Having spent the greater chunk of the year in the scruffy 3rd world, understanding that soon, I would spend the next two years in the sweltering straits of Africa, I knew at no delay, I needed a first world vacation. At the very least, I needed to cleanse my lungs in the freshest air of prosperity I could. Scrolling Kayak.com, ogling my options, Sweden, with the soft, ethereal touch of an angel, pulled me towards her. When I looked down, and to my wonderment, my fingers were no longer typing, but stroking, stroking silky strands of blond hair, I had no choice but to purchase.
Spending a few nights in Stockholm, I dipped south, spending the weekend in Copenhagen. From Copenhagen, I spent two nights in Malmo, a city on the Swedish-Danish Border. Thanks to a few friends I made in Paris, while studying at the Sorbonne, I was invited to stay at their place in Gotemburg. During that time, I had the opportunity to experience the apotheosis of Swedish culture.
The friday that falls the closest to the summer solstice is a much anticipated day if you're from Sweden. It is called Midsummer, a long standing tradition for Swedes to come together, usually in a country home or coastal cottage. Once you reach adolescense, the celebration is usually spent among friends, precisely balancing the male/female ratio. Suiting up with felicitous dress, the Swedes spend the afternoon hours with a glass in hand, mingling, each looking more exquisite than the next. As the hours grow later, evening is no where to be found. Darkness is no match to the stubborn Northern sun, and so, daylight continues on, far beyond the conventional concept, shaking your internal time-clock into a tizzy.
In my particular run-in with Midsummer around 8pm, after a few bizarre games, the men lit the grill. Together, in a similar fashion, we tossed on juicy slabs of unidentifiable meat. Losing sight of my particular contribution, I forked up two pieces, and took them upstairs to the decorative dinner table. When everyone took his or her seat, members of the party stood up and declared a toast. After the speaker finished, and the shrieks of laughter disipated, the table engaged in a round of Snapps shots--the custumary alcohol of Midsummer. The Swedes were very respectful, and compromised their mother tongue for english to include us into conversation. At one point, I stood up, toasting and raising a glass to Sweden as the "most competitive experiment in perfection the world has to offer." The bibulous cheer grew into louder explosions of joy, and soon merrymaking flared across the dancefloor. Frenziedly, the next few hours were dedicated to the music, keeping balance and Limbo. Towards midnight, bodies started to drop, a few in plain sight, others drifted off in pairs. By 1am, all floors of the house were like mini WWII battlefields of sprawling Europeans. The sun, at one point, touched down on the horizon, but quickly bounced up, even higher than before. Light then poured through the windows, revealing how absurdly positioned everyone was. As one of the first to be up, tiptoeing between broken glass, splashes of vomit and snoring lovers, I arrived at the window facing over the water. Gazing into a vast, billowing sea dividing Denmark, I was drawn to a gentle commotion below. Johnny, my old childhood counterpart was shirtless and smiling, upright on the sun-rinsed deck, tipping back a bottle of beer.
To see photos of the celebration, click the link below
6/09http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2158543&id=7402694&l=64ffa0f8fb
Spending a few nights in Stockholm, I dipped south, spending the weekend in Copenhagen. From Copenhagen, I spent two nights in Malmo, a city on the Swedish-Danish Border. Thanks to a few friends I made in Paris, while studying at the Sorbonne, I was invited to stay at their place in Gotemburg. During that time, I had the opportunity to experience the apotheosis of Swedish culture.
The friday that falls the closest to the summer solstice is a much anticipated day if you're from Sweden. It is called Midsummer, a long standing tradition for Swedes to come together, usually in a country home or coastal cottage. Once you reach adolescense, the celebration is usually spent among friends, precisely balancing the male/female ratio. Suiting up with felicitous dress, the Swedes spend the afternoon hours with a glass in hand, mingling, each looking more exquisite than the next. As the hours grow later, evening is no where to be found. Darkness is no match to the stubborn Northern sun, and so, daylight continues on, far beyond the conventional concept, shaking your internal time-clock into a tizzy.
In my particular run-in with Midsummer around 8pm, after a few bizarre games, the men lit the grill. Together, in a similar fashion, we tossed on juicy slabs of unidentifiable meat. Losing sight of my particular contribution, I forked up two pieces, and took them upstairs to the decorative dinner table. When everyone took his or her seat, members of the party stood up and declared a toast. After the speaker finished, and the shrieks of laughter disipated, the table engaged in a round of Snapps shots--the custumary alcohol of Midsummer. The Swedes were very respectful, and compromised their mother tongue for english to include us into conversation. At one point, I stood up, toasting and raising a glass to Sweden as the "most competitive experiment in perfection the world has to offer." The bibulous cheer grew into louder explosions of joy, and soon merrymaking flared across the dancefloor. Frenziedly, the next few hours were dedicated to the music, keeping balance and Limbo. Towards midnight, bodies started to drop, a few in plain sight, others drifted off in pairs. By 1am, all floors of the house were like mini WWII battlefields of sprawling Europeans. The sun, at one point, touched down on the horizon, but quickly bounced up, even higher than before. Light then poured through the windows, revealing how absurdly positioned everyone was. As one of the first to be up, tiptoeing between broken glass, splashes of vomit and snoring lovers, I arrived at the window facing over the water. Gazing into a vast, billowing sea dividing Denmark, I was drawn to a gentle commotion below. Johnny, my old childhood counterpart was shirtless and smiling, upright on the sun-rinsed deck, tipping back a bottle of beer.
To see photos of the celebration, click the link below
6/09http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2158543&id=7402694&l=64ffa0f8fb
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