SHARE
COPY LINK

SEX

Dating Swedish women: logging in and going out

Dating in Sweden: As winter drew in and he struggled to adjust to life in Sweden, Michael Lynch from Ireland revved up his computer and began dabbling in the world of online dating.

Nothing sucks the spirit like a loveless mid-November in Stockholm. As a recent recruit to the ranks of the single, I sat alone in my suburban flat while my friends had cleverly contrived to hold on to their latest squeezes for the darkest season. In spring, I knew, the hormonal hordes would pour back onto the streets in search of love and mere debauchery. But for now the months stretched before me like jail time.

It was Monday evening, deathly dark, and my home had all the furnishings of a prison cell. As an Irishman in this atomized city, where living alone was more rule than exception, I was struggling to find a social outlet that would take me beyond the realm of pubs and playing fields. But as I sat there perusing the TV guide and preparing to be bored, I suddenly came up with a way of avoiding solitary confinement: the advent of internet dating meant that the clunky old computer in the corner could serve as my dynamite, my tunneling tool, my smuggled key.

I bounded across the pinewood floor and opened a browser window. Within minutes, the gloom had lifted as I connected with countless sensitive singles simultaneously surfing the internet in studio apartments from the city centre to the archipelago.

It was the ideal solution in many ways. I had recently cut my ties with the Swedish woman who had once moored me and now I was floating adrift in a sea containing plenty of the proverbial fish. But until now I had lacked a rod with which to catch them. (Presuming we can keep our minds out of the gutter for a second).

Back home I could have gripped the social crutch offered by friends and family, which was certainly an option worth considering. But I liked it here and relished the challenge of finding my feet in an unknown city. And so it was that the_irish_bullfrog took his first tentative leap into the shimmering pond of online dating.

But before gaining access to pages and pages of lovely ladies, I was obliged to fill in forms, tick boxes and provide a general description of myself and my whims. ‘Judgmental’, ‘frugal’ and ‘socially awkward’ all sprang immediately to mind but didn’t seem to create the desired effect. ‘Caring’, ‘witty’ and ‘fun-loving’ were some of the qualities that eventually made the cut.

When finally I got to scour the profiles of thousands of comely maidens, I found to my chagrin that many of my prospective dates had similarly edited their personalities to fit the language of mindless happy-babble. Everyone was nice, generous, crazy about animals, fond of shopping, and they all seemed to spend half their lives either in the gym, going to the cinema or drinking coffee with friends.

Out of pure human interest I scanned the profiles of scores of women aged between 18 and 65 in towns and cities from Luleå to Malmö. Cats, cinema, gym, shopping, coffee, friends and general sameness as far as the eye could see. Clearly this was a manifestation of the Jante Law I had heard so much about, which made a virtue out of dreary sameness. Having yawned my way through several tons of these electronic sheaves, I soon found myself looking for women who enjoyed fist fights and spiking their friends’ coffee with psychoactive drugs. Just like home.

As I mentioned before, my own profile wasn’t much better. So I changed some settings, spiced it up a bit, and morphed into an altogether edgier bullfrog. I quickly learned how much of online dating is an exercise in filtering. If we weren’t talking about sentient human beings with relationship deficits, we might say that we were separating the wheat from the chaff.

Sometimes the names alone provided hints as to the prospects for a lasting relationship. Somehow gunilla_luvs_prozac didn’t seem quite ready, whereas cum2mama was if anything a little too ready. Messages from hysterical_hilda, katsb4men and imeldamarcos were similarly binned.

But diligent research eventually brought its rewards as I discovered that beyond the mundane Majas lay clusters of intriguing Tinas, Linas and Sabrinas.

Being as shallow as the next man, the ruthless process of elimination meant that photographic evidence was very much taken into consideration. I, however, fearing for my photo’s fate out there in the ether, opted instead to upload an image of a very attractive rooster. This could be justifiably viewed as a flagrant waste of everybody’s time, since members of the fairer sex are equally keen to cop an eyeful before sampling the wares. But within minutes somebody called satmara_tina76 had alighted on my online coop and laid a message in my tray.

