Nightglow Window

Dela Allt Med Dig

Finally got some sleep, and woke feeling that I had arrived and that it was morning. The soul can only travel so fast, posits William Gibson in Pattern Recognition, so when the body makes a leap of multiple time zones, the soul lags behind, connected to the body by a slender tether that takes days to reel in.

It finally feels that soul met body this morning.

I woke at 6:30 after five and a half undisturbed hours and dozed until 7:30 when the need for caffeine finally got me moving. Christy was still deeply asleep, waking only after I was dressed and heading out the door.

After a false start where I wandered into the wrong breakfast area (the nice one apparently where they serve meat and eggs), I posted up with coffee, rolls, and Shop Girl. Steve Martin’s novella was a quick read and well written. Simple language conveys complex thoughts. Not a lot of flab. Take note, says I.

The movie was good, and interesting to see how it compared to the book. Jeremy’s character expanded to provide comic relief in what is really a thinly disguised tale of melancholy. The tone of the movie’s voiceovers convey the real tone of the novella and its strongest writing. Martin’s voice is distinct: “Some nights, alone, he thinks of her, and some nights, alone, she thinks of him. Some nights these thoughts, separated by miles and time zones, occur at the same objective moment, and Ray and Mirabelle are connected without ever knowing it. One night, he will think of her as he looks into the eyes of someone new, searching for the two qualities that Mirabelle defined for him: loyalty and acceptance. Mirabelle, far away and in Jeremy’s embrace, knows that what had been lost is now regained.”

Four cups of coffee later, the book is done and the day is underway -- another gorgeous blue day that promises to be hot. I wait while Christy has breakfast and then we head up a long inlet of the Baltic Sea, a long walk on this fine morning. We talk about Stockholm and its people.

* Some Hastily Drawn (And Therefore Probably Incorrect) Observations Of The People Of Stockholm *

I have said elsewhere that the landscape of Sweden is trim. So are its people. Barry says they are shy by nature; a city of people pretending they are its only residents. I test the theory on our walk, making eye contact and smiling at every person who passes on the green and gorgeous pathway that heads up the sound. Some look me in the eye, many don’t. None offer a nod or say hello.

It’s an unfair test, poorly conceived and executed, yet interesting nonetheless. They are beautiful, with interesting faces and are nearly all healthy looking. Not a lot of typical American bulge here. So what is this reserve all about? Is "shy" really the most accurate adjective? I have no idea.

Maybe part of their character is seen in the buildings. The architecture is utilitarian and spare, yet well maintained. The graffiti looks alien. Even in old town there isn’t much ornate flair on the buildings like you’d find in London. I haven’t seen much of the city yet, though, so I may be wrong. Make no mistake though, given its geography—rocky islands with low hills surrounded by waterways—Stockholm is a beautiful place.

According to Barry, most people rent apartments and that a building boom is desparately needed. He says the apartments are usually small, and that his is typical. It is small, yet clean and absolutely functional. Nice. But you wonder what the fifth month of winter is like in this small space. Would the walls close in? Would it begin to feel smaller?

Perhaps this reserve I detect is defense against these times. Maybe I’ve misread the situation entirely. The only true fact is, the culture is different from America and comparisons are odious.

Barry says that most of the apartments are rent controlled and very inexpensive, but that buying an apartment or house within the city is very expensive -- similar to Santa Monica (a market Barry is familiar with). Everyone seems relatively on an equal footing here in the city. There’s not a detectable gulf between rich and poor in this socialist country. (Sheesh, risky ground here. I may have no idea what I’m talking about.) Is this divide between owner and renter a main dividing line? No clue. It seems the most noticeable to me.

Along the walk we pass dozens of small cottages resplendent with gardens overflowing with flowers. These are part of the "allotment garden movement" which gained momentum in the early 1900s. Smalls areas of this rocky hilly area were distributed to the people (one assumes for a fixed amount of Crowns). The owners were allowed to build huts measuring six square meters. Only one third of each allotment was to be used for the same kind of plant.

