True Love

With heartfelt apologies to miscellaneous boys of Fulton, New York, I think it's fair to say that my first true love was a Volvo 240 DL.

A 5-speed.

In dark green.

As a result, I had high expectations for this past weekend in Stockholm.

John had a week-long conference there, and I joined him on Friday evening via a mildly arduous bus-to-train-to-bus-to-discount-airline-which-I-always-swear-I-am-never-using-again-to-bus-to-subway journey.

But much to my chagrin, Sweden is not crawling with Volvos of that glorious 1980s vintage.

Most of the Volvos that I saw were newer-model station wagons, which just don't have that same boxy allure.

However: many of them were tricked out with elaborate rearview mirror extenders for the pop-up campers they were towing.

Which made up for it, sort of.

Another major consolation is that one can purchase an extensive array of Volvo advertisement postcards in Stockholm.

This resulted in a rare instance in which John probably should have imposed a budget prior to letting me enter the store.

Calamitous Volvo shortages notwithstanding, Stockholm turned out to be a really fun place to spend the weekend.

I liked a lot of things about the city, but my favorite part was that it has a vaguely 1970s socialist aesthetic, paired with a passion for bleeding-edge art and design.

As an added bonus, the Swedish language is hilarious.

Dear Lovely People of Sweden: when I say that your language is hilarious, I mean that in the nicest, most respectful way possible.

It's just very, very difficult to take anything in Swedish seriously.

The recorded voice on the subway, for example. The guided tours at the museums. The heated discussions between couples at restaurants about whether to order rhubarb soup or sour cream pudding.

To my ears, it all just sounds like, well...I think we all know who I'm talking about.