“Nice cock!” read the compliment.

“You sound nice,” I replied. “Would you like to meet for coffee and a cream bun?”

I met Tina at a café a few days later. As it happened, the date, though flawless in terms of physique and biology, was decidedly lacking in chemistry. But it got a couple of single people out of their flats on a cold November afternoon and for that alone it should be applauded.

Next up was Lina4evah, who compensated for her silly screen name with a captivating smile and a willingness to engage in MSN banter.

But herein lies one of the perils of online dating. The hilarity of our online exchanges did not translate to the three dimensional world. As dating novices, both hailing from countries with no real history of the art, we made the unforgivable mistake of going to see a movie. When I spotted her by now familiar face outside the Rigoletto I could see that she had the look of the spoiled brat about her when her mouth actually moved.

And the dislike was mutual. She frowned at my corduroy trousers and winced at my slit fricatives. We each spent the film half expecting the other to make a dash for the fire exit. That evening, cringing in front of our respective monitors, we uttered a final thanks but no thanks and that was the last I evah heard of her.

At first glance, sabrina_boysboysboys also seemed to slot neatly into the bulging category of the overeager. Whereas I at this point had replaced my rooster with a stylishly blurred picture of myself, I noticed that Sabrina was using an image of the busty Italian songstress of the same name. By the powers of the much-touted information superhighway, we fizzed off teaser questions to size each other up for dateworthiness and within days Sabrina and I were clinking glasses at a bar in Gamla Stan.

By the New Year we were hooking up on a regular basis and things were looking good IRL – in real life. We held gloved hands on walks along the city’s iced-over waterways. We drank hot chocolate in cosy cafés and nudged each other’s noses with growing affection. By March we had become nauseating even to ourselves and by April it was all off.

In spring, the hormonal hordes poured back onto the streets. For once I was ready, galvanized by a winter’s gallivanting. By the end of the summer I had met the_swedish_cowfrog in an offline environment and had no more need for online dating. But it was a tonic while it lasted, helping me to assimilate, vastly improve my written Swedish and meet a few beautiful natives into the bargain.

Michael Lynch


Looking for a Swede to keep you warm this winter?

Search among millions of singles in Sweden and throughout Europe! If you sign up now you get 3 days for free to enjoy the full functionality of meetic! You are only a few clicks away from video chatting with singles around the world.

MeeticSign up now!

This offer is valid until November 6th 2007 and applies to new sign-ups only.


EUROPE

How European countries have changed after a year of coronavirus crisis

Sunday February 14th marks one year since the first coronavirus death in Europe. Life in the countries has changed dramatically as our journalists across nine countries report.

How European countries have changed after a year of coronavirus crisis
Children hold a sign reading "I want to ski" at a December protest against the French government's decision to keep ski lifts closed. Photo: AFP

In some ways the pandemic has forced through much-needed change, but mostly it's just been a long, hard slog, with some the small pleasures of living in the different countries in The Local's network stripped away. Our reporters reflect on some of the biggest changes. 

Patients lie in bed at a temporary emergency structure set up outside the Brescia hospital in Lombardy on March 13, 2020. Photo: Miguel MEDINA / AFP

Clare Speak, Italy

One year ago, most people in Italy were starting to wonder just how worried they should be about the new coronavirus. Less than two weeks later, Europe’s first major outbreak exploded in the north of the country.

Since then, the pandemic has changed life in Italy in countless ways, large and small. Big family lunches have become a thing of the past, as has the habit of hugging and kissing everyone you meet. At least we can now buy takeaway coffee everywhere in Italy for the first time. Previously seen as sacrilege, the concept has now been embraced as people had little other choice.

Another change is the fact that you no longer have to do absolutely everything in person. Some bureaucratic processes are (slowly) moving online, and more people are shifting away from cash payments. Online shopping, too, is catching on.

