Wednesday, July 05, 2006
You Talkin' to Me?
Du gamla, Du fria, Du fjällhöga nord
Du tysta, Du glädjerika sköna!
--- First lines from the Swedish National Song
Roughly translated, the first two lines of the Swedish National Song are:
You venerable, you free, you mountainous north,
you quiet, you joyous beauty!
Of all of the adjectives used to describe Sweden in the opening lines of the National Song, it is the “tysta,” or “quiet,” that always grabs my attention because, well, it’s such a true description of Swedes, especially when you compare them to Americans.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that Sweden is a nation of mutes—not at all. There’s nothing noisier than a Saturday night in the Stockholm subway, when everyone is ready to go out and have a good time. Almost everywhere you go, people have a cell phone or a hands-free setup in their ear, communicating with someone somewhere.
No, Swedes are not speechless, that’s for sure. But the thing that distinguishes them from their American counterparts is this: they are almost always talking to someone they know. There is a saying here in Stockholm that the only people who talk to strangers are drunks, crazies, and foreigners. The only exception to this rule is communication for informational purposes, such as when you need directions or the train is late. Then it is perfectly acceptable to ask a question and even throw in a disparaging remark about the railroad. In general, however, Swedes don’t tend to talk to strangers, at least not in public places. Makes you wonder how they get to know each other in the first place, doesn’t it?
After living in Sweden for several years, I guess I gradually got used to this lack of contact among strangers and didn’t think so much about it, that is, until one of my husband’s and my first visits back to the States. Here are just a few examples of what I like to call Strange Encounters with American Strangers.
“Hi! Where you guys from? I just flew in from Maine, and I’ll be here in California for a month. My cousin, he’s going to ship me some lobsters in a couple of weeks, overnight express, you know. Can’t go a whole month without lobster. . .”
I turned a red, jet-lagged eye in my husband’s direction as we bounced along in the airport bus on our way to the car rental place. “Is she talking to us?”
“No idea,” he replied as he stifled a yawn. “Are you talking to us?” He said to the woman sitting across from us, who confirmed that she was, indeed telling her lobster tale for our benefit.
“What a Maine-iac,” KA said under his breath as we stepped off the bus. “Glad she’s getting lobsters from her cousin. Wouldn’t be nearly as much fun getting crabs from the guy.” “Hush! That’s not funny!” I hissed. As we loaded our gear in the car and drove away, we quickly forgot about Lobster Lady.
I didn’t think about her again until a few days later, when I was out on a little shopping trip at the North County Fair mall near where I used to live in San Diego.
“Excuse me, but can you tell me if these shoes match this handbag? Uh, excuse me. . .” It didn’t register that she was trying to get my attention until I felt a light tap on my shoulder, and turned to find a well-dressed young woman standing there with shoes and handbag clutched together in outstretched hands so I could compare them. Criminy. She IS talking to me.
“Uh, sure, well, not exactly, but close enough. . .I mean, you don’t ever have your shoes and handbag so close together in real life, do you, I mean, you don’t stand on your handbag or carry your shoes under your arm with your handbag, do you? That’s not really a good answer, is it?” I found myself so flabbergasted that a complete stranger was talking to me that I had begun to babble.
“Oh, no, thank you, that helps a lot. You’re right, they don’t have to match exactly. Thanks. It’s for an outfit for my brother's wedding. . .” And ten minutes later, I knew all about her brother and his fiancée, whom I was to understand was a cute, naïve girl who was not good enough for him.
After serving as an impromptu fashion consultant, I made my way to the dressing rooms to try on a couple of items. As I stood there waiting for a vacant room, I couldn’t help overhearing a couple of ladies talking over the walls to each other as they tried on clothing:
“My son’s knee operation went really well. He’ll have some physical therapy, but then the doctor says he should be good to play football next season. We’re all really glad, because he lives for football, you know.”
“That’s great to hear! I hope everything goes well for him. Yeah, football is rough. My son’s not playing this year—decided to try out for basketball instead. He just broke up with his girlfriend last week, so he’s kind of down right now. . .”
I stood their passively listening to their conversion, until they both emerged from their rooms. That’s when I experienced a little surprise.
“It was nice to meet you! Give your son my best!”
“Yeah, it was nice meeting and talking to you, too! I shop here all the time, so maybe we’ll meet again sometime.”
“Geez! These people don’t even know each other,” I thought. How could they go on and on about personal details like that without having ever met?
It was then that I realized that Lobster Lady had set the tone for the trip. What is it that makes Americans talk so much and reveal such detail to people they have never seen before? It’s as if all Americans have a random speech generator inserted in their brains that activates whenever they see a stranger. Being an American, I must have one of these, too. That’s a scary thought—do I talk to strangers here in Sweden without realizing it? If I do, maybe people don’t think so much about it because I’m the third in that list of those who talk to strangers after drunks and crazies. Yeah, that’s really comforting.
I think part of my purpose in taking up this particular subject just now is because I’ll be travelling back to the States in a few weeks for a visit. Maybe this is just my way of reminding myself that if I hear voices, it doesn’t necessarily mean the onset of mental illness. It just means I’m back in the Good Ol’ US of A.
