Don't do as the Swedes do

When in Rome, I'm frequently told, do as the Romans do.

I've never fully understood why. I mean, I don't change character just because I change city. I actually like letting cars out of side turnings and not trying to overtake them on the inside in narrow city streets. As with quite a lot of received wisdom, the notion that we should do as the Romans do just leaves me asking, "why?"

This turns into something even stronger if someone tells me that when in Sweden, I should do as the Swedes do.

Especially when if the thing they want me to do is to sit in a sauna and then rush out and plunge into a frozen lake. That word "why?" suddenly strikes me as even more apposite than usual. Though even more than "why", other words spring to mind such as "masochism" and "downright insanity".

Hellasgården. Attractive enough.
Viewed from a distance. Not as a good place for a swim

I mean, don't get me wrong. I've got nothing against a sauna. I quite like the heat, the sense of pores opening and all sorts of stresses flowing out. The heat I'm fine with. It's the freezing cold of the water with the ice floating on it that sends shivers up my spine. Metaphorically and literally, though in my case mostly metaphorically, since I go a long way out of my way, as a general rule, not to get into a position where it could happen literally.

That policy, wise and prudent in my view, was challenged this week. At a meeting with three colleagues in Stockholm, one of them came up with the bright idea of using a free moment between a meeting and dinner, to sample the delights (I use the word "delights" here in a loose sense, you understand) of the Hellasgården sauna and lake outside the city.

I didn't respond at first. It was perfectly obvious that the idea was so manifestly barmy that one or both of the other two would quickly put paid to it.

Talk about being hoist on my own petard.

Having failed to express my polite refusal of the lunacy, I found myself cornered by the oddly enthusiastic acceptance of the suggestion by the other two colleagues. I made my point of view clear but was merely declared officially "chicken" for my pains. I suppose that if insanity is equated with courage, that makes some sense. In any case, I was painted into a corner and saw little choice: three of us were in favour of the sauna and icy dip; I could hardly hold out alone against such a majority.

Well, the sauna was fine. The kind of deep warmth that goes through to the bones. A fine cleansing experience.

Then we stepped outside. There was a knife-edged wind off the lake which would have made sweaters and fleece-lined jackets appropriate, and swimming costumes little short of unbelievable, but I barely noticed it. All my senses would take in was the thin strip of liquid water at the shoreline, beyond which there was ice. A coating to the water which was an attractive sight but an unappealing prospect.

We were getting into that? Really?

Well, my colleagues did. Right up to their shoulder. Right up to the top their heads even, for two of them. I went in to just above my knees, and not for long at that. I admired their courage. They mocked my timidity. I was perfectly happy to admire others, and their mockery meant nothing compared to the relief of getting out of that (barely) molten ice.

In any case, one of the advantages of reaching my advanced age, is that I no longer feel any need to prove anything to anyone. Not even to my colleagues. And least of all to myself.

Good humour and relations were quickly re-established in the evening, which was spent in a traditional Swedish restaurant, all wood panelling and mouldings with curious and intriguing paintings scattered around. Again, I avoided the truly traditional dishes - such as reindeer - though my colleague from Oslo went for it. Once more, I saw no reason to do as the Swedes might do, especially as the duck dish looked excellent - and was delicious when I got to eat it.

Now that was the way I wanted to spend my time in Sweden. Not as a Swede. But as myself, enjoying some of the best that Sweden offers.

When in Rome, do as you feel. As long as you avoid offending anyone, you'll be fine. And you can avoid frostbite too.

Postscript. The Stockholm city hall has a glorious room where the Nobel Prize banquet, attended by 1400 people, is held. It's called the Blue Room. Which is curious when you visit it since there's nothing blue about it. It turns out that this is down to the fact that the architect changed his mind about painting it blue but by that time the name had been adopted and it stuck. 

The Blue Room. Glorious. Just not blue.

This is splendidly English. In Oxford, there are two streets, known as North Parade and South Parade respectively. Paradoxically, though perhaps unsurprisingly for England, South Parade is to the north of North Parade. There's a lovely explanation of this based on where the opposing sides paraded their troops during the siege of Oxford in the Civil War, but it seems highly unlikely to be true. The real explanation is uncertain and much duller, so I'm not going to repeat it here. 

But it does feel like the same kind of phenomenon as the naming of the Blue Room in Stockholm. I can't help thnking that the Swedes have shown a wonderfully English way of doing things. 

So, when in Sweden, I feel entirely justified in doing as the English do.