Thursday, May 21, 2009

We arrived late because it took us forever to iron our shirts - mine lavender, the husband's powder blue - and to pull on our trousers - mine khakis, the husband's black jeans - and our black suit jackets. Then we had to shove our feet into our shoes - mine marine corps black lace-up boots circa 1968, the husband's Paul Smith black trainers with those little multi-colored stripes on the sides. Then we scrambled into a taxi, which took us out to one of the la-di-da suburbs of Stockholm, where we had dinner at the only local watering hole, which was filled with people who were dressed, well, like me. Except for the shoes of course.

"It's the uniform out here," our hostess told us, as we sat drinking sancerre and eating fish.

She should know, she lives just up the road.

Everyone in the place was, like us, about to go to the same birthday party. Captains of industry they were, the movers and shakers of Stockholm: a bunch of 60-year-old white men. And their wives of course, who unlike the men were decked out in their finest dancing clothes, their heels staggering, their hair freshly colored and cut, their nails newly manicured.

Once we'd finished the wine and the fish, we made our way over to the house, where the party was going full-swing. With one of the daughters of the man of the house leaning on my arm and the husband in front of me, we squeezed our way into the crowd, air-kissing the birthday girl. After which I was promptly way-laid by a strange woman babbling in English.

"It's your fault we never see her," she crowed. "You keeping her pregnant all the time!"

I smiled a rigid smile, all lips and teeth and no eyes at all, and nodded at her without saying a word before grabbing the husband and pushing my way further into the din, grabbing a glass of champagne and downing it.

And so the party went.

"Wouldn't you like to have a house like this?" the husband asked all wistful-like late in the evening after we'd been dancing, as he always does in this kind of situation.

No, I told him. He would hate it, make no mistake. The homogeneity, the rigidity, the disapproval, the conservatism.

It's my 16-year-old suburb-loathing self that rose up out of the 48-year-old me to say this. But really, the 16-year-old and the 48-year-old me's are in total agreement in this case. And having grown up there, both the me's know whereof I speak.

It would be dreadful to live out there, I said. But it's fun to be a tourist every once in awhile.

The Swedish word for the day is förort. It means suburb, of course.


Linas Alsenas said...

We were in Saltis yesterday, and Jan started getting that look in his eyes--I had to put the kaibosh on it, stat. Friends don't let friends live in suburbs.

And "la di da". Heh.

rupiawan said...

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Anonymous said...

Oddly enough, I am entirely happy in an unremarkable burgelijk house in an unremarkable (far from swanky) Dutch suburb (buitenwijk or voorstad - Mrs von Bladet assures me they are interchangeable), despite having grown up in one (sort of) in London.

The charms of Barcelona, on the other hand, were almost completely lost on me. (If I have a Lost City other than London, it is Berlin.)

But then again, I also think digital watches are pretty cool, so it is not entirely a surprise when my tastes and yours do not match.

Des von Bladet

Evelyn51 said...

Hi!! I'm Mexican, 23 yeard old and just moved to Sweden a few months ago, so we have something in common, could be "Bad Swedish" hehe...

Take care, nice blog you have!! I'll be reading often.

Ha det så bra!

Pia K said...

I'm perfectly happy in my suburb. That not being a hoity-toity one, more down to earth and in touch with reality. I do love the fact that we have the best of both worlds here, the countryside (yes it is that far out) and the closeness to the city when we want.

Would so not want to live in the la-di-da kind of suburb though.. *shudder*

Göran Koch-Swahne said...

But really, suburbs here are mostly towering block of appartments to let. The few posh villa suburbs are far between.