago, I actually just sat at a bar by myself and sipped a glass of wine, but felt sort of weird about it. Luckily, my friend Rebecca (about whom you'll hear more, because she's coming here to visit next week) told me she actually really enjoys talking to strangers at bars in new cities, so maybe she can teach me how it's done.

Anyway, yesterday I left the office a little early and took a different route home than usual and—voila!—there was a Systembolaget. I decided to pop in and buy a couple bottles of wine so I'd be stocked up for future "I could really go for a glass" occasions. Well, the place was totally bizarre. It was lit with bright fluorescents and had a wall of agents stationed behind a counter with a digitized number system to tell you when it's your turn—pretty much exactly like going to the post office or the DMV. The vibe was kind of grumbly and official in that governmental way, too, with lots of people sitting around and waiting for numbers like 425, 436 and 457 to flash onto the screen. The walls were lined with glass cases displaying a fairly upscale selection of wines, beers, ciders, and hard liquors with item numbers that you have to memorize or write down before your turn at the counter. In short, System couldn't have been more sanitized or less fun if it were a dentist's office.

Once it was my turn to approach the counter, I recited the numbers of two bottles I wanted to buy (I'd been furiously saying them over and over in my head because I didn't have a pen), and the man behind the counter went to the back and retrieved them for me. Later I found out it's also possible to ask the well-educated folks behind the desk for food-pairing recommendations and things of that sort, so if you want, the experience can be a bit like going to a nice wine shop (in Bizzaro World).

But still, I don't like it. I understand the purpose for taking the fun out of booze purchasing, but there's something unsettling about Planned Drunkenhood. ("Here's a pamplet on safe drinking! We also have non-alcoholic beer on sale, just in case you're interested. 'Outercourse' is as much fun as sex, by the way. Would you like some free condoms with your '87 Lafite Rothschild?")

I'm sorry, but I'm happy to line up behind the slutty teens illegally purchasing Blue Nun in a dingy Brooklyn bodega. Give me drywall-encrusted Mexican construction workers sipping Mickey Ice from paper bags. Give me the smiling toothless guy behind the counter who calls me "sunshine" or "mami" as he hands over my bottle of Knob Creek. I want to trot into the liquor shop on John's arm, and laugh as we run around and pick random bottles to take to some BYOB eatery. The romantic, post-Prohibition aura of seediness and naughty fun is totally dissolved when the government takes over liquor distribution. Sure, tell us when and where to buy our hooch—even tax it to high heaven if you want—but for god's sake, stay away from the retail business.

More Weird Food

After swearing off fish and potatoes for a couple of weeks, I suddenly had a craving at lunch today for a Swedish meal. (I know, crazy, right?) Possibly to tease me, Niklas took me to this working class roadside stand that might have been a taco cart, only they were selling lunch items that all included fried fish and potatoes. We looked up the name of the type of fish served there in a Swedish-English dictionary, which offered an unfortunate translation: "bloater."

So, I ordered a sandwich called a tunnbrödsrulle med strömming, which means "thin bread with bloater." It was pretty much a Swedish burrito. The "thin bread" was akin to a shortening-free wheat tortilla, rolled around a couple small filets of fried, herring-like fish, some mashed potatoes, lingonberries and some veggies (I think cabbage, grated carrots and bean sprouts). It was pretty tasty, as peasant food tends to be. My colleagues were sort of horrified when we came back to the office and told them what we'd had for lunch, like "What did you take her there for?" I guess checking out interesting street food isn't as popular a pasttime here as in New York.

Also, I tasted a salt fisk (remember the licorice I mentioned in an earlier post?), which had all the makings of a practical joke. After I put it in my mouth someone told me the package actually said "super salty." Can you imagine anything being marketed in the U.S. as "super salty"? (Now, with 85% more sodium!) Ugh, so outlandishly nasty I had to spit it out.

