Sweden

My Compton's Pictured Encyclopedia says, "Once an extremely warlike nation, Sweden has been at peace longer than any other European country save Switzerland. The Swedish people say that this record is the fruit of moderation and middle-of-the-road common sense." I don't need to know much of their warlike history – they're human, therefore they fight with their neighbors and themselves – but their fierceness can be felt in unsubtle fashion when one hears their folk music. That was one of the primary joys of our visit, since we are fascinated by the old musics of faraway lands and the ways that these melodies borrow and steal their way into modernity.

But let's not trust Compton's Pictured Encyclopedia too much, because mine was last revised in 1948. It says, "Electric lights are found in two-thirds of the farm homes." As of this date, that was written a little over a half century ago. I’m sure the warrior blood has been channeled into the making of more light bulbs, which can also be used a weapons when the warrior is drunk.

The trip there required two and a half hours to Detroit, seven to Amsterdam, and one and a half to Stockholm. After our arrival on Easter Sunday, some of us slept for 17 hours. Monday I arose blinking with fur on my teeth and beneath my eyes were bags and hair and my pounding head once formerly round was square.

At our wonderful hotel the elevator was smaller than our showers, which were small. This particular lift could hold two people, preferably two people who knew each other well. The continental breakfast was conversely wide and sumptuous, and the caviar paste was enjoyed only by the more adventurous of the group. The way I see it, you either like fish or you don't. I really don’t understand some Cajuns.

Stockholm lacks an American skyline’s height, but it's very fat, requiring a half hour to drive out of the center. Thankfully the architecture lacked the abundance of indifference to taste that pierces the eye like a dull stick in the US, although there is a McDonalds on every third corner – I exaggerate not. They've had this chain for about 25 years, possibly as a hedge against warlike tendencies. MacMoose, MacReindeer.

On our way to the first of eight concerts the countryside rolled gently under a gray sky that lacked airplanes, a land fuzzily carpeted with tufts of dried, hay-colored grass and studded with tall pines, like a pedicured Mississippi. The nation is also blessed with thousands and thousands of lakes. There were the ubiquitous farm houses of vertical planks painted bright yellow or clay red, both with white trim. Along the beautiful highway with it's old but smooth surface (read: well made) were many carcasses, a little taste of home if anyone needed it yet. A hard country to starve in , perhaps. Volvos were everywhere; it's a nation of boxy-looking automobiles that Swedes only occasionally die in. We passed a large, house -shaped and -sized boulder with painted door and windows. And where's the sheep? I'm used to seeing sheep in these northern European climates. Oh, those fat black things are sheep. And the Clydesdale-looking draft horses, big, thick-necked brutes that grow their own bellbottoms.

In the outskirts of most European cities are little enclaves of gardening huts where the citizens often while away their non-working hours thrusting their fingers in the dirt. (Sweden in particular values highly the soulfulness one gathers to the self by working with one's hands – woodworking classes are part of every years' school level.) Dik, our hardworking driver and den mother, explained that these huts are also used as vacation homes. I asked if one could get drunk and sleep there, and he nodded an enthusiastic yes.

Swiss – excuse me, Swedish is not an impenetrable language for an English speaker, but close. Road signs presented the language with it's usual exotic hilarity: “Ausfart/Akfart” (exit/entrance), and the glorious “Aspudden” stood out. I hope it's a town and not a restaurant. Near a construction zone a hose crossed the sidewalk, proudly bearing its name: Putzmeister. Now, a word like “Modehus” is obviously “fashion house,” but Tystberga, Palsjunghage, Eskilstuna, Gumsbakken, Byorshult, Stjarnholm ... Still easier than Danish.

After the first experience with the toilet I always made sure that I was standing some distance away before flushing. This exuberant but unfortunate combination of toilet/bidet is one article of the famous Swedish design talent that they should perhaps reconsider, if only for insurance purposes.

David and I took the train to Malmo rather than ride in Dik's huge cube van. It was a shorter trip with larger confines. We saw that the windows of abandoned factories were intact, although window smashing, the sport of drunken urban punks everywhere, was seen occasionally. The Swedes are generally a highly sensible lot and possessed of a high-quality sanity, but they do have lots of youth and immigrants who feel alienated, and there is an abundance of excellent vodkas and schnapps to compliment this alienation, as well as fine dining. We saw from the train that graffiti is not a given in their cityscapes like it would be in New Jersey, but here and there were large walls of the stuff. I'm told that career graffitos come from other countries to spray the blobular contents of their smallish artistic minds onto the bright, clean canvases of Sweden. Imagine, going to another country just to spray it.

Sweden is not perfect, but it lacks ghettos. The government provides if one is not lazy. Several friends of mine have opined that bums are bums by either mental disorder or choice, and it truthfully appears to be an avoidable state of being in Sweden.