One of the biggest changes is the loss of mass tourism, which until last year accounted for some 13 percent of national GDP. Last February, the foreign minister was still begging tourists not to cancel trips to Italy. That message soon changed. Most travel now remains heavily restricted

Like everywhere else, the economy is struggling and unemployment has shot up. Government ministers have suggested that the billions of euros in EU recovery funds, arriving this year, should be used for major restructuring of the economy. There are hopes that Italy could rely less on tourism and more on its strong manufacturing sector, for example.

But the future is very uncertain. Right now, Italy has been without a fully-functioning government for almost a month. We may get a new one this weekend, but there’s no word on possible policies yet. Even during a pandemic, Italian politics remains as unpredictable as ever.

While face masks on public transport are now recommended in Sweden in rush hour, compliance is limited. Photo: Jessica Gow/TT

Emma Löfgren, Sweden

Around this time last year, Swedish health authorities still considered the risk to be “very low” that the coronavirus would spread within Sweden. Only one person had tested positive, and it was to take another month before the country’s first death.

Fast forward to now, and more than 600,000 cases of the virus have been confirmed, more than 12,000 people have died. And we’re told to brace for a third wave.

One of the recurring criticisms this year has been that Sweden was slow to react to new data about the virus, and favoured voluntary measures over binding lockdowns. It has recently cracked down harder than before, with binding restrictions on for example travel, and guidelines to wear face masks during rush hour on public transport (albeit so optional that even the head of the Public Health Agency himself admitted to having forgotten once to wear a mask on the bus).

Meanwhile, the debate has become more and more fractious. An online campaign group for critics of Sweden's coronavirus strategy has been accused of being “a threat to democracy” after public radio reported it was spreading hate and trying to influence foreign governments to tighten travel restrictions for Swedes. Senior officials have received death threats.

Readers of The Local have reported receiving xenophobic abuse after criticising the strategy, while others say they have been threatened for the act of wearing a face mask. Researchers have said they are no longer commenting on the coronavirus in the media due to harassment.

It’s clear Sweden will need a period of reflection and accountability to solve the problems that have been laid bare by the pandemic, for example inequalities when it comes to healthcare access, but if it continues like this it will be hard to find room for constructive discussion.

People wearing face masks at a Christmas market in Essen, Germany, back in October. Photo: Ina Fassbender / AFP

Rachel Loxton, Germany

In Germany we’ve been in a Covid-19 shutdown for more than four months now – and it’s just been extended until March 7th. Restaurants, bars and cafes shut (except for takeaway) at the start of November, along with cultural and leisure facilities. 

The rules were tightened in December with the closure of all non-essential shops and schools, plus stricter contact rules.

It’s hard to imagine this time a year ago. The first known coronavirus outbreak in Germany – detected in Bavaria – had been brought under control. But Covid was already spreading.

We went into our first lockdown in March – the seriousness of the situation only became clear when Chancellor Angela Merkel addressed the nation, saying it was the biggest challenge since World War II. 

After this point everyone began following the rules. And it paid off. The numbers came down and we thought it was all over.

The world wanted to learn lessons from Germany. We were lauded for our quick action, test and trace and rigorous testing. 

Summer feels like it took place years ago on another planet. Although we wore masks (a rule brought in last April), we were able to sit with friends, eat food, drink and enjoy some kind of normality. 

Things quickly went downhill as cases began to shoot up. Merkel admitted this week that Germany dropped the ball. 

She said the government's approach at the end of summer was “too hesitant”, that Germany was “not careful enough and not fast enough”.

Although there are fears over coronavirus variants, there’s hope ahead.

States will reopen more of public life if numbers continue to come down. 

The number of cases per 100,000 residents in seven days stands at around 65. Months of restrictions have paid off. 

But people are weary. We go to the supermarket, we buy beer, we walk, we stay at home.

Life goes on in some ways – yet we’re stuck. We need things to get back to some kind of normality.

People just desperately hope that opening up doesn’t mean another wave and lockdown is on the cards.