My Sunshine

I am wearing a bright salmon-colored dress today, as well as perky lipstick and blush and an adorable headband. Normally, I dress almost exclusively in black, but I think I'm going to have to change that while I'm in Sweden, because as I was rifling through my wardrobe this morning, I had a thought that's both profound and embarrassingly trite: I need to be my own sunshine.

The sky has been a heavy shade of gray for weeks, and soon it will be pitch-black here about 20 hours a day. I'm far away from the people I care about (who, incidentally, are themselves spread around the globe), in a totally foreign country, and even before I came here I'd been floating from residence to residence and business trip to business trip for almost a year. It would be easy to feel quite adrift, given the circumstances. In fact, I awoke in an extremely bad mood this morning, from an extremely unpleasant dream, with the realization that I'm not homesick because I don't exactly know where home is anymore. Do nomads get homesick?

I realized that I've been putting out a lot of my own energy in that friendly, superficial way we all tend to do when we're new to a place/job/relationship and we want to be perceived as fun, bright, and polite. But that can become draining if you're just sort of acting, and not checking in with yourself about how you really feel. And if you realize that you really feel sort of shitty, then it becomes your job to change that.

The people I admire the most are always the ones who have tangibly overcome something. I have several friends who have withstood terrible family tragedies—one in particular who is perhaps the gentlest, sunniest person I know, despite the fact that her mother was murdered and her father is incarcerated. And I've had the honor, through my career in journalism, of interviewing some remarkable survivors—for instance, athletes who've lost both legs but use prosthetics to climb mountains and win marathons. Every now and then when I feel sorry for myself for some perceived hardship, I give myself a mental slap: Girl, you have your legs, your mom and your dad. Please stop whining.

And now I'm looking out the window with my colleague Maria, who has a bit of a black sense of humor, and we just noticed that through the peasoup clouds, there's a tiny circle of blue sky peeping out. "There must be some mistake," Maria mutters. But, somehow, I don't think so.

Swedener Q&A: Is Hanna Andersson for Real?

In this week's edition of the Swedener Q&A, I tackle a question from Robin, who writes from Colorado: "Do children in Sweden really dress like the kids in the 'inspired by our Swedish heritage' Hanna Andersson catalog?"

Dear Robin,

Kind of.

See, Sweden is an insanely child-centric country, obsessed with the health and happiness of its future generations, which translates to all sorts of kid amenities and a booming economy of tiny clothes, furniture, trendy strollers and toys. Most folks dress their little Svenssons in adorable bright colors, with layers corresponding to the ever-changing weather, that often include patterned tights, jumpers, hats and boots—just like the bundled darlings in the Hanna Andersson catalog.

But that label doesn't actually exist here. It seems ol' Hanna took her Swedish heritage and spun it into an exclusively oversees brand, most popular in the U.S. and Japan. Here in Stockholm, as in the U.S., parenthood is suddenly extremely fashionable, and you're likely to catch kids clad in duds by emerging Scandinavian designers as well as pricey stuff like Prada and Ralph Lauren. But the most popular Swedish brand by far is Polarn o. Pyret. Personally, I think Polarn's staid stripes and preppy colors are a bit boring, but that's an opinion that could get me deported in some circles. Just a little plug in case you want to see what's really hip in Sweden for parents in the know: Mama Magazine has a very edgy, rock-n-roll quality, with a fantastic mix of fashions that are fun to look at even if you can't read the text.

I'm not sure whether you were asking this question because you're in awe of the cuteness of the brand, or because you find the head-to-toe flower-kids look a little nauseating. My opinion falls squarely in the middle: I think they are adorably crazy-looking, and if I have little girls someday, I'll probably wrap them in at least a little bit of floral, goose-down psychadelia.

You might be interested to learn of a garment popular here that I've never seen in the U.S.: the toddler rain suit. It's sort of like a snow suit, but strictly water repellent, so you can still take lil' Ulrika and Anders to the playground even when it's drizzling.



This Q&A thing is fun! Send me your questions about life in Sweden so I can keep doing it.

