SHARE
COPY LINK
For members

UNDERSTANDING SWEDES

11 Swedish life hacks that will make you feel like a local

Sweden can be a cold and unforgiving place, with strange rules and customs. For newbies there can be some surprising culture shocks, so here are some tips to make your life in Sweden a little easier.

11 Swedish life hacks that will make you feel like a local
Being outdoorsy is central to Swedish life. As is baring a subtle amount of ankle. Photo: Alexander Hall/imagebank.sweden.se

1. Just say hej to everyone 

Swedes did away with formalities a long time ago, so you can greet anyone from your partner’s mother to your doctor with a friendly “hej! 

2. Avoid smalltalk like the plague

There’s no need to go beyond a simple “hej!” with a stranger though. Swedes are economical with words and only really talk to people they want to talk to. Chances are they won’t understand the value of any extraneous words beyond the sufficiently polite “hello”, “thank you” and “goodbye” to strangers.

3. Measure the year in weeks 

Swedes will know instinctively what week it is without checking, especially if they work in education, at university or have school-age children. It’s how they often refer to a date or time of the year, for example “I’ll be on holiday from week 26 to 30”.

This can be confusing for people who are used to measuring the year in dates, like August 9th. If you want to cheat to keep up with your Swedish friends, there’s a website to keep you in the know.

4. Only wear black, white, grey or beige 

Walking around a Swedish city can seem like there’s a strictly regulated uniform that doesn’t deviate from black, white, grey or beige. 

It’s the unspoken fashion law of Sweden. Colours are banned, except maybe for Midsummer, and even then, white is preferred. Whether it’s a love of simplicity, a natural elegance or just the desire to not stand out, style-conscious Swedes almost always avoid bold colours and patterns.

A simple aesthetic is key to Swedish style. Photo: FilippaK/imagebank.sweden.se

5. Take the entire month of July off from work 

Barely anyone is at work in July. Shops are shut and city streets are empty as everyone goes to their summer house to spend a few weeks away. Most employers offer staff a minimum of 25 days annual leave and Swedes take a big lump of that off during the summer, particularly while school is out in July. 

Don’t be the only one manning the emails at the office.

6. Get yourself a sommarstuga 

You’ll need something to do with all that time off, so why not renovate a country cabin? 

Around a fifth of the population are lucky enough to own a summer house, and even more have access to one through family and friends. 

You don’t have to buy one outright though. In many places you can rent one on a yearly rolling basis, and they’re often much cheaper than a regular city price. Some might not have running water or heating, however, but that’s just part of their rustic charm. 

7. Become one with nature 

It’s no surprise that Swedes love spending time outdoors in the vast tracts of forest that blanket the country. Picking wild berries is something every Swede does come summertime. Even in winter, some braver souls might camp out on snowy peaks. Wild swimming (with or without a swimsuit) is a cultural staple no matter the weather.  

You’d be hard pressed to find a Swede who doesn’t have some kind of rugged outdoor hobby, whether it be Nordic surfing or LARPing. 

Some sommarstugas are basically glorified tents with wooden walls and a roof but not much else. Photo: Martin Edström/imagebank.sweden.se

8. Don’t bother with rounds 

In Sweden the concept of buying rounds of drinks doesn’t really exist. Everyone buys their own. This isn’t about rudeness or selfishness – just necessity. Alcohol is so expensive in Sweden that you can barely afford to buy one beer, let alone seven of them for the whole table.

So while you’ll be extremely popular if you offer to buy everyone a beer, it’s not the Swedish thing to do. 

9. Turn your trouser legs up about 10 centimetres

Even in winter you’ll see Swedes with their anklebones exposed. This is called the Swedish ankle (by me). Swedes like to keep their trouser hems high. Whether this is a new trend, a hark back to 19th century prudishness or a way of showing a subtle and inoffensive flash of skin on summer nights that could be warmer, I couldn’t tell you, but you’re more likely to see an ankle than an elbow in Sweden. 

10. Follow the rules 

Freedom is enshrined in the Swedish constitution, but it’s a freedom that comes with caveats. Alcohol is restricted, drugs are harshly criminalised, and people tend not to overstep the line. You might see a few jaywalkers but that’s probably the extent of typical Swedish law-breaking. 

11. Know your Eurovision 

Even the most reserved of Swedes will come bursting out of their shell come Eurovision time. They’ll know all the songs, list the winners and outstanding acts from previous years, and scream wildly for their favourites. Add to that the cultural phenomenon that is Melodifestivalen, where millions tune in to decide the nation’s Eurovision entry for the year and you’ve got yourself an event that’s almost as big as the European Cup final.  

Member comments

Log in here to leave a comment.
Become a Member to leave a comment.
For members

UNDERSTANDING SWEDES

How will I endure another Nordic winter? What I’ve learned after years in Sweden

What do I do and who am I when nature goes to rest? The Local's contributor Anne Grietje Franssen writes about life in the Gothenburg archipelago this time of the year, when the Swedish winter makes it feel like there's no end in sight.

How will I endure another Nordic winter? What I've learned after years in Sweden
Life in the Gothenburg archipelago is wonderful, but the winter is hard to get through. Photo: Anne Grietje Franssen

Editor’s note: Article from The Local’s archive – first published in 2021

Each season seems to erase my memory of the previous one; every year I’m caught off guard by the arrival of winter, of darkness.

During the endless summer days I forget what life was like before and what it will be like after; I forget that there will, again, come a time when I wake up in the dark, breakfast in the dark, work and work out in the dark, cook and eat dinner in the dark.