The Swedes: Once warlike, they are now a peaceful and prosperous lot. They are smart, industrious and artistic, and almost everyone under 60 is bilingual. They are nice, very nice and polite. Here are two examples of Scandinavian courtesy: Near our hotel was Fasching, a jazz club where we would soon play. One night I went there to hear Tribal Tech, a heavy, scorching American jazz/fusion band. While they were blowing their brains out onstage I looked around at the overflowing audience. Every damn head in that place was focused on those monster musicians. The Swedes are respectful. It's a good country for an artist to make a statement. The other occasion of their politesse was our concert in an unpronounceable town. A woman approached us afterward and apologized for the lack of dancing, presumably believing that dancing is the highest compliment for Cajun musicians. She said that the crowd thought dancing, rather than paying attention, would be impolite. Dear, dear Sweden. I want to have your baby.

I arranged a rendezvous with a friend of a friend at Chocolad Koppen, an outdoor cafe in Square Stortorget, in Gamla Stan (Old Town). I couldn't have either chocolate or coffee for health reasons, so I had a beer. I seldom if ever drink during the day, but Pripps Bla gold malt barked at me like a dog, so I had to pet it to shut it up. I sat in the cold shadow of the square and let ancient Europe wash over me as I watched the people.

I asked a great fiddler that we met, Sven, what he did for a living. He told me he taught woodworking in the school system, adding that it's taught at all levels. I'm convinced that this is one of the many reasons why the Swedish psyche seems to be, on the whole, quite balanced. I'm reminded of a quote that I found by E.F. Schumacher, certainly of political context: "We think work with the brain is more worthy than work with the hands. Nobody who thinks with his hands could ever fall for this."

If one is lost near one of Stockholm's rivers while trying to find the Medieval Museum, one can watch a militaristic parade of armed, black-clad soldiers march the other way – they are not lost, presumably – preceded by a band playing music that just makes you want to go out and shoot someone. Probably the King's Guard, with soundtrack. One is comforted further by an imposing statue of King Gustav III, which reminds one that humility awaits us all, even the mighty as they repose in their statuehood, for all great humans look silly with a bird on the head. If one continues to be lost (and one does), there can be a void, a hunger for that nearer-my-God-to-thee feeling, so there is the hope of solace in heading straight for an imposing gothic structure crowned by a crucifix (crowned by a bird). The lost soul enters through a side door into the middle of a Mass, celebrated by a priestess. We are among Lutherans, one thinks. Traveling is good. There were a handful of worshipers, and in taking a place among them, the lost soul notices that there is no kneeling bench. This will disorient a Catholic. Where to exercise the twin, hard-won calcium deposits? One doesn't build them up through twelve years of Catholic school only to be denied later the humility that only this posture can give. A search begins for the kneeling place, for in truth one (me) needs to pray for unlucky friends. But apparently the Lutheran Mass is not a kneeling affair; perhaps Martin Luther had been crippled by his piety. I draped my heavy coat on the floor and asked God for help. And if God's help for my friends helps me, then fine. If you want selfless prayer, see a saint; I myself have denied that condition, not wanting the associated suffering. Besides, the application to sainthood goes through channels that require hundreds of years to complete; the paperwork alone boggles the mind. I imagine myself born into scores of lifetimes as, say, a lizard on a warm rock, languishing in a reptilian holding pattern while committees of ancient, robed men pored over my resumé against a numbing background of ancient dust, whispers, dust of whispers, boredom and celibacy. And all the while, a feast at Heaven's table awaits the lizard as he lays dozing on his rock with a stomach full of dead flies.

I never found the museum. I blundered my way back to the hotel with the aid of a torn map and some kind Swedes. There, prodded by my culture and centuries of quasi-civilized upper class literature, I had a snort of whiskey and laid down. Hungry. I went out and around the corner for nine pieces of sushi – 65 kronen, $6.50. Through the window I watched lovely women drift past like a parade of Nordic icons. A little jeep-like thing dressed up like a can of Red Bull rolled by.

Can a city look smart? Yes. It's only when you go down deep that you see the little zits on the face of freedom, the dumbing down effects of free enterprise. There was a McDonald's every three blocks on the street of our hotel – said that. They've had them for over two decades, I'm told. But that's great; no one goes hungry. More soon ......

Okay, that was written some years ago and I never wrote more. Therefore, I don’t remember the rest. We went to some towns and played. We were up in Lulea, several miles from the Arctic Circle. And I remember being told that Swedish politicians take visiting dignitaries to the lake around Stockholm, dip a glass down and drink the water. Wait ...

We took a ferry in Malmo and went to Copenhagen. The two ferries that connected them over the Öresund were soon to be retired in favor of a highway over that body of water. A stunning blond woman was handing out pamphlets as we debarred. The Museum Erotica. We went, as directed. We’re cultural ambassadors. A short walk.

It was stunning. State-funded. I can’t tell you what you see when you first walk in. I can’t tell you what was happening on the television over the head of the cashier where I paid for my t-shirt. The wax figures were not erotic, but they gave some Swedish artist some government work, and they were educational. He or she did a good job on the open sores.

Wait. That was Denmark. This isn’t about Denmark.

Nevermind.