The Cranky Post: Weird Food

My goodness, somehow I missed two whole days of blogging. It must be because I've been having so much fun! Well, that's not entirely true. I have gone out to meet friends a couple of times this week, but for the most part I've actually been intensely fatigued, and I'm not sure why. Maybe I'm fighting off the virus that's been systematically mowing down my office, cubicle row by cubicle row, or maybe I'm feeling the first effects of Stockholm's dreary weather. The days are still quite long here, but the sun has scarcely poked through the cloud cover in over a week. Luckily, the city's designed for cozy indoor activity, with tons of fantastic cafes and stores... provided you can drag yourself out of your apartment to visit them.

In any case, today's post is about weird food. Weird food abounds in Sweden, the most egregious example of which being the big tubes of squeezable caviar for sale in the dairy aisles of every grocery store. In my opinion, anything caviar-related sounds promising—that is, until you taste it and realize it's really a concoction of downmarket fish eggs (a far cry from beluga) in a salty, fat-based suspension reminiscent of EZ-Cheez. The stuff comes in a range of artificial flavors, too, including lobster, bacon and—I shit you not—cheeseburger. Actually, the cheeseburger stuff in a tube may have been actual EZ-Cheez. But it definitely doesn't seem fit for human consumption.

Speaking of "unfit for human consumption," yesterday I met a woman working on a documentary expose of food service practices in the Swedish public school system. Her team sent samples of several school meals to a nutritional lab, along with a sample of cat food, and the cat food turned out to have a better nutritional profile, with more vitamins and fewer preservatives. Whoa! This is going to be a big story when the report airs, and you can say you saw it here first (cue dramatic investigative news score).

I also wanted to point out a bit of strangeness when it comes to finding "healthy" prepared foods in Stockholm. Now, don't get me wrong—every other label on the grocery store shelves reads "ekologisk" (organic)—but when it comes to grabbing a quick lunch, the options for a balanced, low-fat, low-carb meal are surprisingly slim. So slim that I keep having the same strange meal over and over and over again, because it is ubiquitous. This meal consists of salad greens with either bulgur or quinoa, topped with crayfish tails or chicken, and accompanied by some or all of the following: olives, mini gherkins, capers, slices of hard-boiled egg, sundried tomato pieces, feta cheese, and fresh dill. It's a nice meal, but it's so specific, and where did it come from? Niklas says this is total "woman food"—meaning, females trying to be healthy are the main consumers of this everywhere salad plate. I have probably eaten it 10 or 15 times in the month that I've been here, and frankly, I'm getting a little sick of it. (The photo accompanying this post is of a pile of sundried tomato-spiked bulgur and greens, after I'd already eaten all the crayfish tails.) Couldn't we do it Asian style? Or, with, like, Indian trappings? Why does it always have to be Swedish-Mediterranean fusion?

I must confess that I haven't really been motivated to cook since I've been here (I find it depressing to cook just for myself, and my tiny, ill-equipped kitchen is less than inspiring), but I think this weekend I'm going to make a couple large-batch meals that I can take to work for lunches next week.

Boy, that was a cranky post! I'm going to run out for some coffee and fresh air, and while I'm doing that I'll try to think of something more sunshiney to write later today.

Made for Walkin'?

I am fascinated by how often, how far, and how fast Swedes walk. In the States, my friends know me as a person who prefers to walk whenever possible, and most people consider me a fast walker. Even on the streets of New York I tend to breeze past people, because I view walking as a mode of transportation—I'm not just out for a stroll, I'm trying to get somewhere. (So get out of the way, already.)

But an average Swede puts even the most ambitious New York walker to shame. On a nice day, people think nothing of walking an hour across town to get somewhere. And if someone says, "Oh, it's not far, you can walk there," you can bet that you'll be walking at least a mile and a half.

The other day, I went for a walk with a friend along a paved trail through the woods near our neighborhood (yes, there are woods near our neighborhood). We were a good 20 minutes from the city by foot, and suddenly there was a bar and restaurant. I'm pretty sure there was no access to this place by motorized vehicle at all, and yet, it's a really popular restaurant. This would never happen in the U.S., unless you count ski resort bars halfway up a mountain (which can always be accessed by chairlift).