That the oak trees, birches and apple trees on the island where I live lose both their leaves and their colour. That the hours of relative lightness will be marked by grey: grey skies, a grey sea, the grey skeletons of bare undergrowth.

And every year I have to reinvent myself. What do I do and who am I when nature goes to rest? When Swedes seem to be lulled into hibernation along with nature?

It might not come as a surprise that I’m not the type who thinks these winter months are first and foremost mysiga (cosy). The type who climbs up to the attic in October to fetch the Christmas decorations, who buys an Advent calendar, who devotedly bakes lussekatter, the typically Swedish saffron buns, for the appropriate holidays. Someone who gladly spends weeks under a blanket on the couch with a steaming cup of tea and the candles around the house ignited.

The autumn is fine, sometimes even preferable to high season: what is more mesmerising than a low autumn sun over the archipelago, when all the trees are on fire, and when the summer’s afterglow is just strong enough to sit outside in the melancholic silence that the off-season brings?

But autumn is also a harbinger of winter – a winter that never ends. A few weeks of winter: sure. A month or two: all right. But winter, or what I think of as winter, usually begins late October, when the trees shed most of their leaves, and lasts until early April, when the world, seemingly overnight, transitions from monochrome to kaleidoscopic, suddenly rises from the dead.

Autumn on the island. Photo: Anne Grietje Franssen

Sometime early December I feel that I am well rested, that I’ve spent enough hours reading, that I’ve eaten enough comfort food and drunk enough glögg, that I’ve watched more than enough mediocre series. While in theory winter hasn’t even arrived yet.

So what to do with all the remaining days of darkness, especially as a migrant, when Sweden is not your home country and most of your relatives and friends are out of reach? If you don’t have a family to hide out with and to play summer with until the first signs of spring?

My time is divided with about fifty percent gloominess, fifty percent finding the courage to get up from the couch and make myself do something. Anything. Many hours are wasted chiding both Sweden and myself – why did I ever move here, why is anyone really living up north, how come there isn’t a massive exodus southward? Why is “winter refugee” not yet a concept?

Then there are the hours of solitude. From Monday to Friday and during daytime hours I cope reasonably well; I work, go to yoga, read newspapers, know how to skillfully distract myself. No, it’s mainly the long evenings and weekends when the demons rear their heads. Too much time to worry, to feel isolated and shiftless, to wonder what I’ve made of my life, why I’m here, why the hell I chose to live abroad, why I have cut myself off from my original community.

But you can’t spend an entire winter ruminating. Or you can, but then you’re likely to be clinically depressed.

Winter on the outskirts of Gothenburg. Photo: Anne Grietje Franssen

It’s probably the reason why many Swedes pass the month of January in Thailand or on the Canary Islands. I understand the urge, although not everyone has the time and money to follow in their footsteps. Or, as in my case, is unable to do so due to the crippling combination of flygskam and klimatångest (ecophobia, or the anxiety felt vis-a-vis the climate crisis).

It does help to take the train home for two or three weeks in the middle of winter and spend so much time with family and friends that I breathe a sigh of relief when I am finally alone again, when I can hear my own thoughts again.

But what is the recipe for getting through the remainder of that perpetual season, if not jubilant, then at least alive? Here’s what I learned during five Swedish winters.

In order to survive I need to go outside within the timespan of the give or take seven hours of daylight that the latitude I live on provides. Every day, never mind downpours and storms, hail showers and snow.

Swedes have a saying that det finns inget dåligt väder, bara dåliga kläder (there’s no such thing as bad weather, only poor clothing). That is, of course, a lie. One that the Nordic people need and repeat like a mantra to make the often intolerable weather slightly more tolerable. “No bad weather, only bad clothing, no bad weather, only bad clothing, no bad…” etc etc.

SWEDISH VOCABULARY: How to talk about the weather with Swedes

Having said that: even if the weather is as bad as can be, it’s still better to brave the elements than to remain indoors. In such conditions a warm, waterproof jacket and ditto shoes do help. Leave any dreary city behind you if you have the chance, and walk with your face against the wind along a coast, through a forest, across a heath. If other living beings – birds, foxes, deer, mice – go about their days in this weather, so can you.

In order to survive I go to the island sauna once, twice, three times a week. You won’t get a tan, but you will get warm, and the required dip in the sea makes me abruptly forget all my predominantly imagined problems. I’m alive! is the primary response, and then: I’m dying, get out!

For someone as cerebral as me, it is essential to punctuate the otherwise constant stream of thoughts and nothing seems to be more effective than that combination of heat and cold, alternating between sweating and shivering. To basta (sauna, verb) regularly supposedly also benefits the immune system, heart, blood circulation and skin. There’s no catch, really, so what are you waiting for?

And, finally, in order to survive I had to find some (international) surrogate families that I can be a part of every now and then. I’m not saying this one is easy – it certainly took me two, three years to find this substitute community – but it was worth the wait.

On and around the island I’ve found (or did they find me?) some friends and families with whom I go for walks, have dinners, whose children I babysit from time to time, with whom I watch movies on a projector by a fireplace. With whom I go dancing in the rare occasion of a party and whose couch I sleep on when I missed the last ferry home.

Ultimately that’s the best medicine – at least for me – against these ruthless winter blues: not always being in the company only of my own racing mind. Finding that there are others in the same boat as me, and that together this boat is easier to steer.

Going for a walk with friends. Photo: Anne Grietje Franssen

Did you like this? Read more articles by Anne Grietje Franssen:

SHOW COMMENTS