Yesterday was Sweden's national day, a day when this nation of people who seem to have a horror of nationalism celebrate their country. Of course Swedes believe that the Swedish way of doing things is the fairest and best way, but it's not something to celebrate, it's something that just is. There's no such thing as a "Basic Truth" day, after all.

Still, they're not 100 percent sure that the Swedish way of doing things is the fairest and best way; they do have plenty of complaints about the Swedish way of doing things.

So, these apparently two contradictory emotions are surely contributing factors to the fact that the national day isn't even a bank holiday, although this is supposed to change sometime in the future, when one of the more obscure religious bank holidays - Ascension or Pentecost - will be booted from the vacation-day calendar.

Outside parliament, a hundred Aryan-nation types were arrested (scroll down a little to read the article). I guess they were celebrating by attacking some leftist demonstrators in an attempt to make up for the rest of the country's lack of jingoist fervor.

Me, I celebrated by attending a ceremony at City Hall (in the Blue Hall where they have the Nobel Prize ceremony) for the latest crop of new Swedish citizens. Surrounded by hundreds of people from all over the world, we were welcomed by various low-level politicoes and serenaded by fellow immigrants, mostly in English. Then we sang the national anthem and they fed us salmon and gave us sparkling wine, and I got a certificate with my name misspelled.

I said all of about 50 words during the whole thing: I spoke for about 15 seconds to the guy sitting next to me, a Finn who has lived in Sweden for 30 years. I asked him why he was getting his citizenship now, and he said it was because damn Finland finally allowed dual citizenship. Although I had thought it was Sweden that finally allowed dual citizenship. And then I said thanks later to the politician who gave me the certificate.

Yet somehow, it was pleasing and awkward and ever so Swedish in the self-consciously un-Swedishness of the whole event, despite the singing the national anthem.

I was charmed, and even a bit proud, even if that is a most un-Swedish sentiment to have.

The Swedish word for the day is Sveariket, a word from which the name Sverige - the Swedish word for Sweden - is derived. It was an area of Sweden inhabited by the Svear, an area that seems to be the equivalent of today's central Sweden and the six provinces of Svealand: Dalarna, Närke, Södermanland, Uppland, Värmland and Västmanland

- by Francis S.

The summer cottages on the islands of the Stockholm archipelago rarely have the kind of indoor plumbing one finds on the mainland. Oh, there's hot and cold running water, and toilets even. But at the cottage of A., the assistant director and C., the fashion photographer, there is actually a toilet. You just can't pee in it. Which means taking a piss outside.

So, when I woke up in the middle of the night, I immediately regretted that I had stupidly drunk a full glass and a half of water directly before falling into bed next to the husband. And try as I might, my insistent and crabby pea-sized bladder would not let me fall back asleep.

Determined not to go to all the trouble of putting on my clothes and shoes to step outside, I opened the window and stood bravely, stark naked, dick to the wind.

Unfortunately, it was 2:30 a.m., the sun was up with full force and since a bunch of trees had been taken down last fall, my bladder decided that we were entirely too exposed, that the whole world could possibly see us pee and, after letting loose one short burst, refused to unclench.

I think I stood for a full five minutes, fighting with it and wondering what someone would make of this 43-year-old man standing naked at a window, holding his dick, his face a tight little knot of determination, desperation, humiliation.

I finally gave up and crawled back into bed. A half hour later, I finally broke down, put on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and made the long trip outside and found a tree that my bladder felt was sufficiently discreet.

So, the question is, do girls ever get pee-shy?

The Swedish word for the day, a repeat, is my all-time favorite Swedish word: kissnödig. It means in desperate need of taking a piss.

- by Francis S.

Is it too late in the year to be wearing black?

Or is it never too late in the year to wear black, for fashionistas like myself - or rather for those of us who are married to fashionistas and are fashionistas by default?

I felt a bit dour and puritanical, walking to work in the morning under the invincible sun, black sweater and black jacket and black shoes. And then walking again to a long lunch with the cat veterinarian, who is visiting from Chicago. He wasn't wearing black.

I guess I should switch to something a bit more light-hearted.

June is busting out all over, after all.

The Swedish phrase for the day is det beror på. It means that depends on.

- by Francis S.

On Saturday, it hailed with a fury on Birds Island. Only pea-sized, it wasn't dangerous and we were snug inside the house so I didn't even bother to go out and see exactly how much it might hurt to stand and get pelted by pellets of ice. Nonetheless, it was impressive, lasting nearly half an hour, and the ground was white with it afterwards, almost like snow.

