A Swedish American in Sweden

Simple Swedish – Lesson One from Patrick Hansson and Ola Lustig

2009-11-10T22:16:00.003+01:00

I have written about the Swedish language a few different times. How I think you should learn Swedish. How it makes me laugh. And how good Swedes are at English, and just how annoying that can be.

I have never posted a video about the Swedish language. But now I have. Because this made me smile and nod in agreement. At the ridiculousness of the language. At the false friends. At the rules that you just need to know. And at slut. Of course.

If you have any interest in the Swedish language, watch this. If you’re learning Swedish you’ll chuckle. You’ll see the judging Swedish look as you mispronounce å, ä, and ö. If you don’t speak Swedish and just don’t have any desire to. Well, you’re not alone. It’s not exactly a popular language what with the nine million people in the country. But it does mean that you aren’t nearly as cool as you could be. Watch it anyway. If only for the slut jokes. Because come on, that stuff is comedic gold.

There’s talk of a second episode. I’m hoping they’ll talk about river horses, tooth meat, and breast warts next time. And if they do, I’ll claim all the credit. If they don’t, they also aren’t nearly as cool as they could be.

Welcome to Sweden. And Simple Swedish.

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Child Porn in Sweden

2009-11-04T22:39:00.000+01:00

I am in awe of The Local. It is such a great idea in its simplicity. Essentially they take news stories and just translate them and regurgitate them for all of the non-Swedish speakers. When I first moved here it was my Bible. My Koran. My Torah. (I’m very PC you know). Lately though, I just haven’t been that inclined to read The Local.

The last few days though I saw some things about the Swedish justice system that caught y eye.
I bitch and moan about the Swedish justice system a lot. Life in prison doesn’t really mean life. Convicted murderers get furloughs and kill someone while away. Two to three millions pictures of child porn will only get you six months in prison. And so I needed to find in English, what I had been seeing in Swedish. I was not to be disappointed.

On November 2nd it was reported that Sweden would be overhauling their child pornography laws (Sweden to tighten child pornography laws). Just looking at child pornography will be illegal as opposed to the current law stating that you have to possess it. The government is even hoping to change the definition of child pornography. Any pictures of children under 18 will be considered child porn. Which seemed strange to me considering the age of consent in Sweden is 15, but I digress.
On November 3rd it was reported that a camp counselor accused of filming children naked in 2007 would not be punished for being a pervert (No penalty for man who filmed naked children). He managed to escape by fleeing to Thailand. Since then he has been hanging out waiting for the statute of limitations to run out all the while working as a school teacher in a different country. Awesome. But wait. It gets better. While doing all of this, and knowing that he could no longer be charged, the man requested that his video equipment be returned to him. You know, the video equipment that he had been using to film camp-goers in the sauna.

While I’m all for banning child porn, I’m concerned by the proposed laws for a couple of reasons. First, banning the viewing of something is a very slippery slope. There’s obviously the whole free speech argument, but I’m mostly concerned that some sicko will get away with this because he argues that he “accidentally” stumbled across some child porn. It just seems too vague to be effective.

The definition of child porn is also concerning. Mostly because of the fact that my mom was just explaining sexting to me. Yup. My mom explained sexting. “It’s what the kids are doing these days” were her words. Apparently some kid back home has now been labeled a sex offender for passing along a naked picture of a girl he went to school with. A girl who was under 18. Thus, child porn. He should be labeled an idiot but not a sex offender.

Then there’s the camp counselor. Who is now a teacher. And got all his video equipment back. There are just so many things wrong with that story. But what really gets me, aside from him getting his video equipment back (did I mention he got his damn video equipment back?) is the fact that the statue of limitations ran out after less than three years. He videotaped kids in the sauna while working as a camp counselor. He fled to Thailand, where Swedes go every year for vacation. H is now working as a teacher. And they can’t do anything about it.

If Sweden really wants to do something for child porn, increase the statute of limitations and snag this guy the second he gets anywhere near a country that will extradite him. And drop his video camera in the toilet.

Welcome to Sweden. And child pornography laws.

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Halloween in Sweden

2009-11-01T15:08:00.005+01:00

Yesterday was Halloween. It was even a Red Day on the calendar. Not really because of the Halloween celebration as most Americans know it, but because of All Saints Day. In a ridiculously secular country like Sweden, it makes perfect sense that the day be seen as a public holiday. You know, to go to church.

Swedes claim that they don’t celebrate Halloween. But that is changing. Not the claims, but the celebrating part. As I wandered around town yesterday in a fit of classic Swedish book buying (Bränt Barn by Stig Dagerman and Utvandrarna by Vilhelm Moberg) there was a large Ghost hanging between the buildings on Drottninggatan. There was a line at least 100 people deep waiting to get into the one big costume shop in Stockholm, and there were Halloween signs being advertised in shops throughout town. Halloween is coming to Sweden.

Traditionally, All Saints Day is meant to be a day to celebrate the dead and to decorate the graves of family members. A day of remembrance really. This is the third one I’ve been around for and I still haven’t been able to get myself out to Skogskyrkogården to see the display. Apparently it is impressive.

Instead, I chose to celebrate Halloween by dressing up like a zebra. Obviously. Essentially this entailed me wearing white pants, a white shirt and covering myself with strips of black duct tape. To top it all off, I also have come into ownership of a zebra print bandanna, which I wore with a strange sense of satisfaction.

It is quite the effort to cove oneself in black duct tape. I went through two rolls of the stuff, managed to remove a patch of hair from my belly, and wrap the tape so tight that I was unable to remove my shirt. My future does not lie in costume design.

Especially considering the number of times I had to explain that I was, in fact, a zebra and not a prisoner. Or a mental patient. Prisoners and mental patients do not have patterned stripes meant to confuse and camouflage them from their pray. Zebras, and I, do. Duh.

Because I was heading over to my cousins for the Halloween party, I had to take some public transportation. And by had to, I mean I am too cheap to pay for a taxi. So away I went, dressed like a zebra wearing a jacket. This being Sweden, people stared but said nothing. So I sat alone, people avoiding me as if I had the H1N1 virus, until four guys climbed in. They gravitated towards me. Probably because they were also in costume. A soldier, a heavy metal rocker, a soccer player, and a douche bag. Either that or he got lost on his way to Stureplan.

Suddenly, I felt at ease. My stripes were doing their job. No one knew who to stare openly at. Should they admire the hair of the ‘80s heavy metal rocker? Should they salute the Swedish soldier? Or should they bask in the glory of the zebra? Most chose to look away awkwardly while trying to steal alternating glances of all five of us. It’s the Swedish way.

After several stops and countless awkward glances, I arrived at my destination. I bounded off the train like a zebra in the savannah, looking over my shoulder, with my alcohol and bag of candy clambering at my side as I fled from the surprised Stockholmers behind me. That’s not true. Although it did cross my mind.

Welcome to Sweden. And Halloween in Stockholm.

Saabs to Skåne, Busses to Stockholm

2009-10-26T22:55:00.002+01:00

On Saturday I left my apartment around 8:30 in the morning to drive down and visit my family in southern Sweden. I had hoped to leave Friday afternoon but got stuck at work. Seeing as how I have no heat my car, I wasn’t too excited about driving down late at night. It tends to get cold.

So Saturday morning I bundle up. Hoodie, hat, gloves and a jacket just in case and I am ready to go. Immediately, I am cold and have to pee. Because despite being 25, I still am not responsible enough to pee before I leave the house to drive for five hours.

As I’m driving, I’m listening to my iPod. Because along with not having any heat, my radio doesn’t work. All the while I am shivering. I’m pretty sure driving for five hours was the best workout I’ve had in quite some time. My traps were sore the next day. It was quite the workout.

But I made it through the drive without incident, which, considering my history of running out of gas, having my battery die, or nearly losing a tire, seemed like a small victory. While I was visiting my family, I changed to the winter tires as required by law here in good old Sweden.

Since my winter tires had been sitting unused for a few months, I decided I would go to the gas station and put a little air in them. So I got into my car. And turned the key. And the car started. And the car died. And my sore traps sagged.

I am not good with cars. The only things I know how to fix have been forced upon me because I buy old run down cars. I can change a muffler for example and am capable of using enough duct tape to get a 1989 Saab 9000 to drive me home. But I cannot open the hood and look in and figure out what is wrong. It doesn’t help that my manual is written in French. I’m surprisingly ok with all of this until my car dies. At which point I am surprisingly angry at myself.

This time was worse. For a variety of reasons. One being that I had scheduled an appointment to get the heat fixed with my local mechanic, local meaning Stockholm, on Monday morning. My car died on Saturday. Suddenly, I was faced with the possibility that what should have been a relatively simple fix of the heating system would result in me just junking the car.

