“Why do you want to come here?” he asked. “Most people chase the sun to Australia, not to Sweden.” A tall blonde man with blue eyes interviewed me for a job. His eyes lit up like flashlights when a tint of sunlight hit them.
“I think snow is … exotic.”, I pointed at the window. We met in a basement, with a window overlooking the street slightly above. The February snow had covered the window, and they said it was one of the worst (or best! It depends on who you asked) winter in the last ten years.
Since I grew up near the equator, I never touched snow until my late teens, and it was only for a day. All of my exposure to snow was shaped by Christmas movies, tangled with happy memories when I received many gifts as a kid.
I didn’t know how I managed to get to the interview intact, with a short skirt and a pair of summer boots I bought without knowing what a snow blizzard looked like in real life. I didn’t have a scarf. I didn’t have gloves. On the way, I skidded, trampled, tumbled, and everything in between, except for falling face-first on the ground. I arrived sweating, even though it was -15° C outside.
Nobody told me about the snow.
Living in Sweden for many years had shaped my hate-hate relationship with snow. It wasn’t so much the cold. I had plenty of tools up my thick jacket: wheat-filled alpaca soft-toys that I could microwave and carried around with me, pocket-size heater, and double-layered gloves. It was the sheer volume of the snow, and how it transformed the landscape from a beautiful Scandic display to a scene described in the song “Murder on the Dance Floor”.
On the first day of heavy snow, all trains and buses stop operating, every time. When this happens, your best bet was to check the train website and tell your colleagues that you prefer not to go, or that your kid is sick. They don’t check if you have one or not.
The second day, usually the snow reduces. So now the ground is all slushy and wet, and of course, muddy. Ewww.
The third day typically starts with another heavy snow. Expect some more train jam, although not as bad as the first day. By this time, everywhere you go, muddy slush fills all places indoors and outdoors. Malls are no exception. Also in the morning, you hear repeated sounds of the snow truck clearing the snow off the roads. The drivers have truly thankless jobs. They look like lemmings because, for the next four months, that is all they do — pushing snow from the centres to the corners.
White snow is dull but safe. Other colours such as yellow or brown, are to be avoided. You don’t want to know what has caused the snow to turn colourful. Don’t even think of smelling it. Only tourists do that.
Fast forward to another week, the snow settles, and it turns hard. So this is when it gets to the “murderous” level danger. Unless you have good spiky shoes, you are bound to slip and fall.
I have fallen countless times, even when exercising the most caution. Once, I fell on my back, and as I was falling, I thought I was in the matrix. I crossed my arms on my chest in slow-motion, surrendered myself to gravity, hoping to come out of the experience unscathed.
Near my apartment, there was a hill that led to a shortcut to the supermarket. Everyone used that shortcut, and consequently, the snow became rather compact and slippery. I saw an elderly couple in their 80’s, pushing their walkers down the hill, moving at a glacial pace, balancing their needs of getting groceries and not dying in the process.
In the next few months, the snow melts and freezes repeatedly. It becomes transparent ice sheets, and the entire Stockholm turns into a colossal ice rink. Perfect for ice skating, but not for unexpecting patrons.
On that day, I wished I’ve learned how to waltz, because suddenly an innocent-looking park converted into a dancing ballroom, while I was in the centre of it. I saw transparent ice around me as far as my eyes could see. To get to safety, I had to dance my way out of it, and my best bet was to slide from one trash bin to another without falling.
The guy who interviewed me in the basement was right all along. Most people chase the sun and not the snow. Nowadays, winter is something I’ve chosen to avoid, but my memories of snow return when December comes.
There’s something they don’t tell you about snow.