So, my footwear situation is in total disarray. I tend to choose shoes that are both stylish and comfortable, but when I say "comfortable," I mean "okay for walking a few blocks at lunch but mostly made for looking good while seated." I've been watching the footwear of Swedish women, and although there are some intrepid (or stupid) souls on the street in stilettos, most ladies get around in flats, cute sneakers (Chucks, mostly), or low-heeled boots. I don't even see too many heels at the office, which is a real departure from New York style. I guess if you're taking the train or a cab, heels work just fine, but since I live downtown, I rarely do that.

But I discovered today that I may be walking farther than necessary just because I don't really know the quickest routes yet. For instance, I described a harrowing three-hour walk to and from Östermalm to my Swedish teacher and he laughed at me and said I could have gotten there in 30 minutes if I had gone a smarter way. Luckily, I was at least wearing great walking shoes... These MBT rockers are my best friends in Sweden. They're hideous-looking, but they're supposed to mimic the way a bare foot travels across the ground, with a rocking motion that reduces impact. MBTs have sort of a cultish following of devotees who swear they also firm your abs and improve circulation in your legs, thereby reducing cellulite. Whatever—I'm not sure I've seen any evidence of that, but they're supercomfy and they take the strain off my knees and back, so I always wear them when I know I'll be out walking for a while. I'm thinking of giving my dad (who has a very bad back) a pair for when he comes to visit. What do you think, would you wear them, Dad?

Sweatin' in Sweden

I'm working hard to get back in shape after my shoulder surgery last month, and it's a bit of an adventure doing this in a new country. Between the wedding and the surgery and the move, I wasn't able to keep up my exercise routine, and I've lost a lot of fitness. I mentioned a bunch of posts ago that I joined Sweden's major chain of gyms, Friskis & Svettis. I can use any of the gyms around the city, which is cool, and they have a huge list of fitness classes, but most seem to veer in the direction of early nineties aerobics, with much grapevining and jumping around to bad house music. (I wonder if this is at all related to Sweden's early-nineties fashion moment? And did I mention that 90210 is back with a vengeance?) Not exactly my thing. So, I've basically been using the cardio machines and the "quiet room," as I call it, with all the stretching areas and mirrors, where I can do body-weight exercises and strength training. I've also picked the kettlebell back up this week, and I'm pleased to discover that while my shoulder isn't totally stable yet, I can do the exercises without pain. I just have to let up on the tougher exercises as soon as my form starts getting wobbly.

I have a story about kettlebells coming out in this week's issue of the Santa Fe Reporter (I'll link to it when it comes online), in which I quote a study by an expert kettlebell trainer named Kenneth Jay. Well, Kenneth lives in Copenhagen, and I've serendipitiously been invited to a meeting in Copenhagen with Bonnier's Danish magazine publisher in the next few weeks. So, while I'm down there I'm going to get a private lesson with Mr. Jay, aka "The Dane of Pain."

Sounds scary, right? My ass is going to get kicked all around the schoolyard, but I think I'll learn some cool techniques from him. I really do a better job of taking care of my body when I have a specific challenge in mind. In the past, this has usually meant a bike race or a triathlon, but this time I've decided to train to test for my RKC (Russian Kettlebell Challenge) certification this spring. That way when I get back to Santa Fe, I can help my friend Keira Newton teach a few classes at her gym... not to mention get into the best shape of my life.

Bali Ho!

You don't have to feel toooo sorry for me being away from my husband in a foreign country for a long time... at least not for the next month or so. See, John and I are going to Bali on our belated honeymoon in October. I can barely contain my excitement—I'm literally counting the days. (32!) We wanted to go somewhere really exotic, because even though we both travel for work all the time, neither of us has had a vacation of more than a few days in years. We're planning to spend five days in Jimbaran, followed by four days in the little artisan town of Ubud (where Elizabeth goes in Eat, Pray Love). Then, we're going to spend a few days diving at a little island called Lembongan, followed by two days surfing at Kuta. Absolute heaven. Here's a little preview of some of the places we're staying. So beautiful!

