Category Archives: Sweden

St. George’s Day and a New Prince

St. George has been the patron saint of England since around the end of the fourteenth century. His feast day is April 23, and the royal Chapel of St. George on the grounds of Windsor Castle is dedicated to him. It’s one of the most beautiful and historic churches in England, but photos are not allowed inside–a fact I bemoan, but also respect. (At least nobody is taking a selfie). The photo above is from the guidebook: St. George casually resting his foot on the vanquished dragon. It’s on a baptismal font.

In 1415, St. George appeared in the sky above the battlefield at Agincourt, presumably helping King Henry V win his great victory over the French, against overwhelming odds. The photo above, again from the guidebook, is a 1998 copy of a gilded 15th century wood carving, now too fragile and precious to be on display.

That same year, Archbishop Chichele ordered that St. George’s Day be celebrated like Christmas Day. (This lasted until 1778, when it went back to being a simple day of recognition mostly by English Catholics).

The origin of the saint is probably of an early Christian martyr, possibly from the reign of the Roman Emperor Diocletian. Legends grew up around a story about a virtuous knight who defeated a dragon that demanded human sacrifice. In some stories, the dragon had a princess in his clutches, and St. George happened along and killed the dragon.

The dragon in the legends represents pure evil, defeated by goodness. Naturally, the story was adapted to various times and places, the dragon standing in for contemporary enemies of Christianity or the ruling powers. In the Swedish Cathedral of Stockholm, there’s a huge and elaborate sculpture of George and the Dragon. I’m not sure of the date, but everybody in Sweden after 1471 remembered that Swedish troops wearing the image of St. George defeated the cruel oppressive Danes at the battle of Brunkeberg.

I liked the simplicity and modesty of an early medieval wood carving of St. George and the dragon from the Hinnerjoki Church, now in Finland’s National Museum in Helsinki. The Finns appealed to St. George not so much as a military hero as to protect their livestock.

I also liked a contemporary needlework depiction, in a display at Canterbury Cathedral a couple of years ago.

Today in London a new prince was born, fifth in line to the throne. I happened to be in London the day Princess Charlotte was born. Today, I imagine a lot of BLUE party hats and banners in the crowds waiting for a royal sighting outside the hospital.

Meanwhile, St. George’s Chapel is getting ready for the royal wedding of Prince Harry and the American commoner Meghan Markle next month.

I won’t be there, but I’m happy to have spent time in St. George’s. And I’ll be up early to watch whatever is on TV about the happy occasion!

St. Lucia, Fermented Herring and the Sami in Sweden

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Someday, I’d like to be in Scandinavia for St. Lucia Day. In Norway, Sweden and parts of Finland, Croatia and Italy, December 13 is the feast day of Lucia.

She was an early martyr executed in the reign of Diocletian. Her crime was to carry food to Christians hiding in the dark catacombs of Rome.

Legend has it that she wore a wreath of candles to light the way, all the better to free up her hands to carry as much food as she could.

I love the Nordiska Museum in Stockholm. I’ll spend hours there anytime.

It’s a grand palace built specifically to celebrate all things Swedish.

An enormous wood carving of King Gustaf Vasa, who liberated Sweden from Denmark in the early 1500s, occupies his own dome in the great hall. It’s by Carl Milles, 1925.

Each traditional holiday has its own set of displays.

St. Lucia Day and Christmas are well-known, but how about the uniquely Swedish holiday of the Fermented Herring Festival?

I’m sure my own Swedish ancestors ate plenty of fermented herring. In Minnesota, where many Swedes landed, it survives as “lutefisk,” still made for special occasions and much joked about. So far, I’ve avoided having to actually eat it. (In the fine film “The Emigrants,” a young man hoping to go to America excitedly tells his friend that it is absolutely forbidden to eat herring in the new land. Poor people had their fill of herring in the Old Country).

The Nordiska features the best collection of folk art and furniture that I’ve ever seen.

There’s a large section devoted to the indigenous Sami people, who have their own culture and traditions. In spite of a history of some persecution and exploitation, about 20,000 of them still live in their ancient homelands in northern Scandinavian.

They’ve added tourism and marketing their wonderful crafts to their traditional occupation of reindeer herding.

The last time I was at the Nordiska, I was lucky enough to have family along. My granddaughters had a great time in the interactive kids’ section detailing Swedish country life in earlier times.

Oh, to be in Sweden on St. Lucia Day! I’m adding it to my ever-expanding travel wish list. I’d like to head way north to visit the Sami, too. But I’ll probably skip the herring.

Join me next time for more explorations in the art and history of Europe!

Should I Learn Swedish?

