This is our good friend and Monika's relative, Ann-Mari:

And this is Ann-Mari's family:

While gathered one fine day for her grand-daughter Linnea's confirmation, we got to talking about traditional Swedish food; especially those classics from the north: pitepalt and surströmming. We wanted to taste both of these unique dishes but our time in Pitea was running short.

In short order, Ann-Mari had organized everything; she would make the pitepalt, and Cousin Barbro and Bengt would prepare the surströmming.

We arrived at Barbro and Bengt's house on a perfect summer's day, and retired to the patio. The breeze was light, as was the mood.

First came the pitepalt. This dish, which originates in Piteå, is made with grated potatoes, a perfect balance of rye and white flour and salt pork. The ingredients are molded together into a ball roughly the size of a small automobile and gently cooked in water for nearly an hour. Put lingonberries and butter on top, pour yourself a glass of milk, and you're ready.

So, how was it? Absolutely delicious! This is comfort food on a grand scale; a pitepalt meal makes any place seem like home.

We felt fortified, and we would need the courage. Next up was the real challenge: bring on the surströmming!

Surströmming is fermented fish.

Yup, you read that right. Here's how it's made: Herring is placed in barrels of brine for a few months. Then it is packed in cans, where the anaerobic decomposition process continues for up to a year, before being sold.

At this point the pressure inside the can is so great that it bulges; many airlines even prohibit the transport of surströmming as an onboard hazard. To this end, Barbro and Bengt put the can we were to eat inside a plastic bag, as it tends to explode when opened, and you really don't want to get fermented fish juice all over yourself. The aroma is remarkable; this is food best eaten outdoors.

Here's how you eat surströmming. You put chopped raw onions and diced, cooked potatoes on a piece of thin, crispbread. After you've cut open and deboned your fish, you place it on the bread, as well.

So, how does it taste? This is an acquired taste; you either love it or you hate it. Monika braced herself...and loved it! I was, uh, ambivalent. Bengt was prepared for this reaction, however, and suggested we have plenty of aquavit on hand to help things along. My hero...

An encouraging thing is happening in the world. Old buildings are being given a second life. In Seattle, Amazon.com makes its home in a former veterans hospital, while here in Piteå, the Furunaset Mental Hospital has been converted; it is now called the Furunaset Hotel and Conference Center.

It was important to me to make the pilgrimage to this monumental, erstwhile container of suffering now transformed. Built in the 1890s, Furunaset was a closed world; patients and personnel alike were sequestered from the outside world. Watchmen in guardhouses insured against both escape and entrance (very few outsiders were allowed in). Those who attempted to gain access without prior authorization were subject to arrest and jail sentences; there must have been significant concern over what the public might see.

This gigantic facility warehoused patients from all over Sweden and Finland. Perhaps the staff did what they could to reduce suffering, but enlightened treatment and effective medications were lacking; in its time, Furunaset was undoubtedly a horrible fate for many people.

My Aunt Bojan spent many years of her life at the Furunaset Mental Hospital. In her early teens she was bright and intelligent, but severe epileptic seizures made it impossible for her family to care for her.

Like many others, Bojan was (mis)placed at Furunaset, the only long-term care facility at that time. Though she was not mentally ill when she first came to Furunaset, the place took its toll on her. Housed in close quarters with the extremely disturbed, she struggled to make meaning of the lot she had been dealt. Years of electric shock treatments and inappropriate medications made dramatic changes in her personality. The stigma of epilepsy (and of Furunaset itself) was strong in those days; some friends and family members stopped visiting and never spoke of her. The few faithful were allowed supervised visits, outside the facility, by a small garden pool.

As I sat in one of the new Furunaset's restaurants, I wondered who had sat in my place, long ago. When I walked the halls of commerce, I noted the original stone floors, complete with indentions, worn down by repetitive foot traffic.

At the nearby docks, where patients once arrived by boat from all over Sweden, children were now launching canoes. The potato fields, once tended by patients who could manage manual work, had become parking lots. Birds chirped as the sun emerged brilliant, shining on every wet surface.

A bicyclist flew by near the institution's cemetery, a final resting place to over one thousand patients. As I approached the small garden pool, I was moved by intense childhood memories: Bojan's powerful hugs, the way she held our faces as she spoke to us, the small gifts wrapped in newspaper (I still have the small ceramic shoe she gave me when I was a girl).