So after some phone calls to my old man in the US (who, by the way, has received phone calls from me about car trouble from various corner of the globe, including Australia) I was able to get the car started. Kind of. If I kept the RPMs revving high enough I could go places. Of course, that makes stop signs and roundabouts troublesome.

With ample use of my emergency lights, I was able to get my car to a mechanic. Of course, mechanics are closed on the weekend so I left it out front with a little note saying please steal me so I can get insurance money (that’s not true... I do not endorse insurance fraud). Turns out, that very night the mechanic was the victim of a little vandalism and several cars were broken into. Mine was not amongst them.

Instead of driving home at a leisurely pace on Sunday afternoon, I was sitting on a cramped bus for over seven hours. In silence. In the dark. The clocks had changed the night before so suddenly the sun was setting around 4:15 in the afternoon. And I was sitting on a bus in total silence, wondering how much I would have to pay to have a functioning car.

The call came Monday morning. I prepared for the worst. I had eaten some yogurt in advance just in case. The mechanic had taken a look, it wasn’t a big deal, parts and labor to get the car running, the heat working, and even the radio playing, would be less than $500. I let out an awkward relieved laugh. You know the one. Kind of high pitched while exhaling.

So I have a working car again. Kind of. Because it is parked nearly 600 km away from home. Looks like I have another bus ride in my future.

Welcome to Sweden. Where driving down South might result in a bus ride back North.

Five Things I’ve Learned Since Moving to Sweden

2009-10-23T00:05:00.000+02:00

The move to Sweden was a big deal for me. I had lived away from home all through college, but it’s just college. And it was just Oregon. Moving to Sweden was different. Sweden was a ways away. I was going without a job. Without knowing many people. Without any set plan.

I jokingly tell people this has been my existential quarter-life crisis. Which I suppose is quite true. The beauty is I’ve managed to learn a few things along the way. Which is much better than my upcoming midlife crisis where I intend to make poor choices with women half my age and possibly buy a boat. Or I’ll just go skiing in New Zealand.

Until then though, I’ve got to live with lessons thus far learned.

I can’t make Swedish pancakes to save my life. Seriously. Early on in the move, I bought the proper fixins for Swedish pancakes; I even have a Swedish cook book so I don’t make any conversion mistakes. Swedish pancakes are supposed to be thin, kind of mottled, and delicious. Mine end up thick, kind of burned, and tasting like cement. Needless to say, I still have most of the fixins for Swedish pancakes.

Allemansrätten is probably the coolest right ever. Much better than that whole free speech thing in the US. That I can go essentially anywhere I want and camp as long as I don’t destroy anything, show respect to nature and whatever lucky landowner gets to have me on their property is something that still boggles my mind. And something that more people need to understand.

Swedish girls just aren’t as good looking as the stereotype will have you believe. Blonde big breasted Swedish women are not running up to me on the street. That being said, and this is a discussion I have had with plenty of friends, most productively with my little brother when he was studying here, the average Swedish woman is better looking than the average American woman. Probably because the average American woman is five feet three inches and 163 pounds. That is squat. And no one likes squat. The average Swedish woman? Five feet five inches and 142 pounds. That is less squat. It might also be demeaning and sexist, but I’m just not that into squat girls.

Never, ever, ever, leave spaghetti boiling, run to take a shower, then run out naked as you hear the spaghetti boiling everywhere. It’s just a bad idea. At least that’s what I’ve heard.

Sometimes you need to leave to find out where you belong. In the US, I have always been the Swedish guy. In Sweden, I have always been the American guy. This is confusing on a base level. Especially considering that I spent the majority of my life in the US. It is also, I’m convinced, the reason I am so intrigued by Swedishness. So in leaving the US, I was hoping to figure out where I belonged. After two and a half years in Sweden, I realize very clearly that I am an American. And I am quite pleased with that.

Welcome to Sweden. And my life lessons.

Yoghurt and Swedish Health Care

2009-10-19T23:58:00.001+02:00

I have become my father. I’ve already got the thinning hair and cul de sacs. I’ve got the abnormally long arms. I’ve got the skinny calves. I’ve got the poor eyesight. Ladies, I am single.

I’ve also been indoctrinated by the man. Because in the last few days I have espoused the virtues of yoghurt. Yoghurt. Fermented milk. I have carried on two separate conversations about a dairy product. Did I mention I was single ladies?

My father is under the impression that yoghurt cures all ills. Upset stomach? Yoghurt. Herniated disc? Yoghurt. Blood clots? Yoghurt. Syphilis? Yoghurt. For years I have made fun of him. Much as I am doing now. He takes it because he knows I am awesome. And because in the end, despite being well over 50, he can still beat me in arm wrestling. Clearly the only way to measure a father.

Apparently, repetition leads to some sort of belief. Something to keep in mind if you intend on starting a cult. This weekend I explained to someone how helpful yogurt is with digestion. This was followed by me explaining (in a separate conversation) that a little yoghurt will probably help beat back the oncoming cold a friend was fighting.

I have no scientific evidence to back this up. But by saying it with a sense of authority, I was able to convince both parties that they should be eating more yoghurt, since yoghurt is delicious, it is pretty good advice regardless.

Since moving to Sweden, I have been inundated with yoghurt choices. The dairy section of your average Swedish grocery store has enough yoghurt to cure cancer, maybe even breast cancer. (Which reminds me, feel free to support my friend’s boobies for breast cancer awareness.) I’d like to think that the availability of yoghurt in this country, coupled with my father’s voice ringing in my head, has led me to champion yoghurt as a cure-all. Really I just think it is a Swedish supplement to health care.

Take heed Obama, it’s no coincidence that there is more yoghurt in Swedish dairy sections than American and that the US health care system is currently in disarray. It’s no coincidence that since moving to Sweden, I eat more yoghurt than ever before, yet don’t have cancer. Or syphilis. Turns out the old man knew what he was talking about.

Welcome to Sweden. And yoghurt health care.

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Service in Stockholm

2009-10-17T16:50:00.002+02:00

It’s time, once again, for a complaint about customer service in Stockholm. Because it just isn’t fun if I don’t kick the already beaten dead horse that is Swedish customer service. Then spit on it.

I had made plans to get things done today. Errands if you will. Unfortunately the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. As I fit into one of the aforementioned categories my plan did just that.

First, because I have the grace of a sumo wrestler on ice skates, I fell into the water a couple of months ago taking my cell phone with me. I have since been using an old cell phone that I had lying around. It has decided no longer to allow me to accept phone calls and send or receive SMS’. Sometimes I’m allowed to call people.

I decided it was then time to get a new phone. Or at least try to repair what damage I had done to my previous phones. I wanted to test a new battery in my old phone and possibly find out what was wrong with my current phone. So into The PhoneHouse I went. And approximately three minutes later I walked out.

The conversation started with me explaining that my phone was water damaged, but when plugged into the wall without the battery, it turned on and seemed to be in some working order. I needed to test a battery. The proud representative of The Phone House began by leaning on the wall behind him, it had probably been a long day what with them having been open for a solid three hours. Maybe my hairiness intimidated him (I later checked my breath and body odor and confirmed that I smelled delicious so it wasn’t that). He told me that they didn’t have any batteries to test. He told me that the phone probably wouldn’t work anyway. Then he told me that my phone was water damaged. Yes, I know. I already told you that. In fact, I was there when it became water damaged. Good thing he could confirm it for me. He is an expert after all. So I pressed him for his expert advice. Go online he told me. He didn’t try to sell me a new phone. He didn’t try to offer any solution as to where to find a battery. Go online. So I left. You know, so I could get online.

Next on the list was getting the heat in my car fixed. Winter is coming and I do not intend on driving around all winter dressed in my ski gear like last winter. This was going to take a phone call to set up an appointment.

I had a phone number. I had a service center near me picked out. I was ready to go. I called (my phone was allowing phone calls to go out between the hours of 14 – 16:30 today, strangely those are about the same opening hours of most businesses in Sweden on a Saturday.). The phone rang and rang and nothing happened. Until finally the automated recording came on. I was expecting a “thanks for calling, we’ll be right with you” message. Instead I was given a “lots of people are calling right now, please call again soon.” And then I was hung up on. By a machine.

I called again. And was hung up on by a machine. So I called again. And was hung up on by a machine. I waited ten minutes and called again. And was hung up on by a machine. I think we can all see the pattern here. For over an hour I called. For over an hour, they were too busy and a machine hung up on me. Then my phone stopped allowing phone calls out.

Now I am sitting here without a working cell phone, a car that has no heat, and a hatred for service in this country that rivals only my hatred for whole tomatoes.

Welcome to Sweden. Where I yearn for customer service.

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A Swedish Swine Flu Public Service Announcement

2009-10-13T20:19:00.002+02:00

Moving to Sweden means there will always be something that pops up that you didn’t think about. Like a global flu pandemic for example. It will get you every time. Luckily, the swine flu vaccinations began yesterday in southern Sweden. Apparently it is the largest vaccination program in Swedish history. Which I suppose makes sense because the Swedish population, as a general rule, has increased throughout history. Weird how that works.

One of those benefits of living in a country with the second highest tax burden in the world is trying to use the programs which I am funding. And I am funding health care. Of course, considering I am the picture of health what with my stationary bike riding next to men with moobs and all, I don’t use health care. In fact, in all the time I have lived here, I’ve only managed to use the Swedish health care system once. But I think I’m going to use it again.

After months of morbidly waiting for the flu to run rampant hoping that my genes are strong enough to withstand the onslaught, I’m thinking it’s probably not that big of a deal. But I love my fellow-man so am now considering getting vaccinated. Plus, I love free things. After speaking with my biologist friend and reading one newspaper article (I am easily swayed) I’ve been informed that if 50% of the population is vaccinated, it’s good. It’s not until the 70-80% rate that the vaccination really start making a difference.

The swine flu, or H1N1 so I don’t hurt any pig farmers’ feelings, is alive and well in Stockholm. But so is the vaccine. This being Sweden, the vaccine is being offered free of charge. The vaccine is being phased in. This still being Sweden, the phase-in is referred to by weeks.

We’re in Week 42 which obviously means it is time to vaccinate the at-risk group. Pregnant women for example which excludes me. This is followed by a week (Week 43) of even more pregnant women. Considering the population growth of Sweden is just over 0.15% there sure are a lot of pregnant women to vaccinate. Week 44 is the public health workers like nurses and doctors. I am still excluded. Finally, in Week 45, the general public, your standard Svensson if you will, can be vaccinated.

When I say the general public I really mean the general public. Everyone. Even non-citizens who just happen to be staying in Stockholm for a solid amount of time can be vaccinated. My understanding is that this includes everyone from refugees to students. Exchange students throughout Stockholm can thank me and my taxes by buying me a beer.

If you’re looking for a clinic near you (and by near you I mean near me as in the Stockholm area), click here for VårdGuiden’s search page. On the right click on “Vaccination svininfluensan,” that being Swedish for the swine flu vaccination. I know, I know, it’s a good thing I was here to translate that one for you. When you click on it, you should see it pop up in the “Vad?” field. Under “Vad?” is “Var?” click and find your city and you should be good to go. Or just use Google translate.

Welcome to Sweden. And my attempts at avoiding the swine flu.

For information on vaccinations in Stockholm in Swedish: När, var och varför ska jag vaccinera mig?
For information on vaccinations in Stockholm in English: Swine influenza

Barack Obama Wins 2009 Nobel Peace Prize

2009-10-09T11:42:00.008+02:00

Barack Obama has been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for 2009. The announcement was made at about 11 am here in Sweden. And I am stunned. Not in that good way stunned, but that the Peace Prize would award it to a man who has been in office for less than a year. And done nothing of note. Keep in mind all nominations for this award must be submitted before the first of February. Obama was inaugurated on the 20th of January. The audacity of the nomination is mindboggling.

According to the announcement by the Nobel committee he was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize "for his extraordinary efforts to strengthen international diplomacy and cooperation between peoples."

There was also talk of it being because of his goal for a nuclear free world, the American acknowledgement of the climate issue, and strengthening democracy and human rights.

So a man who essentially burst onto the scene just a couple of years ago and began serving as President in January has now done enough to warrant a Peace Prize. For what exactly? The flowery language used by the committee suggests they really aren’t sure either.

He now finds himself in the same company as notable winners such as Mother Theresa, Martin Luther King Jr., the Dalai Lama and the Red Cross. And in the same company of less notable winners such as Al Gore. Considering that Al Gore won just two years ago, it is amazing how little he has been able to accomplish with that Nobel Prize backing him.

That the committee would allow themselves to be so colored by the hype of Obamania is mind boggling to me. By awarding such a respected prize to someone who has done so little, it cheapens the entire award.

I would love to see Obama earn this award. I would love to see the US take a leading position in the world on moral issues again, like human rights and democracy, and become that beacon on the hill. But with wars in several different areas of the world, a floundering economy, bitter partisan infighting at home, it is hard for me to see how the man in charge of the US at this time has earned this award.

Americans have been cleaning up this year in the Nobel Prizes. I love it. But I don’t love awards being handed out as if it were a popularity contest.

Welcome to Sweden. Where at least the Norwegians have to take the blame for this award.

For reactions (in Swedish) check out the following:
Fredspriset till Barack Obama (Dagens Nyheter)
Barack Obama får Nobels fredspris (Svenska Dagbladet)
Barack Obama får fredspriset (Aftonbladet)
Barack Obama får Nobels fredspris 2009 (Expressen)

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An Open Letter to the Bald Guy at SATS

2009-10-05T23:49:00.004+02:00

Dear Bald Guy,

You know who you are. You of the slicked back comb over. You of the man boobs. Moobs if you will. You of the mesh tank top showing off your moobs.

I don’t drink very often. I’m not very good at it. So 10 days away from home in a perpetual state of drunkenness including Oktoberfest did not treat me well. I am getting over a cold. I am dehydrated. My liver hurts. Plus, it is cold and getting dark. I’m not necessarily in the best of moods.

In an attempt to rid my body of the damage I have done to it, I went to the gym. I didn’t want to. I wanted to go home and sleep. Or at least read my book (A Prayer for Owen Meany, in case you were wondering). I went to the gym though. This chiseled physique takes a lot of work. And by chiseled I mean doughy. And I by work I mean, milk and cereal.

So I sat on a stationary bike hoping to sweat beer. And I did. I pedaled and sweat. It was glorious. Then you came by. You caught my eye. Because you were sporting a slicked back comb over and a mesh tank-top. And I laughed to myself.

Then you sat on the stationary bike next to me. And I laughed again. Hoping that you didn’t hear me. It’s not nice to laugh at people, I know. But come on. A mesh tank-top? With moobs? I struggle with fashion, but even I know that’s just not right unless you happen to be a twenty year old girl hoping for a dollar bill shoved down your g-string in Las Vegas. The descending darkness and imposing cold would suggest we are far from Las Vegas. And your comb over and moobs would suggest you are far from being a twenty year old stripper.

On a normal day I would have been disgusted. Would have ranted about the ridiculous nature of Swedish fashion. Would have suggested that, while mesh may cool you down, a cut-off t-shirt, un-see-through of course, would have sufficed (that was a lot of hyphens). But not today. Today, you improved my day. You brought a smile to my tired face. And while I may have been laughing at you, I’m sure deep down you were laughing to. So really we were laughing together.

Sincerely,
Hairy Swede

P.S. Welcome to Sweden. Where moobs do not equal mesh.

Swedes Abroad

2009-10-04T21:59:00.000+02:00

I’ve been away from Sweden. Traveling the world if you will. Mostly, just drinking heavily because I was at Oktoberfest. Drinking does not lend itself to writing, and so, I took a self-imposed vacation.

Oktoberfest is, quite simply, ridiculous. It is a living stereotype of excess and debauchery. I saw an Australian chug two liters of beer in approximately 30 seconds and promptly throw up. I saw another man hold a glass filled with a liter of beer by his teeth and chug it in less than 10 seconds. Look mom, no hands! I saw enough men in lederhosen to last me a lifetime. I also saw a Swedish flag. Constantly. And overwhelmingly.

Swedes are not known for their nationalism. At least as long as they are inside the Swedish border. Pride in ones nation is often seen as a negative, something more appropriate for a red neck republican from Georgia than a refined Stockholmer. Of course, the flag days, the blue and yellow that dominated so much of Swedish society, doesn’t count as nationalism. Blue and yellow are just nice colors.

But get Swedes outside of their borders and the pride runs thick. Suddenly, Sweden is the greatest nation. Suddenly, Swedish colors are worn with pride. Suddenly, Swedish flags are waved wildly. I have yet to understand this.

While at Oktoberfest, three Swedes sat down next to me. Not because they knew I was Swedish. I do not exactly scream “Swede” by my appearance. My clothes are just a tad too big. My body type is just a tad too large. I’m just a tad too American.

Often times, Swedes are easy to pick out in a crowd. They immediately made their presence felt by trying to get Australian Joe kicked out. He had made a toast a little too heartily and some beer spilled over the glass. He was drunk and working on his 6th liter of beer by around 2 in the afternoon. The fact that he could even lift his glass was a feat in my opinion. But rules are meant to be followed, and the Swedes clearly didn’t appreciate the overt drunkenness of Australian Joe. Because Oktoberfest is clearly not the place for wanton drunkenness. So the waitress was called and Joe was made to take a walk.

Of course, this didn’t enamor them in the eyes of their fellow tablemates. Neither did the flag. The constant, and obnoxious really, waving of the Swedish flag. At first, I thought maybe they were trying to wave someone else down. One of those corny tourist guide moves where the flag is used to identify the group. Twenty minutes later, despite my somewhat inebriated state, I had ruled this out. For some reason, these men felt compelled to show the Löwenbrau tent that they were Swedish.

This seems to be a common occurrence. Swedes abroad love their country. Swedes in Sweden are slow to praise it. I’ve seen it before. I’ve seen it with Swedes in the US. I’ve seen it with Swedes in the UK. And now I’ve seen it with Swedes in Germany.

I like pride in ones nation. I think, to an extent, it is a good thing. It builds a sense of community and gives citizens something to belong to. Something to work for. Something to serve. There’s nothing wrong with some pride as long as it comes with a healthy dose of realism.

I suppose it is because of this that I struggle with the Swedish pride. It is obviously there. I’ve lived here long enough and seen too much of it not to recognize that Swedes like Sweden. Even think it is a wonderful place to be, especially in comparison to other countries. As they should. But why it is not displayed in Sweden escapes me.

Maybe they feel so confident in their country that when inside the borders there is just no need to make a display of their pride. Or maybe Swedes have a horrible inferiority complex and need to demonstrate their nationalism to others while abroad. Or maybe they were just drunk. Either way, I’d like to see more Swedish flag stickers on the back of Saabs.

Welcome to Oktoberfest. And Swedes abroad.

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TV-Fees in Sweden

2009-09-22T00:20:00.001+02:00

It’s that time of the month. Bill paying time. There are those things that just have to be paid. Like rent. Then there are the things that I choose to pay. Like parking. Then there are the things that I have decided to pay late. Like the TV-avgift.

Since moving to Sweden in June of 2007 I have never paid the mandatory fee levied by the state to watch TV. Actually, not even watch TV, you have to pay if you have anything that can pick up a TV signal. I’m paying to watch five worthless TV channels (which some people may describe as spewing government propaganda, but not me of course), listen to 45 radio stations, and access radio and TV on the internet. And I’m paying 2076 SEK to do it.

Because I am cheaper than a Tijuana hooker, I made a choice to not pay for cable here in Sweden. In fact, for a large portion of college we didn’t pay for cable TV, or use heat for that matter which was rough in an old house with single pane windows, but damned if we didn’t save at least $10 a month.

Anyway, I knew about the TV fee here in Sweden. I had seen the commercials thanking the good citizens of Karlstad, Umeå, and Ystad for paying their TV fees. They never thanked me. Probably because I never paid. I never really understood how, and I sure wasn’t going to seek out another bill to pay. Especially when I first moved to this country and was living off savings and a part time job. So I didn’t pay.

Then I made a temporary move. One night there was a knock at my door. Mormons I thought. Mormons would have been so much better. It was the TV-avgift guy wanting to collect. I was living a little under the radar, meaning that I wasn’t really on the lease at the place I was staying. The benefits of rent control and a housing shortage here in Stockholm. So I managed to fumble my way through me being an American and just visiting and not really understanding what he wanted. So I lied. First I felt bad, then I felt pretty Swedish, simply because I had avoided the TV-avgift.

Then I moved again, this time a little more legally. A letter arrived at my door all the way from Kiruna. They wanted my money. They assumed that I had a TV. The letter got lost a bit in the move and eventually surfaced a month or two late. I went to Catholic Church a couple of times with friends back when I was younger, and apparently the guilt part of the religion stayed with me. So I sent in the form saying that, yes, I did have a TV, and that, yes, I would pay the fee. Although I had a choice. I could pay the 2076 SEK in one lump sum or break it up into four easy payments of 519 SEK.

I kicked my business degree into action and remembered that if I paid in four different payments and there was no interest to be paid; technically I could make the other money work for me. So I chose four different payments. And am currently making the rest of the money work for me by purchasing large quantities of beer. Lundquist College of Business, preparing the business leaders of tomorrow, today.

Anyway, I was chatting up the old man the other day and mentioned the annoyance of paying money for state run channels that I just really don’t want to watch. And he admitted something. He had never paid the TV-avgift. Clearly, he has earned that Swedish passport. I was jealous, think of all the money he has saved over the years. Here I am, a sucker, paying to watch quality programming like Melodifestivalen. But the invoice has already come. Two of them actually, because thanks to Skatteverket, they know when I moved in and they don’t want to miss out on collecting on those few months it took me to send in my form.

Of course the due date has also come. And gone. And I haven’t paid. I’m going to pay, it’s that guilt thing. But I decided to protest a bit. Hold off until I get the reminder. Maybe even watch some SVT so I feel like I get my money’s worth.

Welcome to Sweden. And my passive protest against state run television.

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Massive Voter Fraud in Sweden

2009-09-17T21:47:00.003+02:00

I think can we can all remember the exciting voting process that took place not too long ago. It was an historic event. Months later the results are finally in.

Well, actually the results were in months ago, but I asked for a recount. Turns out there was evidence of massive fraud. And by evidence I mean obvious fabrications which I concocted on the fly. Over 100% of the voting population in certain constituencies were represented. Now math was never my strong point, but you can’t technically have more than 100%.

As we had already determined long ago I am, and in turn this blog is, awesome. May I remind you that I was asked to leave the country by several kind contributors to the comments section? And don’t forget that I was accused of sniffing glue as well as not being very smart but good with words. That’s like a friend telling you that the blind date he just set you up with “has a good personality” or that the greeter at Walmart is “a good man. He tries hard.” It just doesn’t help the self esteem.

Here are the results of the Top 100 Language Blogs 2009. Feel free to scroll around looking for my blog. Keep scrolling. Seriously. Keep scrolling. Just a little bit more. And one more time. There you go. 92nd place. I know you should never start a sentence with a number without writing it out, but I don’t even know how to spell 92nd. That’s how far down the polls I was. 92nd. Out of 100.

Now I think we can all agree that these results were highly suspicious. I had obviously stumbled upon massive voter fraud here in Sweden. How could this very blog, this blog that brings you so much joy and insight into Sweden, not be listed amongst the best language blogs of 2009? I know what you’re thinking, it is impossible. And I agree.

Which is why I requested a recount. I wanted to see ink stained space bars. I wanted to see "I voted!" stickers. I wanted voter registration cards. But I was denied. My quest to protest, to start a movement championing my cause, represented by the color orange, obviously the best color in the world, died in its infancy. Struck down by the higher powers that be. I couldn’t handle the shadows. Always lurking. The strange clicks in the night. I feel fairly confident that the moldy smell in my apartment was an attempt by the opposition to silence me. And it worked. I’m still 92nd out of 100.

Alright, I lied. I didn’t request a recount. But lying is acceptable when discussing voter fraud. Just ask Hamid Karzai. Or Abdullah Abdullah.

You may remember that I was listed first on the ballots. The beauty of that simple “A” at the front of the blog. But clearly it wasn’t enough. A friend told me that little old Sweden just couldn’t compete with the big boys. Like English or Japanese language blogs. Of course, since I write in English it didn’t really make me feel any better.

In the end I must take responsibility for the loss. My campaign promises fell hollow. My misuse of commas emerged. In the end, so many others were able to blog about a language in a way that educated people. Unwrapped the mystery that is a foreign language. I don’t do that.

So after months of self reflection, I can only say this:
"Words never quit. They never surrender.They never hide from history. Words make history."

Welcome to Sweden. And my concession speech, with a little help from John McCain.

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Selling Sex in Sweden

2009-09-14T22:19:00.003+02:00

Sexuality in Sweden is one of those stereotypes that has travelled the world. There is an idea of openness when it comes to sex that you just don’t find in the US. Sometimes, it’s a great thing. I love that there are massive campaigns handing out condoms in Stockholm. I love that you can catch a boob on TV (or in an elevator) every now and again. And I love that sex toys are sold at Apoteket in hopes of removing stigma.

That being said, the news in Sweden today was somewhat disturbing. Sex sells. Kind of. Sex is being sold and a large percentage of people between the age of 16 and 25 think that is quite ok. A new study, reported in all kinds of media outlets, shows that 1.7% of Swedes between the age of 16 and 25 have sold sex online. That’s about 20,000 people. And 43% think that is quite alright. Of course, the country already allows for the selling of sex by prostitutes. It’s the buying of the sex that is illegal. Interestingly enough, it is the men in this age range who are more likely to be paid for sex.

I am in the age range of people who think this is ok. Granted, at the far end of the range. At 25 I’m basically an old man. But I don’t think it is ok to sell sex over the internet. Or to accept payment for sex. Nor have I been offered money for sex. Which I’m pretty ok with.

I know I have been shaped by the sexual attitudes of the US. I think it is an extreme that is unfortunate and very much based on the religious background of the US. It’s something I don’t necessarily agree with, especially when it leads to a fear of sex and the stigma that follows. But I understand it, if only because it’s the sexual culture that I grew up with.

In Sweden though, I wonder if the opposite is true, if the openness leads to a destigmatization that allows for sex to be sold by young adults online. And not just allows for it, but accepts it as if sex is something that should be on par with buying a bag of chips at Pressbyrån. Or online. Yes, I’d like the new Dan Brown book, The Lost Symbol, and a blow job please. For 100 SEK... well as long as shipping is free.

Social media has contributed with the availability of pictures and information that was once meant for friends, not Facebook friends. Cell phone cameras have contributed with sexting and pictures of things that were once meant for that awkward first experience in high school. Or maybe it is middle school now. It’s as if my generation has grown so accustomed to openness that it has become blind to any repercussions. Blind to the sex trade that they themselves are suddenly taking part in. Because that is exactly what this is, a new age sex trade.

I suppose from an entrepreneurial standpoint this is cutting out the middle man. Cutting out the pimp. It’s just good business. But I don’t want it to be a business. Everything has a price. Economically, everyone and everything can be bought. It’s just a matter of how much. But I don’t want sex to be a commodity. But if sex is allowed to be so open that there is no mystery behind it, no sense of meaning, then it will become just that. And when 43% of 16-25 year olds think that payment being exchanged for sex is ok, well, then sex is becoming a sellable good. And Sweden has 20,000 new prostitutes.

Welcome to Sweden. And web 2.0’s sex trade.

Manliness in Sweden

2009-09-09T22:49:00.001+02:00

I’ve been in Sweden well over two years now, and every once and a while I am stricken by certain things. They give me that Welcome to Sweden moment. That moment which I just don’t know if I would get in the US. Sometimes it hits me in one fell swoop, other times it is a culmination of stories over the course of a few months, like Swedish manliness.

Manliness is a tricky thing. Gender issues in general tend to throw some people off. And that’s fine. Sometimes it’s political, sometimes it’s emotional. I consider myself a man because I have a beard, chew on toothpicks, and wear flannel. Unfortunately, that describes some of those farm girls just outside of Greeley. This is where the confusion comes in.

But in Sweden, manliness is confused by other things. Like breast feeding. And Chlamydia. (On a side note, Microsoft Word automatically capitalizes Chlamydia, which for some reason made me laugh.)

Turns out that Swedish guys who get Chlamydia see it as manly, as some sort of rite of passage. Because who doesn’t want a burning sensation while peeing, weird discharge from the penis, and maybe even some swollen testicles? I am MAN!

Turns out it’s not just Chlamydia stricken Swedish guys who cling to a sense of manliness. A man just a bit older than me does the same. With a two year old son. Now that his two year old son is past breast feeding stage, this guy thinks he missed out on something. The bond of baby and breast. So he wants to be able to breast feed the next time he pops out a kid. And by he I obviously mean his wife. Because while gender might be tricky sometimes, in the end, the whole biology thing comes into play and some people just can’t have a baby.

But he is determined to get as close as possible. He thinks it is perfectly ok for him to whip out a breast pump in the middle of class so that he can stimulate his nipples into maybe, possibly, giving milk. Is androgyny something we should strive for? I don’t think so. It’s ok that men and women are different. I want men and women to be different. Biologically, we are different. Is it a nuanced view or argument? No. But I'm surprisingly ok with that.

This comes after a story a while back saying that Swedish men had lost some of their masculinity.

The Swedish stereotype in the US is of a male population that is tall, broadchested, maybe blonde with a red beard. This is based on the belief that all of Sweden was once populated by marauding Vikings. Which we all know wasn’t true. An incredibly small percentage of the population of what is now Sweden was Viking Vikings, the rest tended to farm and trade. But that stereotype seems to be undergoing a change. A change to a confused manliness. On the one hand public perception is that the metro culture is taking over, men attempting pump their nipples to stimulate breast feeding feed this stereotype. Then there are the men who think sexual diseases are a sign of manliness.

I don’t know how to define manliness. I suppose it is something that each individual needs to decide for himself. Or herself. Because I’m politically correct. I do know that manliness is not getting Chlamydia. Or pumping my nipples in the middle of a class.

Welcome to Sweden. And manliness.

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Shameless Plug for Keenan and Jeff’s - ride for HOPE

2009-09-06T21:44:00.002+02:00

I met Keenan in the fall of 2003. We were the two youngest people in our group of exchange students at Uppsala. This meant that we were constantly having our friends buy us alcohol at Systemet. We would put in an order and patiently wait. We bonded over hockey, waiting for alcohol, and the fact that Keenan is probably one of the nicest people I have ever met. It makes it easy to bond with someone when that is the case.

Over the course of the semester in Uppsala we had a lot of fun. We did some stupid things, we did some smart things, and we even did some cultural things. We definitely formed a friendship that has withstood quite a few years and a lot of distance, and the fact that I am very slow in responding to e-mails.

I remember Keenan suffering from some insomnia during our time in Uppsala. Most people did at some point, and I still do. I completely blame the extremes of dark and light. One morning we woke up to hear a fantastic story from Keenan. He couldn’t sleep, which came as no surprise. What did come as a surprise was his bike ride. Keenan had ridden his bike from the Flogsta student housing in Uppsala to Gävle. If you were to take E4, the main highway, it’s about 110 km and would take you just over an hour to drive there. Keenan rode that stretch on a bike, in the middle of the night.

That ride was a harbinger of things to come. A couple years later Keenan came to visit a group of us living in Oregon. He was trying to recruit people for a crazy idea, a bike ride from Canada to Argentina. He even came bearing a CD trying to convince me to ride along with them. While flattered, my body is not made for riding a bike over two continents. Plus, I’ll be honest, I was skeptical of the ride actually happening. Apparently, I had forgotten a couple of things, specifically the kind of person Keenan is, and the fact that he rode his bike from Uppsala to Gävle in the middle of the night because he couldn’t sleep. As a general rule, never write anyone off who has done something like that.

Just over a year ago, Keenan left his hometown in Canada and headed off with his brother Jeff. They had put together a website, a plan to raise money for a charity, and a couple of bikes. Over 18,000 kilometers later and just a few days ago, Keenan and Jeff crossed the Argentinean border. I am left shaking my head at their adventures in bewilderment. I have gone on for nearly two years on this blog about my adventures in Sweden. An adventure that has taken place in one country where I already speak the language and have citizenship. I suppose adventure is always relative, but what these two guys have done is a true adventure. The kind of thing that makes me proud of my amazing friends, of the kindness of their hearts, and of the strength of their characters, as well as their legs at this point.

If you haven’t already, please head over to their blog ride for HOPE - canada to argentina by bicycle and leave them a comment, or join their Facebook group at Keenan and Jeff’s - ride for HOPE. If you’re really feeling engaged, donate a little bit of money, even if it is just a Loonie. See what I did there?

Welcome to Argentina guys.

The Friendliest Bus Driver in all of Stockholm

2009-09-05T12:47:00.001+02:00

I write a lot about the miserable experiences I have on public transportation here in Stockholm. Lately, I’ve been listening to people tell me their horror stories from other cities. From the delays that is the Washington DC subway to the stench that is the Paris metro. And I haven’t really had much t complain about lately. Especially since having moved away from the accursed pendeltåg. The commuter train. Best described as a melding of the sweaty sliding shorts of an offensive lineman and the silence of a state funeral. It’s really just a joy.

But no more, now I take subways and trains everywhere I go. And while they have their moments, listening to others moan about their hometown public transportation I was feeling pretty good. Especially after an incident the other day.

I was late. Well, on the brink of being late. It’s a brink I spend a lot of my time on for some reason. I blame the internet. As a general rule I don’t run for trains and busses anymore. In fact, it’s been several months since I ran a half marathon and I haven’t taken a single hurried step since then. And it feels amazing. But, as I said, I was late. And not for work but for drinks with a couple of buddies. So there was something at stake.

I saw the bus pull up to the stop just behind me. I was never going to make it. So instead I hit the crosswalk button knowing that it would turn the light red buying me time to run to the next stop. Turns out I am still slow. And that red lights are short. As I was running, I noticed the bus pull over at the stop ahead. YES! Someone would be getting off, buying me even more time. But I was still a good 50 meters away (I am damn near European with the usage of the metric system by the way).

With my head down and my hairy little legs churning, I was on my way. I glanced up. No one was getting off the bus. First, a moment of happiness. Clearly there was an old person working their way down the stairs. Ess-ell, the Nordic God of public transportation, was on my side.

I continued on. The bus getting bigger. My legs getting weaker. I made it. Only to see the bus driver laughing at me. Turns out he enjoyed watching a large hairy guy struggle to make the bus. He stopped and waited for me. Clearly the nicest bus driver ever. Much better than Lee who always threatened to take us back to elementary school when we were too loud.

So thank you kind bus driver. You made my day. And from the deep belly laugh you had going when I stepped on, I hope I made yours.

Welcome to Sweden. And public transportation’s cuddly side.

A Swedish American in Vienna, Austria

2009-09-03T22:25:00.005+02:00

I disappeared to Vienna for a few days. It was the first time I had ever been to the city. Or to Austria for that matter. There were plenty of things to see. Plenty of churches to explore. Plenty of museums to wander through. And the sun was shining. All in all, just a lovely trip.

I have a habit of writing about my travel. Because usually something happens. Like me missing a train in Poland. Or evil Mikael from SAS causing hell before heading to Spain. Or even the stinky girl on the plane ride home. But this trip was easy. Ryanair easy.

So instead of lamenting my inability to handle airports, I decided to share some pictures. Most people share pictures of themselves. Or the scenery. Or the sights. Those people are missing the point. It is much more entertaining to share the ridiculous signs that a country has to offer.

Let me first start this off by saying that I consider myself to be a relatively nice person. Just today I let a pregnant lady step in front of me in line while getting on the bus. I’m basically a chivalrous gentleman. But sometimes I have my moments. Don’t judge me.

I laugh at inappropriate things. I’m surprisingly ok with that. Like when I burst out laughing at the port-o-potty nearly smack dab in the middle of Vienna. It’s important that toilet access be given to everyone. Men, women, children, and of course, the handicapped. Which I think is why I appreciated this port-o-potty so very much.

Now the benefits of speaking a very Germanic language is that despite my lack of German skills, I can figure out certain words. They tend to be words that I have no business knowing. Like prisoner of war for example. But that’s what makes German language signs so very fun. Which is why I’d like to give you this gem of a sign from a church in Vienna. Focus on the last line.

Screaming is uncool. I’m pretty sure God mentioned that somewhere in the commandments.

An Austrian friend of mine has said that the subway in Stockholm is damn near raucous compared to Vienna. Having ridden around on the subway a fair bit for a few days, I am clearly in a position to make blanket generalizations. It was quiet, but I didn’t notice it either being more or less quiet. I might just be morphing in a Swede more than I am willing to admit. But then, I saw this sign.
Finally, the proof I needed to convince me that it isn’t just Swedes that are deathly silent on the train.

Welcome (back) to Sweden. And signs from abroad.

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Moving to Sweden – Finding a Job

2009-08-28T23:16:00.001+02:00

Moving to Sweden – What to Bring
Moving to Sweden – The Swedish Language
Moving to Sweden – Finding a Place to Live
Moving to Sweden – The Metric System and You
Moving to Sweden – Getting a Cell Phone
Moving to Sweden – Getting from the Airport to Stockholm City
Moving to Sweden – The Weather
Moving to Sweden - Swedish Citizenship Test
Moving to Sweden – Public Holidays

The unemployment rate in Sweden tends to hover around five or six percent. Similar to the natural rate of unemployment in the US. This year has been a bit rougher. In July of 2009, according to SCB, the government agency that keeps track of absolutely everything in Sweden, the unemployment rate in Sweden was 7.9% for ages 15-74. It’s not the stuff of the Great Depression, but it’s not good.

Of course, for people between the ages of 15-24 which is the age group I recently left half a year ago the unemployment rate was 20.7%. That’s a lot of young people who are out of work and looking for jobs.

It is not easy. It’s never easy to get a job. But now it’s really not easy. And moving from a different country to Sweden just adds to the challenge.

I have been here nearly two years now. I have had three different employers. Two full-time and one part-time. I moved here with no job. I had some possibilities and managed to get myself an interview after just a week or two in the country. It even led to a job offer.

And I shot them down. Because I am picky. Never before had I felt so dirty after walking out of an interview. It was a job with a large telesales company here in Stockholm. The interviewer was your classic slimy salesman. Slicked back hair. Skinny black tie. A slight air of superiority. Strangely enough, I think I just described your average Stureplan guy. Take that for what it’s worth.

Anyway, he described their sales strategy, how they worked, earnings potential, all of that good stuff that makes an unemployed person see the cash flowing in. I walked out needing a shower. And not because I am a nervous sweaty person. I felt dirty.

I got a phone call the next day. They wanted to offer me the job. I told them I would get back to them. And I did get back to them. And said no. I still remember the response: “When I go to an interview, I already know I want the job.” Of course, he failed to remember that the employment process goes both ways. I was interviewing them in my own quiet and observant way. They failed. Just a few weeks later I had found myself a part-time job that was a hell of a lot more fun.

And a couple months after that I was employed full-time. And here’s how I did it.

I applied to every job that was remotely interesting to me and that I was remotely qualified for. I was that guy. It was the shotgun approach. Some people might not suggest this technique. Some people might say it was a waste of time. But I was unemployed. I had nothing but time.

In the end though, I took various approaches. I used the internet. A lot. I used the newspapers. A little bit. I used contacts. With varying success. And I was aggressive. With great success.

In one sense though, I had it easy. I didn’t need to apply for a residence permit. Or work permit. My Swedish passport came in handy. Recent immigration reform has made it a little bit easier to get work in Sweden. Chances are though if you are moving to Sweden from the US or really anywhere that isn’t Europe, you’ll need to apply for permits before entering the country. This is where the immigration office, Migrationsverket, earns its keep. And, despite my dislike for the actual office, Arbetsförmedligen has some good information on their website. But paperwork is overrated. And getting yourself a job offer makes it a bit easier to convince the country to let you in.

Despite the unemployment rate, the language, the moving to a different, there are jobs out there. You just need to know where to look.

Websites:
After lots of searching, I managed to put together a list of websites that always displayed a solid number of jobs that interested me. A rotation if you will:

http://www.monster.se/ – They have a Swedish division.
http://www.manpower.se/ – One of Sweden’s larger employment websites with about 9000 jobs available as I write this.
http://www.thelocal.se/ – Just a glorious site for so many different reasons. But check out the jobs section for a wonderful listing of English speaking jobs.
http://www.workey.se/ – A job aggregator that pulls job vacancies from all over the Swedish internet.
http://www.academicwork.se/ – A site that focuses more on work for students. Often times a lot of part-time or contract work.
http://www.arbetsformedlingen.se/ – The Swedish employment agency. They list a lot of jobs. Everything from full-time positions to au pair positions.

Of course, there are plenty of other options to choose from. Some are job agencies that will try to place you. There are the newspapers websites like Dagens Nyheter (http://www.dn.se/) or Svenska Dagbladet (http://www.svd.se/) where you can look for jobs.

If you’re Swedish struggles but you’re determined to find a job, you’re going to be starting from behind the eight ball. A bad place to start. Especially because some of these sites might not have an English version. So a quick tip. If you don’t speak Swedish you need to play up the languages you do know. Type in “English” into the search bar to get all kinds of jobs that value English skills.

And if you’re really feeling old school you can look in a physical newspaper. Since you’re unemployed, check Metro, the free newspaper on Tuesdays and Thursdays for job listings.

Arbetsförmedligen:
Arbetsförmedligen is essentially the Swedish unemployment agency. You might think it would be a good place to go if you’re unemployed. It’s not something I really like to reminisce over. Mostly because the first, and only, time I went there I was disgusted by the attitude and level of service. My understanding, before moving to Sweden, was that Arbetsförmedligen was there to help people find a job. Turns out I was wrong.

I traipsed on over there just a few days after landing in Sweden. I filled in my contact information, my CV, the usual. Then I had a question. So I went asked the lovely middle aged woman if she could help me. She answered my question with a question of her own. Which Coach Smith always hated. And now I always notice. What made it worse was her question was so disheartening. She asked if I would be applying for unemployment money. No. No, I wanted a job. Her response, just go to the website. Everything is online. Unless you need money, the actual Arbetsförmedligen office won’t be of much use.

All that being said, I have heard a good story. Once.

Their website does have some good information on getting jobs in Sweden and have plenty of jobs offered.

I tried other techniques though.

Contacts:
I talked to everyone I knew. Which, considering I had just moved to the country, didn’t take too long. I was networking if you will. Everyone says networking is the way to go. Contacts are the ones who get you a job. And sometimes this is true. I’ve been on the receiving end of networked jobs. Just not in Sweden.

That’s not to say it won’t work. There’s the classic networking approach. Family. Friends. Ex-co-workers. Current employers that may have an office in Sweden. Ex-pats.

Then there are the social networks. Twitter. Facebook. LinkedIn. Facebook has grown exponentially since I moved here just two years ago. Twitter is blowing up. And more and more people are joining the Swedish network on LinkedIn. There’s even a new networking site called SwedenInTouch at www.swedenintouch.se/.

Cold Applications:
Finally, the most effective technique. I looked for companies and organizations I was interested in. Then I scoured their website for contact information to individuals. Preferably whoever was in charge of hiring or marketing. And I e-mailed them. I went the aggressive route. I sent over my CV and cover letter immediately. The cold call approach to job hunting.