The situation eased the city through World War and poor harvests, but eventually vegetables were replaced by flowers. Now the huts sit in a riot of colors: roses and honeysuckle, and others too numerous to mention. Six square meters is small. Do people spend the summers there, living in the huts? I must ask. But after years spent in a small apartment having this parcel of land to cultivate and manicure sounds like an ideal retirement scenario. They certainly seem well tended and well loved.

We’re meeting Barry’s friend at 1:30 about a half mile walk from here. She’ll take us to the train station. The wedding is on an estate a short train ride away. I’m excited for Barry and Liv and curious as to what the wedding will feel like.

Not a cloud in the sky. They couldn’t have chosen a nicer day.

--Later That Afternoon---

Barry and Liv were married today in the ballroom of an 18th century manor house called the Edsbergs Slott, which is set on a lake and was for this afternoon under hot, blue skies.

Besides my own, it was the best wedding I’ve ever been to.

Barry called a few hours before the ceremony and asked that Christy and I sit in the front row with Bryan. It was a complete honor to represent Barry’s family. A complete thrill.

Unlike in the States, the bride and groom walk into the ceremony together. As the Pachelbel Canon played, Barry and Liv slowly walked in arm in arm. The love they have for each other was radiant; it lit the room and infused the 60 guests with the clear feeling that they were witnessing something special today.

The ceremony, presided over by Barry’s friend Julien Walker, was all their own. Nonsecular and heartfelt and full of love, it was an interesting mix—made all the more special by the variety of Swedish traditions followed at the reception.

The ceremony was in English and once again I felt guilty that is should be this way—until I realized that many of Liv’s family were from the States and didn’t speak Swedish.

Nearly everyone speaks English in Sweden, and they do so without the rolling of the eyes of the French. Their English is excellent and friendly, but their own language is incredibly beautiful too, especially in song.

Barry and Liv’s friend Lina Isakzon sang acapella Dela Allt med dig (The greatest thing of all is to share everything with you). It was a brave and beautiful performance. Gorgeous. The fact that I couldn’t understand the words only accentuated the song’s poignancy. Her voice was like a strong wind. I guess that’s the best way I can describe it.

Julian read poems by Rumi and another friend, Leo Dahlin, sang "I tveksamhetens tid" (In time of doubt may I rest my head on your shoulder). He also was very good—reminiscent of Seu Jorge.

Barry and Liv wrote their own wedding vows and they caused me to break out all my tricks (deep breathing, opening my mouth wide, biting my tongue, etc.) in order to avoid crying. I may have teared a bit, I admit. They were that beautiful.

Justice of the Peace Mikael Göransson declared Barry and Liv wed, adding a certain gravity with his deep voice speaking in Swedish. Then both Barry and Liv broke the wineglass (a Jewish tradition) to the cheers of "Mazel Tov!"

While Barry and Liv walked through a nearby park for photos, the rest of the party moved lakeside for champagne and shade—it was hot. Meanwhile preparations for dinner were underway inside the estate. By 5:00 we moved up to the front door for a large group photo and then (after consulting the seating chart) sat for dinner.

Seating charts are great ideas, and after 15 minutes talking to my dinner companions—Wanda, Ann-Margeret, and Paul—I was rethinking all the blanket stereotypes I made earlier this morning about Swedes being reserved.

They were warm and kind and very engaging.

Beautiful too.

We talked about a lot of things, but the main conversation was the comparison between government social services in Sweden and the United States. I was happy to hear that they feel they get more from their government than what they think they pay for it (although they were honest that sometimes the government wasn’t as efficient or entrepreneurial as it should be and that the tax bills were burdensome).

Made the U.S. seem pretty backwards in comparison.

The conversations were interrupted every ten minutes or so by the toastmasters, who introduced short speeches or songs. Yep, singing is a big deal at Swedish parties and once again it was moving. Need to find the translation to the Bellman song they sang, but everyone (who was Swedish at least) knew the words and sang it with gusto. Marvelous.

Dinner was great: crawfish and salmon and meatloaf and delicious salad, more speeches (I even gave one. Imagine!), more songs and tears and lots and lots of laughter and love.

The evening wrapped with cake (the chocolate tort was insane!) and drinks and dancing (nope, not me). Before I knew it, it was midnight, nearly eight hours had passed in a blink of an eye.

Bravo Barry and Liv!

The wedding was fantastic!