Winter is so reluctant to give up the ghost.

Amazingly, the great wild beds of lily of the valley in the yard were undamaged. Inside the house, all it took was a small handful of those tiny white bells gathered by me, the husband and A., the assistant director, to perfume the whole room. It brought my mother to mind, sharply: a black and white dress, her hair stiff and her lips painted a brilliant orange, the scent of Muguet des Bois mixed with the scent of hairspray. Bittersweet, that smell, just like my eight-year-old self felt at the excitement and disappointment and worry of my parents going out for the evening.

The sense of smell is, without a doubt, the most able to spur memories. Smell and taste, I suppose.

The Swedish word for the day is lillgammal, which would loosely translate as precocious, as in a precocious child, although it is a more negative word.

- by Francis S.

Like many of your garden-variety great big homo types, I'm easily intimidated by certain bastions of maledom - the barber shop, the garage, certain hardware stores, old-fashioned gyms - and the men who work in these places. Such as the guy who came this afternoon to install the washer and dryer. I feel deficient, somehow, when he asks me if this electrical outlet is connected to that electrical outlet, and whether I want to have access to the water valve. I don't know, I stammer in Swedish, yes, I say and shrug, and hope that he doesn't start asking me about the pipes, using all these Swedish manly words that I have no idea what they mean.

He's gone now, on his way to Sundsvall for the long weekend he told me, it being Ascension tomorrow and most of the country taking a four-day weekend.

And we, lucky bastards, now have our own washer and dryer actually in the apartment. No more having to live life around laundry reservation times, a mere three hours every weekend but it's never enough on account of it takes an hour and 20 minutes per load of laundry and then the only dryer is a, um, drying closet where you hang things up on racks in this big wardrobe thing, something you don't have in the U.S., probably because it takes at least an hour and a half to dry anything.

The Swedish word for the day is rörmokare. It means plumber.

- by Francis S.

I'm only a little more than half way through my thousand difficult lessons, but as you may have noticed, the writing is getting pretty thin. The greater difficulty seems to be not in the learning of the lessons, which continue as they always have and they are difficult. It's just even more difficult writing it down here. I don't seem to have the drive to write these days.

It's not as if things are any different than they usually are or unworthy of writing about - I should have written about watching a bunch of 17 year olds performing "Hamlet" in Swedish, which was completely beyond my comprehension with the exception of Ophelia, who went dutifully and pitifully mad in a Swedish that I could follow, which could in part be due to the fact that I know the actress well, being as she is the daughter of C., the fashion photographer; I should also have written about the birthday party on Saturday, with ex-football players, and actresses who play Japanese reporters on TV, and the son of a princess, and A., the assistant director, and her sister, whose birthday it was, and all of us dancing and swigging mojitos and me feeling like an old man, too tired already at midnight to last much longer than 1 a.m.

But I'm loathe to stop writing entirely. I've always been disappointed when people whom I regularly read just up and quit.

What will it take, do you think, to get me back on track with this? I have 407 lessons to go!

The Swedish phrase for the day is dåligt samvete. It means bad conscience.

- by Francis S.

Good thing I made myself learn the Swedish national anthem when I became a Swedish citizen. I was taking my lunchtime stroll through Djurgården when a bunch of 14-year-old girls ran up to me, begging me to sing "Du Gamla, Du Fria" as part of some school scavenger-hunt type exercise so popular with the Swedes who, in an attempt to alleviate their natural taciturn natures, incessantly force on themselves such games designed to make them interact with strangers.

I didn't tell them that I wasn't a real Swede, or that I actually didn't need the paper with the words on it because I have them memorized.

I sang, they thanked me effusively in that loud and laughing 14-year-old kind of way, and I walked back to the office, inordinately proud of myself. The pride has worn off, though, and now I'm feeling a bit blue at the prospect of the American editor and his wife leaving us. As consolation, though, the husband has returned from America, bearing gifts and assorted sexual favors.

The Swedish word for the day is promenad, which as you probably can guess, means a walk or promenade.

- by Francis S.

Here in Sweden, the talk about America is pretty much only about foreign policy fuck-ups, and the disaster taking place in Iraq. But when I talk to my sainted sister, who works for a foundation in Minneapolis and doles out money for childcare projects for low-income parents, invariably the conversation turns to how awful things are in the States, domestically. Then today I read that the governor of Texas has decided to give rich property owners a tax break, and fund schools with taxes on strip clubs instead of with property taxes. Poetic, isn't it: Sad horny bastards paying five extra bucks every time they go for a gander at some tits and ass, five bucks that then goes to fund the schooling of 10-year-olds. Unfortunately, the upshot of it is that poor and middle class kids are going to be getting less money for their schools, and decades of attempts at trying to distribute education dollars fairly is basically being trashed.

