Top ten things I hate about Stockholm, VII

June 22, 2004

The seventh in an occasional series.

Ten: Predatory seating
Nine: Culinary relativism
Eight: Preëmptive planning
Seven: Premature mastication
Six: Irrational discalceation
Five: Radiotjänst i Kiruna AB
Four: Temporal engineering

It's the longest day of the year, I've got front-row seats at Mosebacke terrace for a glorious slo-mo sunset that's been turning Stockholm orange for hours, hot air balloons are wafting past a crescent moon, and I have the audacity to write about something I hate here.

Well, I have to. I'm writing a series about things I hate, not love, about Stockholm. To be honest, I was running out of subject matter, but that was before it was brought to my attention just last week that Midsommar — the summer solstice and Sweden's most treasured day — is not on June 21 this year, but instead has been decreed to occur on June 26, because, well, it makes for a more convenient three-day holiday.

This is quite shocking. Latter-day druids everywhere are dancing around menhirs at this very moment; huge man-made structures in Latin America are perfectly aligned with the sun at great cost to previous generations; people in the Antarctic are suffering right now for this cause; and it is the one day that keeps Swedes going between November and March — but if nature has the gall to have the longest day happen on a day other than Saturday, Swedes reschedule it like it's a dentist appointment.

How is this different from celebrating Christmas on December 27 — because the presents are cheaper? Cinco de Mayo on nuevo de Mayo? New Year's on January 3? Would you mind? I thought so.

Last year, my first Midsommar did fall on a Saturday, so I was not then apprised of this cavalier attitude Swedes have towards the natural rhythms of nature. But I should have known better: Over the past 18 months, I've repeatedly butted against another example of this predilection for ruthless temporal engineering: The week-based calendar.

In my first Stockholm apartment, the hallway was swept by tenants according to a rotation posted on the communal bulletin board: Next to my name, it said "V.40-48-3-11..." Swedish readers already know what this means, but I had to ask a neighbor, who told me that it was my turn to clean on the 40th week of the year, on the 48th, och så vidare. And when might that be? "Look it up."

Instead I guessed, and clearly wrongly, as everytime I thought it was my turn somebody else cleaned ahead of me that week. Nobody said anything, though. Maybe they were embarrassed about their calendar, and with good reason, as I have just had to delve into its fiendish machinations for the sake of this post. It is emphatically Napoleonic in its arbitrary rigidity: You'd think week 1 is always the week the new year starts on. You'd think wrong — In 2004, week 1 starts on Dec 29, 2003; in 2005, week 1 starts Jan 3, 2005. 2004 has 53 weeks, 2005 52. I'm surprised anyone cleans at all.

At a work-related meeting last week, I was asked if I would be in Stockholm during the 33rd week. "What, do I look pregnant to you?" is the retort I stopped myself from using, instead asking for a translation into western dates.

Maybe the adoption of the week as a calendaring tool was the gateway to all this insouciance regarding Midsommar: After all, it's not as if the holiday is being moved out of week 26, so what's the fuss?

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