This is Some Funny Sh*t

This is a total non-sequitur, but in case you didn't catch the hilarious "He Completes Us/Circle of Life" skit on the Daily Show (it probably aired last week, but it was last night on the International Edition), I've embedded it here for your enjoyment.

Meanwhile, Back In The U.S. of A...

Over here in Sweden, we're watching the U.S. presidential race closely and with great consternation. And by "we," I mean myself and every Swede I know. A colleague came up to me at work last week and said, agitatedly, "Megan, what do you think is going to happen? Are people really going to vote for McCain?" And I had to tell him that I have no idea what's going to happen, because unfortunately, people are going to vote for McCain. U.S. politics have become so divisive, our left and right so deeply divided, that at this point I personally can't even stomach a debate with the other side. I can no longer understand where they're coming from at all. We might as well not speak the same language, and no amount of interpreting would help me to understand how anyone could support a campaign that aims to keep spending $10 billion a month in Iraq, cut taxes for the rich, and make abortion illegal even in cases of rape and incest. Not to mention Sarah Palin's alleged efforts to have her ex-brother-in-law fired, without cause, from his public-service post and to censor "objectionable" books from Alaskan public libraries. If McCain wins, we're not just going to be stuck with another four to eight years of the same badness we've got right now, we're going to philosophically step back 50 years, and quite probably lose key legal rights that are supposed to be guaranteed every citizen. (See ya later, freedom of speech... We'll miss you, Roe v. Wade and Coffin v. United States).

I would like to think Obama's got it in the bag, but I'm frankly, I'm terrified of the Average American, who voted for Dubya twice. Because the media tends to lean left and pretty much everyone I know is either a liberal or a member of the media or both, I don't have a solid grasp of how the majority of Americans really feel about this race. McCain's campaign is a shitshow, his choice of running mate is an international joke... it's embarrassing, really. Europeans are fascinated by Sarah Palin. She's a gripping public figure, precisely because she has no business being a public figure.

So, every time someone asks me what I think the outcome of this race will be, I just say, "well, if McCain wins, I'm staying in Sweden, and my husband will move over here to join me." And whichever Swede I'm talking to just nods soberly, because that's a perfectly rational plan given the gravity of the situation. More than ever before, it's clear to me that the fate of America is the world's fate. We're teetering on the edge of the shitter, and if we splash in, a lot of innocent bystanders are coming with us.

I'll be hosting an election party at my tiny apartment on November 4 (or, well, actually it'll probably be the wee hours of November 5th, here), squeezing in as many of my Swedish friends and colleagues as possible to eat hamburgers and apple pie as the results roll in. Like a lot of Americans, we'll be getting shitfaced that night... either in celebration or despair.

Swedener Q&A: Are Swedish Fish Always Red?

Welcome to my newest feature, the Swedener Q&A!

This week's question comes from Taylor Hengen, from New York, New York: "Do the Swedish fish you buy over there come in other colors besides red?"

Well, Taylor, that's a fascinating question. I asked it aloud at work this afternoon, and not a single person sitting in my proximity had any idea what I was talking about. A ridiculous conversation about herring and gummy candy ensued ("You know, the red candy fish. No, candy fish. No, not herring. No, they don't taste like fish, they're made out of sugar. Oh my god, are you serious? You don't know what a Swedish fish is?"), which left the Swedes perplexed while I laughed hysterically, but still, no dice.

According to Wikipedia, Swedish fish did in fact originate here—they were created by a Swedish candy company called Malaco. But they were created for the export market and from their very inception have been almost exclusively consumed in North America. Cadbury now owns the license and the recipe, so it's safe to say they're not really a Swedish thing. However, there is a black fish candy with a salty liquorice flavor that's better-known here. It's called saltlakrits, and it's disgusting. Thanks for writing in!

Do you have a burning question for the Swedener? Ask me in the comments, and maybe you'll be next week's lucky winner.