Of course, behind it all is the whole idea that rich people need more tax breaks not just on the federal level, but on the state level as well. And that the federal government shouldn't be subsidizing luxuries like, well, education. Not that education spending on the federal level has ever amounted to much - the budget for education has only ever been a tiny fraction of the military budget, for example - but at least federal monies tended to be aimed at evening the odds for poorer kids. But not anymore. The buck has been passed to the states, and if Texas is any indication, the states aren't ponying up to pay for education either.

So who's going to pay for it? The children of America, that's who.

Poor, divided America.

The Swedish phrase for the day is halva priset. It means half price.

- by Francis S.

The American editor and his wife swept into Stockholm on Wednesday evening at about 11, lugging a good two-hundred pounds worth of luggage for a three-week visit. As we dined last night on a soup of Jerusalem artichokes and cornbread sandwiches, my husband tried to explain the concept of travelling lightly, going without underwear and other space-saving ideas, but the editor's wife just laughed her fizzy laugh.

Unfortunately, their trip has turned out to be an exchange of sorts, since my beloved husband left this morning for a week-long business trip to New York.

Bad planning.

At least I won't be home alone, restless after a couple of hours and vaguely lonely and listening for strange noises at night in bed. It will be strange the first time I sleep alone in this apartment. There are, no doubt, ghosts just waiting for the opportunity to show their grubby faces.

The Swedish word for the day jordärtskocka. It means Jerusalem artichoke.

- by Francis S.

Swans, however elegant they look as they glide in pairs along a canal beside a castle, are nasty creatures. Whoever first came up with the idea of staging Swan Lake with male ballet dancers, all powerful thighs and angry kicking, had the right idea. Still, I was charmed when I sat on the rocks on Birds Island on Easter morning and a swan slowly made his way toward me, keeping a distance but carefully checking me out and then lazily stretching his neck in the sun as he floated some ten meters away in the water as if I'd given him permission to relax, while his poor mate watched from afar.

The Swedish word for the day is Svansjön, which means of course Swan Lake.

- by Francis S.

Easter Vigil

The man in
wolf's disguise
is seen amongst
the cool greenery.

His ever-
roving eyes,
perusing the
naked scenery,

Watch most hushed
for the soft
unhappy and
unseen paschal lamb:

Will he
ecce agnus
today?

Is it
of any use
to stay?

His small hopes, crushed,
soon are borne aloft
and far away;
he doesn't
really give a goddamn.

Or so,
if he could speak,
he'd say.

He pads back into
the shallow thicket,
still hungry but
maliceless,
until another day.

While the sallow lamb -
bearing a ticket
wearing a suit -
boards a train
going the other way.

a poem from 1996

Yes, it's a day early for the Easter Vigil, but we're off to Birds Island in a couple of hours. The first trip out into the archipelago for the year.

The Swedish phrase of the day is här kommer solen. It means here comes the sun.

- by Francis S.

For a city that escaped being bombed into smithereens in World War II, Stockholm has an amazing amount of ugly and boxy functionalist apartment houses and office buildings, most of which have sprouted up since 1945.

Did enterprising Stockholm citizens of 1945 feel the same way about the buildings put up at the turn of the 20th century? And will enterprising Stockholm citizens of 2045 find functionalist architecture more charming than I do now? What exactly is it about older buildings that makes them more pleasing to the eye? Why do I actually go some six blocks out of my way to fill a prescription at The Stork Pharmacy, which is all Jugend-era painted glass ceilings and dark wood finials run amok?

The Swedish word for the day is läkemedel, which means medicine.

- by Francis S.

It's so easy to forget that Sweden is a socialist country. Like the rest of Europe, it's gone through its round of privatizations, American television is ubiquitous, everyone dresses so stylishly (if a bit uniformly). The country just doesn't have that dowdy socialist one-size-fits-all feeling.

Except when it comes to apartments.

The housing system in Stockholm is Byzantine and people are always on the lookout for the perfect apartment to rent or swap or somehow get through various devious methods. It's almost a pathology.

At the same time, Swedes have a particularly strong and distinctly un-American sense that there is such a thing as too big. Especially when it comes to apartments. Basically, everyone should just get his or her fair share, which is small-ish by American standards.

What I'm getting at here is that I now have an apartment that is shamefully big, way more than my share. I equivocate when people ask how big it is, which they invariably do because they seem to be obsessed with the question.