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Major disappointment: the first time I went to Sweden, I kept seeing signs that said “Runt Hornet” on doors. I was enchanted. What a fine way to say “Ring the Doorbell!” Then I saw this sign on the corner of a building and went to investigate. Bummer! It actually meant “Round the Corner.” Oh, well, it still sounds cool.

And “Obs” must mean “Careful!”, especially if it’s printed in red.

Smoking is “rokning.” I like the sound of the words.

Ok, I freely admit I’m a klutz in any language. Obviously, I don’t want to run for my train and risk “snubbeling.”

There are practical reasons to know the language.

Every breakfast buffet has a big tube of this stuff. I thought it was some kind of hummus.

No such luck! It’s really “Fish Roe Paste.” Not my favorite. In fact, I had to discreetly spit it into my napkin and then look around for something to erase the taste. Lingonberry sauce?

Sometimes, admittedly, words are not needed.

Sometimes, I’m not even interested in the words.

I don’t really want to know the translation of this sign in a subway car in Stockholm. For me, it says, and always will say “Sucks your job?” Or, for English speakers, “Does your job suck? Call this number and we’ll hook you up with a better gig.”

One big point in favor of learning some Swedish: it’s the second language in Finland. And the Finnish language looks much, much harder to learn.

In Finland, almost every single sign and caption is printed in both Finnish and Swedish. English is hit or miss.

At the Helsinki dog park near where I stayed in April, the rules are spelled out in great detail. Finnish and Swedish speaking dogs are all set. English-only speaking dogs are out of luck.

Yup, I guess this is telling me something. After years of traveling in French and German-speaking countries where I can at least muddle through with the native languages, I’ve found that I love Scandinavia. Time to learn a little Swedish.

Now, about those Danish and Norwegian languages…

My Scandinavian Fathers

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Actually my Scandinavian father and father-in-law are no longer with us, and I only knew grandfathers back one generation. But they were all descendants of families from Sweden, Norway and Finland who made the perilous journey to America in the 19th century. (The one exception was my British grandfather, who made a perilous journey of his own). The sculpture above is from Norwegian sculptor Gustav Vigeland’s fantastic outdoor collection in Oslo, where the city gave him an entire huge park and studio for his lifetime. It’s a carefree image of fatherhood.

My forefathers did not have carefree lives in the Old Country. I never heard any of my relatives speak longingly of returning, although my grandmother used to croon Finnish lullabies to us in the rocking chair. My people were no doubt poor potato farmers trying to scrounge a living from rocky little plots of land. They were very happy to arrive on American shores and begin new lives in the rich soil of Minnesota. I was not particularly motivated to visit Scandinavian or Nordic regions–I guess I vaguely thought of these lands as poor backwaters, maybe lacking paved roads and indoor plumbing.

Over the past few months, I finally got around to visiting, over four different trips: first Sweden, then Denmark, then Finland, then Norway. Now they’re my new favorite destinations.

Looking at Scandinavian art, I was struck by images of children parting from parents they would never see again.

This painting, by Adolph Tidemand, is “The Youngest Son’s Farewell.” It was painted in 1867, when the great wave of migration was well under way. It’s in the Kode Gallery in Bergen, Norway.

In the National Gallery of Norway in Oslo, there’s a similar poignant scene painted by Harriet Backer in 1878, “The Farewell.”

What’s going on here? It’s either a scene of emigration, or possibly of going off to war. One of the reasons for leaving the Old Country was to escape compulsory military service. A servant hauls the young man’s duffel bag.

Whatever the reason, the parents are devastated to part with their son. There was no email, no Skyping, no jet planes for quick visits home. Leaving very often meant leaving forever.

Life in Scandinavia was full of peril as well as poverty. In this 1858 painting by Carl Bloch, a Danish family looks anxiously out to sea was a storm approaches. Will Father return, or will they all be left to fend for themselves? “Fisherman’s Families Await Their Return in an Approaching Storm” is in the Hirschsprung Gallery in Copenhagen.

In Vaxjo, Sweden, I stopped by the House of Emigrants, full of fascinating displays about the great wave of migration that brought my people to America starting around the 1850s and continuing well into the 20th century.

The museum contains a replica of the writing hut of the Swedish author Vilhelm Moberg, who meticulously documented the immigrant experience is the four historic novels “The Emigrants.”

Moberg spent a lot of time in the very Minnesota counties where my ancestors put down roots, just north of the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul.

I had already watched the fine Max Van Sydow/Liv Ullman movies “The Emigrants” and “The New Land.”

While still traveling, I downloaded the four novels and devoured them. Suddenly, I wanted to know all about my Scandinavian fathers. Travel constantly opens up new doors!

Join me next time for more explorations in the art and history of Europe, the British Isles, and now the Nordic and Scandinavian countries!