Swedish Studs... with Babies

Okay, apart from some brief observations about clothing and hair color, I've so far totally avoided the topic of what people here look like. Everyone knows about tall, chiseled Swedes—both male and female—and broadly speaking, the stereotype holds up. Not much to talk about there. But recently I've made an interesting observation: This town is crawling with foxy dads. Every day on my way to work I pass at least five or six strollers pushed by good-looking thirtysomething guys, with no baby mamas in sight. I don't know if this has to do with Sweden's parental leave laws or what, but it certainly makes me think... who are these superwomen? Congrats on bagging the cute guy and good job getting him to watch with the kiddies while you bring home the bacon. I wonder if my fella would go for a deal like that?

Maybe this weekend I'll play charming foreign blogger and try to snap some pics of dudes and their Bugaboos. Stay tuned for a photo gallery.

A Car Party and a Christmas Table

Because I’m a friendly foreigner with a willingness to invent theories about the similarities and differences between Swedes and Americans, Republicans and Democrats, Bonnier Corp and Bonnier AB, etc., I’ve become a good show-and-tell subject for my new colleagues. Last week I made the rounds at the magazine offices with the director of our international editions, and yesterday, Niklas trotted me out before the staff of Allt Om Mat, Sweden’s biggest food magazine. The staff was super gracious, and we all sat down together to a yummy Christmas meal. (Because of the typical three-month production time, September is when magazines start working on their December issues.) This weekend, the Allt Om Mat staff will travel to New York for their annual food exploration trip (previous destinations have included Tuscany and London), so I was able to offer some recommendations about popular culinary trends there (Locavore menus! Haute cocktails! Brunch! Barbeque!), and restaurants they might want to visit. In turn, they taught me all about the traditional Swedish julbord, or Christmas table.

Our menu started with a delicate gougere topped with toasted almond slivers, which was charmingly described as “butter dough with strong Swedish cheese.” There were two types of pickled herring, one lightly fried and served in onion-spiked vinegar, and one simmered in a tomato sauce with sherry and orange zest. The latter was really spectacular. You’d eat it with little new potatoes, a dollop of sour cream, a shot of snaps—and of course, a drinking song. There was also a light salad of shredded cabbage and lingonberries, I think with a Madeira vinaigrette, and a gratineed potato dish called Janssons Temptation (amazing name, right?) that was nicely kicked up with onions and anchovies.

For the meats, there were Swedish meatballs, ground-lamb patties, and delicious pork ribs rubbed with allspice. Side dishes included mashed potatoes, a selection of breads with rich European butter (fattier and more delicious than the American kind) and a really great beet salad with toasted hazelnuts, hazelnut oil and oranges. Finally, for dessert there was a plate of gingerbread cookies, mulled wine called glögg, coffee, and morsels of a chocolate-caramel dessert (a bit like fudge) with raspberry sauce. All really delightful, and if you’ve been following my posts, you can probably guess that I fell off the no-carbs-and-alcohol wagon for this one—I had to at least have a little taste of everything! I’ll post the recipes a little closer to Christmas.

So, after the feast was over, I went back to the office and received an invitation to a viewing party for a new TV show from the Swedish car magazine Teknikens Värld. I actually missed the show (long story short: I locked myself out of my iPhone and didn’t get the message about the time), but had a blast hanging out with the magazine staff—a bunch of gearhead dudes who were pretty surprised that I could chat them up about the Tesla, the Nano, and the Bugatti Veyron. Ah, but these are my peoples—a little slice of PopSci in Sweden. And then there was a Wii tournament—I think we were playing Mario Kart, but I’m not totally sure, since I was eaten by a monster and disqualified in the first round. (That's the quarterfinals, in the pic accompanying this post.) Finally, I got a lift home in a test car emblazoned with Teknikens Värld stickers. I was so blinded by the branding that I can’t remember what kind of car it was. Sorry, fellas, but you wouldn’t catch Mike Spinelli with stickers on his test cars. I get the point, but it does complicate the task of picking up chicks in your hot new ride, doesn’t it?