Du tysta, Du glädjerika sköna!
--- First lines from the Swedish National Song
Roughly translated, the first two lines of the Swedish National Song are:
You venerable, you free, you mountainous north,
you quiet, you joyous beauty!
Of all of the adjectives used to describe Sweden in the opening lines of the National Song, it is the “tysta,” or “quiet,” that always grabs my attention because, well, it’s such a true description of Swedes, especially when you compare them to Americans.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that Sweden is a nation of mutes—not at all. There’s nothing noisier than a Saturday night in the Stockholm subway, when everyone is ready to go out and have a good time. Almost everywhere you go, people have a cell phone or a hands-free setup in their ear, communicating with someone somewhere.
No, Swedes are not speechless, that’s for sure. But the thing that distinguishes them from their American counterparts is this: they are almost always talking to someone they know. There is a saying here in Stockholm that the only people who talk to strangers are drunks, crazies, and foreigners. The only exception to this rule is communication for informational purposes, such as when you need directions or the train is late. Then it is perfectly acceptable to ask a question and even throw in a disparaging remark about the railroad. In general, however, Swedes don’t tend to talk to strangers, at least not in public places. Makes you wonder how they get to know each other in the first place, doesn’t it?
After living in Sweden for several years, I guess I gradually got used to this lack of contact among strangers and didn’t think so much about it, that is, until one of my husband’s and my first visits back to the States. Here are just a few examples of what I like to call Strange Encounters with American Strangers.
“Hi! Where you guys from? I just flew in from Maine, and I’ll be here in California for a month. My cousin, he’s going to ship me some lobsters in a couple of weeks, overnight express, you know. Can’t go a whole month without lobster. . .”
I turned a red, jet-lagged eye in my husband’s direction as we bounced along in the airport bus on our way to the car rental place. “Is she talking to us?”
“No idea,” he replied as he stifled a yawn. “Are you talking to us?” He said to the woman sitting across from us, who confirmed that she was, indeed telling her lobster tale for our benefit.
“What a Maine-iac,” KA said under his breath as we stepped off the bus. “Glad she’s getting lobsters from her cousin. Wouldn’t be nearly as much fun getting crabs from the guy.” “Hush! That’s not funny!” I hissed. As we loaded our gear in the car and drove away, we quickly forgot about Lobster Lady.
I didn’t think about her again until a few days later, when I was out on a little shopping trip at the North County Fair mall near where I used to live in San Diego.
“Excuse me, but can you tell me if these shoes match this handbag? Uh, excuse me. . .” It didn’t register that she was trying to get my attention until I felt a light tap on my shoulder, and turned to find a well-dressed young woman standing there with shoes and handbag clutched together in outstretched hands so I could compare them. Criminy. She IS talking to me.
“Uh, sure, well, not exactly, but close enough. . .I mean, you don’t ever have your shoes and handbag so close together in real life, do you, I mean, you don’t stand on your handbag or carry your shoes under your arm with your handbag, do you? That’s not really a good answer, is it?” I found myself so flabbergasted that a complete stranger was talking to me that I had begun to babble.
“Oh, no, thank you, that helps a lot. You’re right, they don’t have to match exactly. Thanks. It’s for an outfit for my brother's wedding. . .” And ten minutes later, I knew all about her brother and his fiancée, whom I was to understand was a cute, naïve girl who was not good enough for him.
After serving as an impromptu fashion consultant, I made my way to the dressing rooms to try on a couple of items. As I stood there waiting for a vacant room, I couldn’t help overhearing a couple of ladies talking over the walls to each other as they tried on clothing:
“My son’s knee operation went really well. He’ll have some physical therapy, but then the doctor says he should be good to play football next season. We’re all really glad, because he lives for football, you know.”
“That’s great to hear! I hope everything goes well for him. Yeah, football is rough. My son’s not playing this year—decided to try out for basketball instead. He just broke up with his girlfriend last week, so he’s kind of down right now. . .”
I stood their passively listening to their conversion, until they both emerged from their rooms. That’s when I experienced a little surprise.
“It was nice to meet you! Give your son my best!”
“Yeah, it was nice meeting and talking to you, too! I shop here all the time, so maybe we’ll meet again sometime.”
“Geez! These people don’t even know each other,” I thought. How could they go on and on about personal details like that without having ever met?
It was then that I realized that Lobster Lady had set the tone for the trip. What is it that makes Americans talk so much and reveal such detail to people they have never seen before? It’s as if all Americans have a random speech generator inserted in their brains that activates whenever they see a stranger. Being an American, I must have one of these, too. That’s a scary thought—do I talk to strangers here in Sweden without realizing it? If I do, maybe people don’t think so much about it because I’m the third in that list of those who talk to strangers after drunks and crazies. Yeah, that’s really comforting.
I think part of my purpose in taking up this particular subject just now is because I’ll be travelling back to the States in a few weeks for a visit. Maybe this is just my way of reminding myself that if I hear voices, it doesn’t necessarily mean the onset of mental illness. It just means I’m back in the Good Ol’ US of A.
# posted by Karen @ 5:59 AM 