Days later, I was able to spend time with Inger Johannesson. A deep and lovely woman, she cared for my aunt for many years, and in the process became Bojan's truest friend.

They met when Furunaset was closed and Bojan was moved to a better care center. Less confined and with improved medications, Bojan's life began to transform. A warm and funny woman possessing ironic wit and expressing gleeful joy emerged.

Have you ever been simultaneously stunned and enlightened by someone with a distinctly different perspective? While some described Bojan's life as a tragedy, Inger knew better her inner strength, her survival skills, her determination and the tenacity of her spirit. It was Inger who felt Bojan's gratitude and witnessed her resilience. She deeply understood her joy and her heartbreak, her triumphs and her disappointments, her faith and her forgiveness. When Bojan died two years ago, it was Inger who had stayed close.

Inger shared many poignant stories with me, but I was particularly struck by this one. On their annual vacations to the shore in Skåne, they would stay in a hotel. Many times a day, Bojan would express her sheer delight that the front doors of the hotel were never locked, that she could take as many showers as she so desired, and that she could spend an entire day just smelling flowers if she wanted.

Many thanks to Ann-Mari, who accompanied me to Furunaset, and to Inger, who told me the stories I needed to hear.

-Monika

One day, I told Cousin Leif that I would like to see real reindeer, but didn't know where to go. In yet another demonstration of how many people he knows in Piteå, the next day found us on our way to the edge of town to meet Christer Sjömark, who happens to keep reindeer on his property.

Reindeer are very shy creatures, and prefer to stay away from people. This is just what Christer's reindeer did when we approached. Except this guy. "He's curious," Christer said.

As we stood in the meadow and watched the reindeer wander around (at a safe distance from us), Christer told Leif and I everything you could ever want to know about these marvelous creatures; for instance, why they look so patchy right now. It's because they're molting for the summer.

All reindeer have horns, and they fall off every year. When they do, Christer gathers them up and puts them in the barn, perhaps for later craft projects.

As he graciously invited us into his home for coffee, I noticed the knife on Christer's belt. "It's a Lapp knife," he said, pointing to the wall where he hangs his others. He then told us about the importance of these traditional tools in Lapp culture. They are made with reindeer horn and skin, and the blades are incredibly tough. The Lapps depend on them for hunting, eating, even chopping down trees.

As well, they use the knives to identify their reindeer; a unique mark is cut into the animal's ear. Christer showed us a book of drawings of such marks.

I enjoyed our time with Christer immensely; I could ask him questions all day long, and would be happy to hear his stories even longer than that. We left him where we found him, sitting on his porch with his dogs, looking happy.

Cousin Stig and his family had an idea. They wanted to take us out on their boat into the Gulf of Bothnia. We'd make a slow, relaxing day of it, and see the sights. Excellent!!

The weather not only cooperated, but it was astoundingly good. The water in the gulf appears dead-black, making it somewhat intimidating (i can only imagine it in the winter). The sun doesn't penetrate it, so the water acts as a mirror. This combination of black and blue is hypnotizing.

Ah, the glittering light, the sounds of lapping water and happy girls, the smell of the sea and the vibrations of a humming motor. We now understand why people come to love boating so much. It can, and does, transport a person directly to "the center of calm." This family needs no stuga, as they love life on the water - all summer long!

The air was warm, the breeze was light, and Stig had set a course for Hällskär, where the Lidman and Nystrom clans have made their mark, literally, for 81 years. These smooth surfaces have been the bedrock for lighthearted family picnics for generations.

What truly amazed me was to see the family record engraved in the rock, starting with Monika's grandparents - in 1927.

Here is Monika's Uncle Signar (Stig's father) carving Monika's name in 1952 - when she was just two years old.

She's been back several times over the years, and it was my pleasure to be able to add this year's date to her others, albeit with a crowbar and nail punch :)

I could see the memories on Monika's face as she sat on a rock and looked out over the water...

Ewa, Sandra and Sofia had prepared a marvelous fika feast, which went perfectly with the good cheer and laughs we were sharing.

Monika and I were so enjoying this day: the family, the weather, the food, the stories. We couldn't imagine how it could be a happier occasion, unless we all ran around in clown noses, or something...

Cousin Stig and Ewa, along with their girls Sandra and Sofia, made for us a day we will never forget. A happier family is seldom seen, and we salute you!

A cultural phenomenon we've noticed in Sweden is the stuga. Roughly translated, it means "cabin". Many such structures began as family homesteads, and were passed down through generations. As industrialization came to Sweden, and people moved to the cities, these stugas were kept as summer homes.