A closed café in Montpellier in the south of France during the country's November lockdown. Photo: Pascal Guyot/AFP 

Emma Pearson, France
 
Chatting in cafés over a bottle of wine, going to see a film, heading to the seaside to faire le pont and spend three days eating oysters and grilled langoustines . . . so many small pleasures of life in France have been unavailable over the last year.
 
But while this last year has undoubtedly been very tough it has also been interesting to see how France has handled it and how that compares to other countries.
 
Some things we could have predicted – the heavily centralised State response and the retreat into bureaucracy that had us all filling out forms to leave the home seemed very French. As, unfortunately, have some of the missteps and delays in the government response, such as the glacially slow pace of the vaccine rollout.
 
But some things have come as more of a surprise, particularly the fact that the French – internationally caricatured as being constantly either on strike or protesting – have lived for a year under some of the strictest rules in the world.
 
Clearly not everyone in France has obeyed the rules but the country has – so far – largely avoided mass anti-lockdown/curfew protests or even riots seen in countries including Germany, the Netherlands, the UK and the USA.
 
While some countries have insisted on their 'freedom loving' status and seen terrible death tolls as a result, France has sacrificed its liberté and demonstrated instead fraternité. From State aid for those struggling to people staying indoors to protect the vulnerable and the health service, the crisis has brought out many of the very best aspects of France. 
 
As we look ahead to what will hopefully be the easing of the crisis and the reopening of the country, France faces what is perhaps a bigger challenge – the combination of a massive recession and a 2022 presidential election with an increasingly confident far-right movement. Let's hope the country can continue to show the best of itself.
 
A couple are served a bowl of fondue in a former ski gondola at Restaurant Marzilibruecke in Bern in November 16. Photo: Stefan Wermuth/AFP
 
Helena Bachmann, Switzerland

What has changed in Switzerland since the start of the pandemic? The answer is: everything.

Nothing about our lives is the way it used to be before the coronavirus struck. So many of us forgot what it’s like not to wear masks and carry a bottle of disinfectant wherever we go.

Those days seem like another lifetime.

With the exception of a couple months in the summer, when restrictions were temporarily lifted because it looked like we had Covid under control, the past year has been marked by incessant grimness. 

As soon as a flicker of hope emerges, it quickly disappears. For instance, the number of Covid infections, hospitalisations and deaths has been dropping, but the new variants of the virus are multiplying and are expected to become dominant very soon.

And so many people were hoping that the vaccines  would finally give us our ‘old’ lives back, including all the freedoms we used to take for granted. But now that the vaccines are here — even though they are in short supply — we are told they may not be effective against new virus mutations. There’s just no way to win this battle.

It seems like we take one step forward and three steps back.

While we surely know more about coronavirus now than we did a year ago, we still can’t find our way out of this predicament.

The shutdown measures currently in place — the closing of bars, restaurants, and all non-essential businesses, along with the five-person limit on gatherings — were supposed to be lifted on February 28th. But now authorities are saying this deadline may be extended.

Given this situation, an increasing number of people are relieving their sense of hopelessness and despair through drugs and alcohol, according to new research showing that the pandemic and addictions go hand in hand. 

Others express their frustration through acts of aggression. “Everything is closed. There is nothing we can do anymore, we feel locked up”, one participant in a brawl said on social media

Under these circumstances, it’s difficult to see any light at the end of this long tunnel. Only die-hard optimists can see a rosy future ahead.

 

Santa Claus greets children at Aalborg Zoo protected by a coronavirus safe plastic bubble. Photo: Henning Bagger / Ritzau Scanpix / AFP

Michael Barrett, Denmark

It’s just under a year since Denmark registered its first case of the coronavirus, in a man returning from a ski trip to northern Italy. The country responded relatively quickly, announcing a national lockdown on March 11th. The week leading up to that date had already seen various announcements – I recall the government advising the public to forego handshakes for now, and asking organisers of concerts to call them off.

That felt surreal and unprecedented at the time but it is now everyday life. There’s no schedule for a return to normality. Prime Minister Mette Frederiksen said this week that “full epidemic control” would be needed for that, even as younger school age groups were allowed to return in the only loosening of the current lockdown so far allowed.