Stockholm Fashion Report II: Shoulder Pads and Lycra

Dear god, this late eighties/early nineties resurgence is going places no retro trend ought to go. I suspect it's happening in the States, too, if the American Apparel shop windows are any indication. But... short Lycra dresses again? This worked for Van Halen video hos, and it worked for me when I was 12 and had no curves. However, I'm seeing it all over the streets on both attractively built figures (who add stilettos to the ensemble, and consequently look like streetwalkers) and lumpy, too-chubby ones (my eeeyyyeeees!).

Also disturbing: shoulder pads are back. Now, I've been known to rock a certain excellent vintage bolero jacket that still has shoulder pads in place, but this is done infrequently and with caution, because I sort of look like a linebacker. I'm not sure what to make of the extra padding turning up in brand-new tops by haute Swedish designers like Acne. In fact, I'm pretty much stumped about how to dress period, right now. I can't seem to pull together the layered look in a professional way that doesn't look schlumpy, and my walk to work is way too long for the high heels I used to wear in New York almost every day. What the hell did I wear last fall?

Stockholm: Middle of the Earth?

When I was in my twenties in New York, I felt like I was exactly in the place where everything was happening. To be away from there for a week was to lift my finger from the pulse and be tragically disconnected from all that was hip and new and life-affirming. But then I went back to Santa Fe and remembered that everything truly crucial could be followed on TV and the Web, and the stuff I was missing out on—mainly cultural events, media gossip and cool parties—were things that one could possibly live without, especially if one could fill those sensory empty spots with fields of wildflowers, towering mountains, dusty horses behind barbed-wire fences and the scents of pinon and roasting green chiles.

Being in Sweden, on the other hand, is a bit like being in Middle Earth. We’ve got freaky albino fairy-looking people, twisting 15th century alleyways, horses with big puffs of fur around their feet, Lappland, for god’s sake…

But seriously, Sweden is more centrally located than you think. Do you know it’s possible to drive to Africa from here? I guess my seventh grade geography class should have made that plain, but I never really thought about it until the other day when I spotted a big army-transportation-type vehicle (I don’t know what you call them—something between a Humvee and a bus) painted pink and stacked with bicycles and kayaks, cruising down the street. I figured it was taking some leaf-peeping tourists up to the north country, but as usual, Niklas set me straight. “Those things actually go to India or Africa,” he said, instantly blowing my mind. Kaboom! I tend to associate trips to India or Africa with costly plane tickets… not with romantic, danger-fraught road trips in bumpy pastel-colored four-wheel vehicles.

So, then I started plotting out a dream trip that would begin in Stockholm and go down through Denmark, across Eastern Europe, through Turkey, Syria, Jordan and that little tip of Saudi Arabia then to Egypt. From there it gets kind of hairy by land, so I’d switch to a sailboat and cruise down through the Red Sea and over to Dubai to visit Rhonda, and then possibly over to India. Looking out for pirates, of course. But seeing as this would probably take months and tens of thousands of dollars, I retreated to the costly airfare route. I had just begun researching airfares from Stockholm to Dubai when my husband called, and my wanderlustiness turned into a telephone fight. (“Are you out of your mind? We can’t go to Bali, Hawaii and Dubai all in the same six months. You’re going to put me in the poor house, woman!”)

Alrighty, then, back to reality, and the subject of how Sweden is possibly at the center of the world. I’ve got to hand it to the Swedes for seeming to really understand their relationship to other countries. Unlike big, blustering America, Sweden is primarily interested in being “international,” which translates to a healthy and robust interaction with pop culture and the global economy. You would think this would be also be the case for residents of progressive, wealthy U.S. cities like New York, but you'd be wrong. New Yorkers can be incredibly provincial, and since they think they already live in the best place on earth, many never go anywhere else. You’ve probably read this quote before, but I’ll end with a favorite that I think fits here quite well:

“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.” —Mark Twain, 1857