The Swedes have a great love of the outdoors, and these days stugas are being built all over Sweden. Cousin Janne and Aunt Elsy were kind enough to invite us out to their stuga for a relaxing day of sunshine and water.

Janne and Elsy's stugas are situated just outside Piteå, in the woods along a lake; a great place to get some sun, especially if you're a whippet in a lawn chair or a collie out for a stroll.

To our delight, Elsy had prepared an amazing salmon dinner for us inside Janne's stuga; he and Eivor's kids even drove down from Luleå for the occasion.

One feature of this particular stuga that must be great on wonderful summer nights is an outdoor sink for doing dishes. Available light isn't a problem, on account of the midnight sun and all...

After a brief soccer match with the dog, it was time for a spin around the lake in Janne's boat.

As we tooled around the various inlets and islands, it was easy to see why Janne goes to the stuga every chance he gets; he and Eivor prefer it hands-down to their apartment in town.

Monika and I left refreshed and relaxed, having enjoyed a little slice of the stuga life.

Bölebyns Garveri is a tannery in Piteå. We visited expecting to see leather goods. What we got was so much more than that.

We were greeted by Jan Sandlund, the proprietor. The business was started by his grandfather, and passed down to him, eventually. Jan was a psychologist for some 25 years. "I was in the business of healing souls," he told us. "Eventually I came back to the tannery; I started on the inside and now I'm working my way to the outside." A philospher/tanner, to be sure.

Jan took us into the tannery, where he explained to us that no chemicals have ever been used on their leather. They tan hides with birch bark and water from the Piteå River - nothing else. In fact, the water in these vats hasn't been changed since 1918, which is part of what gives the leather its special color:

The smell inside the tannery was amazing; the scent of wet birch bark was everywhere. We were amazed to find out that Bölebyns Garveri is one of only three tanneries in Europe that use only bark and water; they are the only one in the world that uses birch bark.

So, how was the leather? One thing that stood out immediately was the understatement of the goods produced. Jan and his workers take great pride in the quality of their work, and it shows. In fact, they have earned the distinction of being an official Purveyor to the King of Sweden

Jan is no mere craftsman, we learned. He often makes sculptures out of leather, like this wonderfully spooky foot:

As well, Jan and his craftsman will make anything you want out of leather. Forget that Coach wallet - if you want something truly unique, get it at Bölebyns Garveri. As for myself, I'll be designing a guitar strap when I get home...

Aside from programming events at the Badhusparken, Cousin Leif has a real passion for the history and culture of Piteå; it seemed to us like he knew everyone and everything associated with the town. So when he told us he had talked to a few people and arranged for us to see some sites, we were naturally quite excited.

The first stop was the Piteå Museum, where we were introduced to Jonas Lundmark, the museum's director. Being a small institution, Jonas doubles as the exhibition designer; we caught him in the middle of installing a new show.

The Piteå Museum displays many objects related to the history of the town, as well as exhibiting contemporary work by local artists. Among the displays that caught our attention was this model of Piteå from 1898. It fills a large room, and once I started zooming in on details, I couldn't stop.

And this must be the coolest work table I've ever seen:

Before leaving, Leif introduced us to Catharina Westling, the museum's registrar. After disappearing for a few minutes, she came back with a box of photographs of Monika's Uncle Torsten in his verkstad - the images had been exhibited alongside samples of his work. She graciously asked us if we would like to choose some to take with us; a few of these appear in my previous post on this blog.

Next up was the Studio Acusticum at the Piteå School of Music. This new auditorium was designed to be as acoustically diverse as possible. Whether the aim is live performance or recorded music, the space is made to respond.

The entire ceiling, with its hanging sound reflectors, can be lowered. The walls are made of faceted concrete, made to scatter sound vibrations.

And if the space still sounds too roomy, a series of heavy felt baffles are hidden along the walls, both upstairs and down; they can be lowered individually until the room is whisper quiet. Mostly, though, Monika and I were struck by the beauty of the place. Although it seats about 600 people, there didn't appear to be a bad seat in the house.

Our last stop was Swensbylijda, a restoration of an 18-19th century part of rural Piteå.

The town's livelihood depended on a small stream that powered an even smaller mill. We watched the water run underneath this building, and wandered throughout the other working structures and houses. While amazed at the ingenuity and enterprise of the people who lived here, we were equally sobered by the realization of just how hard life must have been.

In one fell swoop, Leif had shown us a bit of the past, present and future of Piteå. As we drove back into town, the images of what we had seen still fresh in my mind, I wondered: what next?

Monika's mother Ulla grew up in Piteå, in a small house in the Pitholm neighborhood.

photo courtesy Jenny Bohman and Pelle Boström

Also on the property was a large workshop, a verkstad. Monika's grandfather and uncles worked there, as machinists and woodworkers; they made everything from architectural models, to furniture, to artists sculptures, to boats - if you could draw it, they would make it for you. Monika's uncle Signar even invented and designed a line of wood and metal machines, such as this lathe, still in use in Cousin Tommy's verkstad in Lund:

More than a mere workshop, however, the verkstad was the center of an active social life for everyone in the neighborhood. Haircuts were given, stories were told. And there was always fresh coffee in the pot. This is where, to Monika and many others, the idea of creating where you live and living where you create first took hold.

photo courtesy Jenny Bohman and Pelle Boström

One person in particular came to be associated most closely with the spirit of the verkstad. In Monika's words:

"I come from a family of makers. The appreciation for skilled craft has influenced and shaped me more than anything. I watched many sets of sure hands shaping things before beginning my own life as a maker. But it was my Uncle Torsten Nystrom, my mother's brother, who most amazed and inspired me.

My most treasured memories took place in and around the verkstad in Piteå where he spent his entire life shaping ideas into tangible, functioning form and dramatically affecting those who were lucky enough to have known him; he was a visionary in a sawmill.

To this day, whenever I smell sawdust or linseed oil I immediately think of him, pointing out the constellations in the nighttime sky with his missing finger, or showing me how to build innovative sculptures in the woodpile.

Torsten revealed (to many) a world of expansive ideas. How deluxe to sit at the elbow of one with such humor and intelligence, while he drew tunnels under oceans and a hydrocopter to take him across ice and water!

How incredible to return to the place where it all began..."

Photo: Mats Widgren. © Piteå Museum

Cousin Bo lives next door to the verkstad, and made the introduction to Jenny and Pelle, the current owners of the property.

Jenny and Pelle graciously allowed us into the verkstad to take photos. Most of the equipment and tools now enjoy continued use in other family members' verkstads, and all the wood is gone, but the rest of the place appeared much as Torsten had left it when he took ill.

"It's as if he just stepped out, and will be back soon," Monika said. His stack of signs was even sitting by the door. Torsten kept scraps of wood handy to leave notes for anyone wondering where he went. This one says, "Today, the forest"

As we explored further, we found scores of drawings, plans and photographs of things Torsten had made. It was easy to see why the neighborhood children were so drawn to the verkstad. Here is a photo of a car Torsten made for some lucky kid:

And anyone who wanted one got a cutout animal to take home and paint. These were made for Jenny, who grew up in Piteå. She still has them in the house:

Monika has spoken with many people who both worked with Torsten and who grew up around the verkstad. Many great stories have emerged.

One woman remembers Torsten yelling to a group of children, "God in heaven, come here! I have something very exciting to show you!" When the kids came running to the verkstad, he said excitedly, "Do you know what a soccer ball is made out of?" When noone could answer, he put the ball on the band saw and cut it open so they could all look inside.

And of course, everyone remembers the hydrocopter, a vessel with a huge propeller, like the air boats used to navigate the Everglades in Florida. Torsten's ran on an old Volkswagen engine, was made out of wood and had runners on it so he could travel across the ice in winter.

Torsten has been gone for 10 years now, and the verkstad will soon come down as Jenny and Pelle make room for the new house they are building. It's nice to know, though, that his memory is safe with them and everyone else he ever knew.

Photo: Mats Widgren. © Piteå Museum

We started our stint in Piteå by getting lost; Cousin Leif had to come get us and we followed him into town.

Leif had arranged for us to stay at the Piteå Vandrarhem (wanderer's home), situated in Badhusparken (bath house park), for which he runs all the cultural programming. Conveniently, his office is also in the Vandrarhem, so we would be seeing a lot of Leif.

The vandrarhem is built in what was Piteå's first hospital. As such, the hallways are lined with medical equipment original to the building, photographs and other displays. Each room is named after a doctor who once worked there.

We settled in and took a stroll around the town before calling it a night. A very long night. It was studenten (graduation) night in Piteå. And the park was hopping all night long with drunken teens singing some sort of song that has a lot of "la la la's" in it. And it was happening right outside our window.

After a while, when we realized we wouldn't be sleeping very much, we sat outside on the front steps of the vandrarhem and watched the stumbling, singing, studenten Swedes. At one point Monika told a kid he couldn't come inside to use the restroom. "Where on earth will we urinate," he said plaintively, "if not in your wanderer's home?..." I thought I was going to wet my own pants, laughing.

The next day, after a few hours sleep, the park was once more very active. As it turns out, it was Swedish National Day, and Leif had planned all kinds of activities in Badhusparken.

Having witnessed dog agility contests firsthand, I thought I knew what was coming when a group of people set up a course in the park. The hurdles were small, so I figured only the small dogs would be competing. How wrong I was. Welcome to rabbit agility, a sport begun in the 1970s in Sweden.

Once we wrapped our heads around that one, we strolled through the crowds. There were people in traditional clothing, clowns for the kids, concession stands - even Pippi Longstocking was there.

Throughout all of this, live band after live band played to the ever-increasing audience. Finally, around 9PM or so, the headliner took the stage. Ladies and gentleman....Nordman!

Yeah, Monika and I had never heard of them, either. But they are quite famous in Sweden, the crowd went nuts, and they were very entertaining. Their latest video should give you an idea of what they do:

The next day was loppis (flea market) in the park. The paths were lined with people selling and shopping. It turns out this happens every week at the Badhusparken; there's nothing like a good loppis to get you out of bed in the morning.

Monika has stayed in touch with all of her family in Piteå; we were happy to see so many of them at the loppis, where they had gathered to welcome us to Piteå. We had fika, I was introduced all around, and Monika was beaming.

And those were our first days in Piteå.

As we continued north along the coast, the highway wound its way through valleys and fjords, any of which makes a serene place to stop for an impromptu picnic.

It's in this serene atmosphere that we were taken by surprise when we saw a giant cheese slicer in a field just off the highway

We had stumbled upon The Kingdom of Cheese, home of Ostens Lager, maker of Västerbotten Cheese, known as "the emperor of cheeses". We learned that tours were available, so we rushed to the factory, but it hadn't opened for the season yet.

Too bad - I was kinda excited to see that

We reached Luleå at a beautiful time of day, and met with Cousin Caroline and Håkon, with whom we would stay the night.

As the capital of Swedish Lapland, Luleå is primarily a university town, but its harbor is equally important as the main shipping port for iron ore mined inland. Walking along the waterfront after dinner, we learned that Luleå is home to four of Sweden's icebreaking vessels: Oden, Frej, Ymer and Atle

Each vessel runs on five V12 engines, ranging from 5000-6250 horsepower each. As well, they carry a set of 2500-watt lights - bright enough to read a newspaper from almost 7 miles away.

As the midnight sun made its dip toward the horizon, and we made our way back to Caroline and Håkon's, the light became surreal

By the time we settled down for bed, however, the sun was starting to rise again. I decided to sleep on the balcony, just to see what that would be like. Monika snapped this picture of me some time around 3AM. Something about that midnight sun fascinates me...

The next day, after sitting in the sun and enjoying a leisurely meal with Caroline, we hit the road - this time heading a little bit south. We were set to visit Cousin Iva in Skellefteå

As I've mentioned in earlier posts, fika is taken quite seriously in Sweden; it is anything but an average coffee break. Iva had been baking in anticipation of our arrival - this was truly a fika to remember

While Monika and Iva caught up, I decided to explore the town a little bit. Of course, my internal guitar radar led me to a guitar shop, where I met Salle, a proud butt-rocker (as we say in The States). Besides managing the shop, Salle has also designed his own guitar line, the flagship of which is The Lucifer. He told me that his goal was to make the most evil guitar ever. Amen to that, brother...

Continuing my walkabout, I meandered into the public square, where I grabbed a sandwich from a street vendor. Can you guess what I bought?

That's right - ham & ost (cheese)

Also, in the square was a small fountain with some public art in it. I've seen some phallic art in my time, but I don't recall anything this...uh...obvious...

As we packed the car and prepared to say goodbye to Skellefteå, we noticed that, as in cities all over Sweden this time of year, studenten was taking place here, as well. While in Stockholm the graduates ride around town in large trucks, Skellefteå students appear to prefer cages on the back of tractors.

The days were getting longer, and we were heading north again. Next stop, the home of Monika's family: Piteå!