Sweden

My flatmate is a walking contradiction. He hates Jamie Oliver, but swears by his recipes; he’s French so he thinks he’s a higher form of human, but he’s also a self-proclaimed chav; he dismisses The Drug Companies and their pain-and-suffering-prevention pills, then turns around and contracts malaria because he didn’t take his pills while he was in India (and, might I add, has the gall to say he could have picked it up in London). He’s a walking contradiction. A weirdo.

He’ll also read this, so I should point out that his endearing traits almost certainly defeat his contradictions in the battle for his personality. He cooks well, is very polite, is knowledgeable on a myriad of things (even some that I’ve never heard of), would bat in the top 5 of an All Crone XI, and he’s French which, in and of itself, is always entertaining. To outsiders his being French carries a stigma that, whichever way you look at it, is interesting and easy to stereotype. But within that guise he’s very much a bizarre and evolutionary male at the same time. And a chav – have I mentioned that he’s adopted grey marl as his national flag?

But this column isn’t about him. It’s actually about a country whose likeness resembles my friend and flatmate, and it needs describing from my most recent encounter. Sweden: it’s a weird one, but in a good way. Now what’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think of Sweden? The incredibly good looking people, most likely. There’s that stigma/stereotype that my flatmate has. You can base your whole idea of Sweden around this rudimentary fact – and it is most definitely a fact – and it means nothing in the scheme of things, but it provides you a prism through which you can take in the place. Ha… Swedes.

Within that sphere though, Sweden is a land of contradictions. Right off the bat, you have the stereotypically stunning natives. Yet while the perfect blond hair, perfect teeth, perfect physique and perfect smiles are great to look at, the often wooden personalities and apparent lack of humour leave something to be desired. Granted I only met about three actual Swedes, but the people I stayed with who have emigrated there were only too happy to convey this idea that perfection is just a myth. Except for the physical part. So there.

Swedes, in fact, are renowned as genetically superior humans. They are fitter, stronger, better looking and seem so much smarter than you and me, possibly because all the middle aged-men are educated silver foxes and all the women speak better English than your average Rhodes Scholar. Either way, they’re better and they kinda know it. As if to wantonly contradict this, one of the unwritten laws in Sweden (like tall poppy syndrome in NZ and casual racism in Australia) is to refrain from talking about or showing that you are better or smarter or more superior to the rest of the world. This could be mistaken as Japanese honourable intentions, however their impressive genetic code possibly makes it a bit more smug.

Then there are the bizarro gender rules which managed to get me castigated by a group of educated, seemingly like-minded individuals. Apparently I was wrong when I thought that Julian Assange was a touch unlucky to be held in contempt of what sounded like quite arcane sexual laws in Sweden. But how wrong I was. In Sweden the gender roles are basically reversed, with women at the centre of society and men cool with it. Women always play off the front foot in Sweden, meaning if you end up playing the away game, there’s every chance you were The Prey. Which is, quite frankly, awesome. And while it’s refreshing and unique to see the feminist streak in Sweden alive and well, it also means there are a number of ways that a male can get offside of the law. And be sure that these laws are specifically designed to defend the abject disrespect and mistreatment of women, so they are good. But it means you have to be on your toes. (Naturally the role of women extends well beyond the bedroom, but if this goes over a thousand words the other person reading will give up).

Strangely, as forward as the Swedes are with gender issues, there is a healthy portion of them who oppose the influence and influx of visitors from eastern climes. While the hard work of the good souls at Tamam in trying to integrate these immigrants doesn’t go unnoticed, there remains an undercurrent of dissent towards foreigners – something I had surmised a strong feminine influence might have stamped out. Apparently not. Just like my flatmate I suppose, nobody’s perfect.

So what does this all mean? Well, nothing. It’s a series of observations from a brief and highly enjoyable encounter. Are these all gross generalisations? Of course, but since when is that a bad thing? If I got specific about my flatmate’s true flaws, there would be a rift and I would have to cook a whole bunch more. So as it stands, I enjoy his time, respect his obscure tastes (sweat pants and all) and celebrate his contradictions – though not to his face. Which is a bit like Sweden. Their odd contradictions are to be embraced and one must always see them as more than just a race of extraordinarily good looking people, even if it does provide you with a reference point for your own inadequacy. And for the fellas, if a woman assures you she loves a good SlutSpurt, just go with it and hope she doesn’t try to show you some time.

Mackaveli