I’ve forgotten what it’s like to walk around a supermarket without a face mask on, I’ve also forgotten the last time I visited parts of Copenhagen I frequented before the pandemic to meet friends, eat out or simply to go into the office.

Denmark was hit hard by the second wave of the virus over the winter and is now grappling with B117, but has avoided the very worst restrictions like stay-at-home orders and limits on going out for exercise. Even in temperatures well under zero, there’s life outside: runners, people walking with prams, passers-by with coffee and takeaway from nearby cafes. These are the small signs that normal life is still here under the surface of what feels like an interminable separation from crowds and company.

A shop in Madrid decked out with improvised protective plastic sheeting in March. Photo: Oscar del Pozo/AFP
 
 
Fiona Govan, Spain

Spain has been one of the hardest-hit nations in Europe recording more than three million coronavirus cases and over 64,000 dead and that’s just the official count.  When the pandemic hit, Spain went into the strictest lockdown in Europe with people confined to their homes for over three months, not even allowed outside for exercise. 

From lockdown through de-escalation and back to an ongoing series of tightening and loosening of restrictions we’ve learnt that in fact Spaniards (young people and their botellons aside) are for the most part are pretty law abiding citizens, navigating a complicated raft of instructions that differ from region to region and sometimes even town to town and are subject to change every few days.

We’ve also learnt that despite outward displays of solidarity – seen during lockdown’s nightly applause for healthcare workers – Spanish society is quick to divide along partisan lines, with pot banging on the streets of Madrid’s upmarket Salamanca district against the leftist central government’s policies and demos in the working class districts opposed to restrictions imposed by right-wing regional authorities.

New words have been adopted into the lexicon; 'toque de queda' (curfew) 'confinamiento'  and that most controversial of terms that emerged at Christmas –‘allegados’– and habits have changed. Everyone is now used to wearing masks and an elbow bump has replaced the traditional greeting of a kiss on each cheek. No-one goes out for dinner at 9 in the evening. They can’t because the restaurants are closed. 

Above all Spain is facing an economic crisis that promises to be even more devastating than the last one with GDP contracting by 11 percent in 2020 and more than 600,000 job losses pushing the unemployment rate to above 16 percent. 

Tourism, an industry on which Spain is so reliant attracting more than 80 million annual visitors before the pandemic hit, is currently dead in the water but it will bounce back and so too will the fiestas, the late nights and Spanish highly social way of living. 

If we can all just hold on until then.

Norwegian children returning to school in April. Photo: AFP

Isabel Müller Eidhamar, Norway

It is almost one year since Norway closed its borders to the world in the light of the mysterious new virus outbreak known as Covid-19, one of the first in Europe to do so. It is fair to say that no one expected then the extents in which it would disrupt our lives, and as we enter our second pandemic Spring it is clear that most Norwegians are sick and tired of it all.

The biggest effect is arguably the shutting of the borders, and for a people who love to travel, ranking top of people with the most travel days in Europe in 2014, being unable to travel anywhere for over a year has had a big impact. Even day-trips to neighboring Sweden to shop cheap groceries have stopped, and Norwegians with family abroad have for the most part of a year been unable to see or visit them. When the Government implemented the controversial quarantine hotel in the autumn, Norwegians stuck abroad went into havoc.

Education, seminars, work and social life has been moved to the online sphere, where a night on the town with friends has been replaced with a Zoom quiz and laughter shared through a screen. Neither bad, just different.

Face masks have also become mandatory in many places, and every shop smells of antibac. Yet, perhaps Norwegians have come to enjoy the small things to a greater extent, and many more have discovered the magic of their home country as the summer encouraged local travel. Despite economic hardship, the sales of cabins have skyrocketed.

As Norway maneuvers its second wave and vaccinations have been halted, it can be hard to see the light at the end of the tunnel, but like the Norwegian nights get longer and brighter so will life. It might just take a little longer than we all first anticipated.

A woman opens a shop in downtown Austria in February. