Growing Up Nordic

I'm often asked what I miss about the old country and I usually say nothing. Ten years in exile has soften my subconscious recollections and emotional desires for national culture and historic legacy. But it's in times like these, during the beginning of the summer when the old Nordic beast is awoken and I can feel how my heritage is pulsating through my veins like new fresh blood.

I arrived in Stockholm right in time for our first annual pre-midsommar feast. It's a new concept that my old friend Anders initiated. It derives from the pre-parties we used to have before the family Christmas celebrations. A few days before Christmas we all used to gather to let out the savage nordic beast inside us and celebrate in the closeness of friends and absence of parents. You do the math.

Midsommar is one of the few occasions per year when the Swedish soul gets to roam freely in space, body and time. It's like going to Las Vegas for the North Americans. But while Vegas is all about excessive indulgence, Midsommer is not a place but a state-of-mind where less is more and unedited out-of-your-mindness is king.

We chose crime scene carefully and both agreed that Sturehof was the only place that should be honored in serving us the classic feast of schnaps, salted herring and crispbread. They where obviously delighted when our plans became official and gave us the most central and easy to view table in the restaurant. From there on rest is history and dazed / confused memorium: we sang, toasted, drank, conspired and ate herring. Encore!

It felt great to walk home in the early morning hours. My Nordic genes have had their fun and the beast was out of the cage for another year or two. My mind was fueled with Löjten Aquavit and eagerly fighting the desire to run down to the nearby water and go for a swim. That is the only sideffect of the drink and of course, a heavy head the day after. Skål!