Here’s the deal with this though, you need to be damn specific. You need to know have some idea as to what you can offer them. And if it’s something that a lot of people might not be able to offer, even better. Scour their website. Google news alert the company.

This is how I ended up with a part-time job just after having landed in the country. It’s how I ended up with a full-time job just a few months later. It works. But it takes a lot of work. Luckily, you don’t have any other work to do.

In the end, searching for a job is probably one of the worst processes out there. Followed closely by a swift kick to the groin. Usually I didn’t get any response. Not even an automated receipt of application. Nothing. I was angry. Depressed. Bored. It’s not fun. But if you have something to offer, whether it is an advanced degree or the ability to swallow swords in front of a crowd, there is a job out there. Somewhere.

Welcome to Sweden. And the job hunt.

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Sailing and an Inadvertent Swimming in Skärgården

2009-08-23T21:38:00.000+02:00

I am not a sailor. A seaman if you will. Not because I don’t enjoy water, I do, but because I do not own a sail boat. It’s really that simple. Of course, this weekend would suggest that maybe that is for the better.

Saturday morning in Stockholm saw a lot of rain. Not the steady drizzle that so often mars the Swedish fall, but actual rain. The kind that leaves you wet and chilled to the bone. I was supposed to go sailing for the first time in the Stockholm archipelago. (On a side note, being a native English speaker it pains me to ask this, but, is it arch as in architect or arch as in arch?) Waking up to see the rain I called my cousin whose friend it was we were going to be sailing with. Sailing was on.

I scrambled to find waterproof gear. Looking through my closet reminded me what kind of outdoorsman I am. The kind that sticks to snow. My gear was all snowproof. Deciding that snow and water are basically siblings, I grabbed an outer shell of a ski jacket and was ready for my day.

The rain continued as we drove to Skärgården. And continued as we parked. And continued as we debated on what to do. And continued as we walked to the boat. And continued as we headed out of the harbor. And continued as we sailed. For hours on end it rained. Despite the rain life was good. The archipelago is an impressive landscape. Or seascape. Or both.

Soon it was time for lunch and the rain had started to clear. Which worked well because I love lunch. We headed to an island where we could park the boat. (I’m not sure whether you park a boat or dock a boat or what you do with a boat. Sailing terminology eludes me in both Swedish and English.) I was asked to jump out first and tie the boat down after the anchor had been thrown overboard.

The first area was deemed too steep even for my agility to navigate. So we move along finding what looked to be a good place for me to jump ashore. And so I jumped. Only to remember that it had been raining for hours on end. And rocks rounded and smoothed by the ice age tend to become a bit slippery when wet. My feet touched down and suddenly I was clawing at whatever I could find in hopes of maintain some semblance of dryness. I did maintain any semblance of dryness. I slid into the water. Fully clothed. Including my jacket. And wallet. And cell phone. And camera.

It took me a couple of minutes to drag myself out of the water. Turns out that sea grass is also slippery and it was covering the rocks just below the surface of the water. Finally I pulled myself out of the water. The others made it ashore. We all laughed. Ha ha ha.

I pulled out my cell phone, took it apart, and laid it out to dry. I checked my camera. The case I use when I take it skiing seemed to have kept it dry. All in all, not too bad. And anyway, I was hungry.

Lunch was had. Conversation was had. The sun came out and started to dry what few pieces of clothing I removed without making myself completely indecent. And that’s when it happened. My cousin walked along the rocks and was suddenly screaming out in surprise. Because she was sliding. And sliding. Into the water she went. I laughed. Then realized she had slid quite a ways and I should probably check to see if she was ok. She was. So I laughed some more.

The Swedish language has a glorious word, skadeglädje, it can be found in German too, schadenfreude. Essentially taking pleasure in the pain of others. And while I wasn’t necessarily taking pleasure in the pain, I was taking pleasure in the embarrassment of others. Because now I wasn’t the only one to slide into the water.

We took some more time to try to dry off then headed back. The remainder of the trip was me shivering while trying not to look uncomfortable and ungrateful. I was a guest and we were on a boat. There just wasn’t much to be done so I tried to place myself in the sun as often as possible.

I made it home to a warm shower and some very wet personal items. I once again took my cell phone apart. I laid everything in my wallet out to dry. I even put my cell phone battery in some rice which is apparently supposed to suck out the moisture from the battery.

This morning I woke up and decided that I would check my camera for damages. Just in case. So I tried the power button. Nothing. Fair enough, the batteries were starting to get old, maybe they had just run out. So I took out the batteries. Only to notice condensation. The kind that actually drops water onto your fingers. Damn it.

Sailing was fun. Having two newly christened metal paperweights is less fun. Today all I can think of is that I should never own a sail boat. Ever.

Before I started writing this blog I never really kept track of my life. Obviously there are pictures and memories but nothing as detailed and permanent as the writing. I used to think I was a normal person. I knew I did stupid things but no more than the average person. Now I have a record of the situations I find myself in and I’m starting to wonder.

Welcome to Sweden. And inadvertent swimming.

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Swedes Wear Tights. I Don’t.

2009-08-20T21:50:00.000+02:00

I’ve been going to the gym for a few months now. While I won’t be taking advantage of the parenting benefits offered when working in Sweden, I do take advantage of the gym card I get for being a full time employee. It allows me to tone my obviously chiseled physique. Or something like that.

The gym is always an interesting place to be. I worked as a janitor at a gym back in high school. I was a Master of the Custodial Arts for three years. I know gyms. I know how nasty the showers are and how well they are cleaned. This is why I do not shower in the locker room. I go home to do that.

I also know that old men like to be naked. And Swedish old men are no exception. The difference is that since I no longer work at a gym I can leave the locker room whenever I want. As a Master of the Custodial Arts in high school though, I found myself cleaning locker rooms a lot. While old men were in various stages of undress. And when I say various stages I mean the stage where they are sitting bare ass on a bench with only a shirt on. After which they put socks on. Followed by sauntering over to the counter and mirrored area in order to throw their leg up on the counter to lotion up. No one likes scaly legs. With their moisturization needs taken care of, pants are finally put on. I think I’ve written about this before. Clearly, it has scarred me for life.

But I digress. Enough about old naked Swedish men.

I’d rather discuss inappropriately dressed Swedish people. I appreciate people working out. Making an effort. Losing weight. Getting in shape. Toning. Whatever the hell you want to call it. Well done.

However, I do not appreciate tights. We’re indoors. It’s not cold. It’s not raining. It’s not windy. You’re sure as hell not trying to shave a tenth of a second off of your 100 meter time. The bulging gut would suggest you won’t be challenging Usain Bolt anytime soon. There is no reason for the tights.

I know Nike has some of the best marketing campaigns the world has ever seen. Just do it. I know. But just because world class athletes who have spent the majority of their life training look good in tights, doesn’t mean you will. In fact, you don’t. Hell, despite my aforementioned chiseled physique, I don’t. I know this for a fact. I once dressed up as Mr. Incredible for Halloween and wore red tights. It is not an attractive look.

If anything you are making me less likely to return to the gym. Unless this is some sort of reverse psychological marketing campaign. Maybe SATS is paying you to wear tights to make me want to work out so I don’t have a gut. Whatever it is though, they aren’t paying you enough. Put on a pair of shorts. Camel toe. Moose knuckle. I don’t want to see it.

Welcome to Sweden. And tights.

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100,000 Swedish Condoms in the Town, 100,000 Swedish Condoms…

2009-08-17T21:54:00.001+02:00

Swedes like sex. And condoms. It’s a good combination then really. Much better than unwanted babies. Or syphilis. Sweden actually sent me a condom when I turned 24. And right now there is a campaign giving out free condoms in Stockholm. Each one has an individual number. A tracking number if you will. I first overheard someone talking about this campaign a couple of weekends ago. At the Pride Parade of all places.

The campaign can be found at kondom08.nu. Kondom08.se not because they are confused and think we are still in 2008 but because Stockholmers like to refer to themselves as 08ers (in a bastardized English translation) because of the telephone code being 08 for Stockholm. It’s cute really.

Despite what I might think to be a kind of lame URL address, I quite like the campaign idea. “Vart tar 100 000 kondomer vägen i sommar?” Each person is asked to go onto the website and register their condom’s story. And there are a lot of stories. I don’t have the patience, or desire, to read through thousands of Swedish sex stories. In Swedish. Some people do. But I did glance through a few. And found a favorite. In 20 words the author (author makes it sound so much more legitimate) was able to give a whole lot of information without actually saying anything. And I loved it. So, if you’re feeling Swedish make sure to read about Kondom nummer 97079.

It doesn’t seem like there are any rules about the actual use of the condom. For example, maybe you want to make a water condom and throw it at your roommate. Or perhaps you’d like to make condom animals. I’m pretty good at making snakes. Maybe you need a bag to take your lunch cucumber to work. All reasonable uses of a numbered condom.

