Top ten things I hate about Stockholm, VII

The seventh in an occasional series.

Ten: Predatory seating
Nine: Culinary relativism
Eight: PreÎmptive planning
Seven: Premature mastication
Six: Irrational discalceation
Five: Radiotj‰nst 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 s 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?