The only obvious explanation seems to be massive quantities of alcohol.
In other words, Swedish babies wouldn't exist without Finnish booze cruises and Systembolaget.
well, there might not be anything more confusing than Swedish women. Oh, and did I mention almost all of them look like they should be modeling somewhere? I’ll admit I’ve always been a little nervous courting the opposite sex, probably due to watching – as God is my witness – more romantic comedies than quite possibly any other heterosexual male on earth. I was young, I was in good shape, and I was American: when I arrived in Sweden, the ladies wouldn’t stand a chance.
They have terrific personalities, million-dollar smiles, and are more in shape than 99.99% of everyone else.
A Swedish boyfriend gets his Haglöfs/Nike/Peak Performance skinny black tights on and wears as much lycra as possible when working out at SATS or Fitness24Seven.
A Swedish boyfriend is completely into the whole gender equality thing and asks you to go Dutch.
A Swedish boyfriend buys you that Efva Attling bracelet you’ve been eyeing for years, a Sandqvist backpack or anything else he has carefully selected and wrapped. You just see each other until he one day decides his tooth brush is a part of the decoration at your place and OLW-chips and Cola on a Friday night is a given.
With one of the highest birth rates in Europe, the Swedes seem to be pretty prolific when it comes to making babies, but even after six plus years of living in Stockholm, I'm still not sure how Swedish relationships actually happen.
However, the way to meet someone there is more subtle.
It’s not as easy as going up to someone and offer them a drink or ask them to dance.
We talked, laughed, and I somehow managed to pay for her – something many Swedish women, I knew, were not used to. I asked her to dinner, assuming the answer would be an automatic “yes.” Instead, I received a text message explaining that dinner would feel “too much like a date.” In all my 21 years, I had never been so confused. A few weeks after her – whom my friends only refer to as “Miss A” – there was yet another girl. We hung out every day for about a week, and finally one night she spontaneously invited me over for dinner. She had poured her heart out to me, displayed the entire spectrum of human emotion, told me things she said she had never told anyone else – or so I thought.
We hung out a few more times and, in my mind, there was no way I could fail. Unlike the others, she took the initiative of “first contact” by talking to me after a class we shared. We ate a nice meal of chicken and rice, and then we talked for a bit. A couple weeks later, she told me she was seeing someone.