If you want a numbered condom you need to hustle. They are being given out at Eriksdalsbadet on the 28th and 29th. Then you only have a couple of days to use it and write your story. Stories stop being accepted on the 31st of August.

Welcome to Sweden. Where there are only 16 360 (and counting down) numbered condoms left.

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An Eventful Swedish Weekend

2009-08-16T13:58:00.002+02:00

I have seen country music in Sweden. And it is glorious. As the immortal Alan Jackson pointed out in Eskilstuna, there are small towns everywhere in the world. And where there are small towns, country music lives strong.

It’s been a while since I saw that much flannel. That many cowboy hats. That many farm boys. It was wonderful. But not as glorious as the guy walking around with a case of Norrlands Guld, leather chaps, and a belt buckle the size of a small child. Turns out rednecks can be found the world over. Rödanackar if you will.

Last night was Midnattsloppet. A 10 kilometer run through Södermalm with over 21,000 participants. You would think that Midnattsloppet would be run at midnight. You would be wrong. Because the race started around 10 and the only people still running at midnight were the stragglers. Of course, I wasn’t running at all. I haven’t run a single step since my half marathon. And I feel surprisingly good about myself.

In fact, instead of running, I headed over to a friend's and watched a bit of the race from the comfort of their apartment. It was an impressive showing of people crossing as thousands of green t-shirts congregated just past the finish line. If I didn’t know any better I would have thought I was at an opposition rally in Iran (as the horribly blurry picture can attest to). But I was not.

Trying to be a responsible young man and get home at a halfway decent time I left just after midnight. I wanted to catch my bus home. But first, to further contrast the athletic endeavor that I had just borne witness to, I stopped at McDonalds. I wanted a caramel sundae. Obviously. With my caramel sundae in hand I headed to my bus stop.

The busses I take to get home have a bit of a gap in the schedule later in the evening. I’m still learning the bus schedule but have a decent idea as to when everything leaves. But decent only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. Or something like that. Because I arrived at my bus stop to see that I had 45 minutes until my bus left. It seems that I had landed right in the bus schedule gap. Awesome.

There is another bus stop near my apartment if I am willing to walk. And at 12:30 in the morning I am willing to walk a bit if it saves me 45 minutes. So off to the other bus stop. This one was leaving in half an hour. Awesome. Again.

I am an impatient person. Instead of sitting at the bus stop having my nose assaulted by the smell of beer and urine I started walking. There was no way I was going to make it home faster than the bus, but I could at least move up a couple of bus stops. Despite the rain I had convinced myself that this was a good idea. Despite me wearing shorts. Despite me only having a hoody on.

So I started walking. Plenty of Swedish sidewalks are set up so that rather than the bike lane being on the street with the cars, they are on the sidewalk with the walking lane away from the street and the bike lane closest to the street. So I parked myself in the walking lane, because I was walking. I was as far away from the street as I could be. And then a taxi went flying by driving the opposite direction of me. Suddenly, I tasted the mix of motor oil, dirt, and fresh rain water. Which is not a pleasant flavor. My face was covered in water. The right side of my body was dripping wet. I had been splashed. Clearly patience is, in fact, a virtue.

So on I went, shaking my head in amusement. I was walking home at 1 in the morning. Sober. In the rain. Having just been splashed by a taxi. Taxi Stockholm in case you were wondering. Please tell me these things happen to other people.

Welcome to Sweden. And weekend adventures.

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Mean People Read Liza Marklund

2009-08-11T23:32:00.000+02:00

Today I was on the blue line headed away from Stockholm. In general the blue line heading away from town is somewhat immigrant heavy. Rinkeby is on the blue line for example.

I tell you this only to set the scene. I am, for all intents and purposes, an immigrant to this country. However I blend in a bit better. Sometimes at least. Today I had a light blue collared shirt on and halfway tight jeans. So I’m basically a local. And I’m white. In certain suburbs of Stockholm this becomes very noticeable.

I was sitting on the subway lost in the wonderful world of American sports brought to me by my podcasts. The girl kitty corner to me, in her early twenties, was lost in a Liza Marklund book. Because I judge you by the books you read I take notice of this sort of thing. On a completely unrelated note, she did not have any sort of earphones in. This is important.

A tall, slim, black man walked over to my area. He did not have a light blue collared shirt on nor was he wearing halfway tight jeans. So he didn’t fit in. And he wasn’t white. I may have mentioned that.

He glanced over at me, took note of my earphones and instead turned to the girl reading. Remember, no earphones. He said excuse me. In impeccable English. No response. He said it again. No response. At all. Instead it was the nervous look straight ahead and concentrate really hard and maybe he will go away. If I can’t see his eyes he can’t see me. If I don’t move he won’t know I’m here. I’m pretty sure that only works with a T-Rex.

There were really only two options as to why this girl would have completely ignored a perfectly reasonable and understandable question. The girl was deaf and had horrible peripheral vision meaning that she neither heard the man nor saw him out of the corner of her eye. Or she was just incredibly rude.

After the second excuse me I took my earphones out and asked him if I could help him. This is not necessarily because I am a nice guy, although I am, but because I have some semblance of politeness. And the ability to maneuver myself through a social interaction every now and again. I blame my parents completely for this.

Turns out the guy was a bit turned around. He knew where he wanted to go and which stop he was supposed to get off at, but wasn’t sure which stop we had just passed. It was a simple question to answer, especially with the help of a handy subway map posted on the inside of the subway cars.

At this point I had walked up to the guy and pointed out the previous station on the map. Always good to add some visuals when giving directions. When I got up I noticed that suddenly the Liza Marklund fan seemed very intent on listening in. Which would suggest she was not, in fact, deaf. Having eliminated her deafness, the peripheral vision just wasn’t important anymore. This led me to only one logical conclusion. She was mean.

After an interaction that lasted maybe 30 seconds, the man thanked me and returned to his seat explaining to his buddy on the way that they only had one more stop left. It was that easy.

I have written about the shy nature of Swedes. I have written about immigration in Sweden. I have written about the latent racism which I sometimes see pop up in Sweden. They tend to be off the cuff observations based on my experiences and the stories of others. Any evidence that I have would be anecdotal at best. But that’s the beauty of the blog really.

I don’t know if this had anything to do with any of those topics. It was an isolated incident. I know that. But that kind of coldness, whether it be shyness, fear, racism, or just a mean individual, frustrates me to no end. Smile at the person on the subway. When someone asks you a question respond. It doesn’t need to be in the affirmative but at least acknowledge their existence. It really is that easy sometimes.

Welcome to Sweden. Where mean people read Liza Marklund.

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Sunburns in Stockholm

2009-08-09T21:51:00.005+02:00

It’s been a glorious weekend. One that has left me sunburned. The first time I have managed to sunburn myself in Sweden in a long while. It takes me approximately 137 seconds to burn myself back in Colorado. Whenever I leave Colorado I tend to be a bit cocky. I figure that the extra 5,000 feet away from the sun makes all the difference and I don’t need sunscreen. That’s just not true.

Yesterday, I discovered a beach in my area. And of course by beach I mean a small swath of sand the size of a basketball court. But the water was cold and the sun was shining. So I snagged a good book and lay down. The problem was the book was really good. And I didn’t put any sunscreen on, leaving me looking a nice shade of Valentine’s Day pink.

The day progressed with me sitting in Kungsträdgården watching two men play chess. For 45 minutes. This was boring beyond all words. And I know a lot of words. I can’t explain why I did it. I don’t even know how to play chess. Actually, from the pace of the game, neither did these two men. Perhaps I was suffering from a bit of sunstroke. I have no excuses otherwise. Learn from my mistakes. Never do this.

Luckily, the afternoon was saved by my stumbling upon a flash mob at Sergels torg. I am fascinated by flash mobs after having seen Stockholm Central Station freeze for April Fool’s Day in 2008 (which was much better than what I saw yesterday so you should probably click on the link. Do it. Seriously.). Some people worry about being exposed to assassins in big open spaces. Like Sergels torg. I look for a flash mob. And yesterday I found what I was looking for. Luckily no assassins.

In the evening I had dinner with two of my former Scandinavian Studies professors. They kindly put up with my neurotic questions and need for some semblance of control in my decisions. This was appreciated beyond all words. Again, I know a lot of words. I am constantly amazed at the kindness and generosity of my former professors. A rousing endorsement for the University of Oregon if nothing else.

It wasn’t until I had filled my belly with delicious food that I realized just how badly I had managed to sunburn myself. The itch started setting in. I have had enough sunburns to know what the itch means. The itch means that my Valentine’s Day pink had turned to Valentine’s Day red. Valentine’s Day red is not a becoming color on pale skin. Trust me.

So being the responsible and intelligent young man that I am, I decided to go for a hike and a swim today. Without sunscreen. Because what better way to treat a sunburn than with even more UV rays?

Welcome to Sweden. And melanoma.

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