I tell them it's bigger than the old one.

"How big?" they ask.

Big, I say. And then they press some more and then I have to tell them and then I see the judgement in their eyes and then I get all flustered and try to make it sound as if the place is less than it is somehow. I hate this feeling.

This situation would never happen in the States, where people have a certain admiration for big and more and better.

Interestingly, I have probably gone socialist enough that I'm not sure whether I think that this is good or bad, that the sky is the limit in the States, no holds barred. But I obviously haven't gone so socialist that it stopped me from buying this unfairly glorious apartment.

The Swedish word for the day is jämkning, which is the tax adjustment one makes when one gets a tax break for having a loan on a house or apartment.

- by Francis S.

The deed is done. Or rather, it's in our possession. The deed to the new apartment that is. The papers are all signed, so the place is officially ours.

In between signing away the old apartment and signing for the new apartment, the husband and I stopped in a café in Östermalm for a little lunch. Sitting at a table in the back, next to a set of old oven doors in an ancient white-tiled wall, I noticed a secret-service type with one of those plastic spiralled wires twirling from his ear and down his neck and into his collar.

"He must be here with a member of the royal family," said the husband. Or perhaps a governmental minister or something, I added.

Indeed, it turned out to be the former Miss Silvia Sommerlath, now Mrs. Carl G. Bernadotte, better known as the Queen of Sweden. And I never even saw her because it wasn't until after we'd left the place that the husband mentioned that she was sitting at a table with one of her girlfriends, in fact the very same table the hostess had offered to us earlier but we hadn't taken.

The Swedish word for the day is, of course drottningen, which means the queen.

- by Francis S.

I'm back again, just a little bit north of where I was. Exhausted by the move and amazed at how quickly a new place becomes home and an old place soulless and sad when it's empty. It's all the stuff that makes a place home, apparently: Our possessions are what give us comfort. This is my solid American consumer capitalist side talking, no doubt.

And yet again, I make my yearly small numerical change to the biographical information at the left.

The Swedish phrase for the day is saker och ting, which means things or stuff. I think perhaps this has been the phrase of the day before, but I'm too lazy to check.

- by Francis S.

As if the writing hasn't been sparse enough already, for the next three weeks or so it will be even less so. Down to nothing, in fact. There's no time for writing on account of too much packing of books and dishes and things and more things into boxes here at the soon-to-be-left apartment on Bondegatan, and too much cleaning up after the sanding and oiling of floors, the spackling and painting of walls in the new apartment (big enough for a family of six to live comfortably in) at Odenplan. And I don't even have time to describe the concert at Berwaldhallen I went to on Friday in which a piece of music was sort-of premiered and at which I sat in wonder at how the tiny country that is Sweden could manage to create such things and even manage to have some kind of audience for them (even if I was about the youngest person in attendance).

Back soon.

- by Francis S.

Oh, Madrid.

The Swedish phrase for the day is jag beklagar. It means I'm so saddened.

- by Francis S.

After a few beers at Strykjärnet, the restaurant in Stockholm's own miniature version of the Flatiron Building, and a couple of rounds of political discussion and agreeing that despite the sorry state of the U.S. there is possibly some reason for hope, and then a few more beers, the charming Stefan Geens (who is as sharp as his writing) let drop the fact that he is post-national, a man happily bereft of country and a culture that he can call home.

I said that maybe I was, too.

"Nah," he said.

Which I guess means that I am pre-post-national.

I certainly feel as if I have all the benefits already, which would mean not having to feel embarrassed because of the actions of a particular president or prime minister, or somehow responsible for an inane television program that improbably spreads like a virus to the rest of the world. One is an outsider everywhere, a ready excuse for any particular social gaffe one makes - just blame it on not being a Swede, or not living in America anymore.

So, I wonder when exactly I will achieve true post-national status?

The Swedish word for the day is anledning. It means reason or cause.

- by Francis S.

I wonder if Sweden is the first country to have bought the rights to create its own version of That Gay Show.

It has a different name here, of course - Fab 5 - but it's got the same music, the same minivan, the same camera angles, the same shopping bags, the same nervous straight guys.

And yet, it just isn't the same at all.

The Swedish phrase for the day is för tamt, which is how the husband described it. It means too tame.

(We did laugh once or twice.)

- by Francis S.

Apparently, I live in the LoBoToMe area of Stockholm. But not for long.

Stefan Geens, you are too clever by half. And I mean that in the best way.

The Swedish word for the day is kaxig, which means cocky.

- by Francis S.