I don’t even really like blogs, but somehow I created one. If it survives for more than 2-3 posts, it’ll probably mostly be about bike racing, and occasionally about Swedish shit, since I’m a shitty Swedish bike racer. But knowing myself, there’s no way I’ll keep it up, so I’ll stop musing about this right now. (FYI: “musing” is one of those pretentious words that people will only use in their blogs, preferably coupled with a title image that exudes an air of Deep Thoughts and Serenity, such as the stock photo of a dude on a road that WordPress fittingly chose for me. Now that I’ve made a symbolic attempt at making this a pretentious blog, I can get on with my life and write about more pressing issues.)
More pressing issues: midsommar! (Or midsummer, if you prefer.) This is possibly the most important Swedish holiday, and it’s happening right now. In Sweden, that is. Not here in California, unfortunately.
For this important Swedish holiday, we all get Friday off (well, those of us who are in Sweden that is, i.e. not me) so that we can wear flowers in our hair, eat lots of pickled herring and strawberries, drink Aquavit and get really really drunk, and dance like frogs around a possibly phallic symbol. We got most of these things right when I had a midsummer party in my backyard a couple of years ago. Proof!
I know what you’re thinking. “But solstice isn’t today…!” Well, this isn’t solstice, this is midsummer. It always falls on a Friday some time near the end of June. Think about it: if you’re going to have the day off, spend the whole day drinking, then stay up all night, you’re going to need all of Saturday and Sunday to get rid of the hangover. So a Friday is really the only logical choice.
So what do you do when you stay up all night? Drink, of course. Or you could what I’ve never done, but given my failed dating life, perhaps should. On Midsummer’s Eve, girls are supposed to go pick seven kinds of flowers and jump over seven fences. Then they put the flowers under their pillows and supposedly will dream about the person they will marry. All this will need to be done in silence; if you say a single word from when you start until when you fall asleep, it won’t work. (I’m not sure what happens if you talk in your sleep.)
It’s a bit unnerving. What if I don’t dream anything and stay single for the rest of my life? Or worse – what if I dream about Dick Cheney or something?! But maybe I’d get lucky and dream about a whole cycling team!
Fears about the future aside, this could be interesting and challenging to do in the bucolic Mission district, where I most likely will be spending my Midsummer’s Eve. I guess I’d be climbing fences to get into people’s backyards and steal a flower in each? And then when someone calls the police I’d have to stick the cops a pre-written note explaining that “I’m Swedish, this is part of my culture, I’m just trying to figure out who I will marry”. And maybe, if they don’t understand the cultural significance of our traditions, hand them a second note reading “RACIST!”.
I wonder if they give you pillows in jail…?
But let’s face it, there’s no way I’d be able to keep my mouth shut for more than five minutes at best, so I’ll stay oblivious of my future and out of (legal) trouble.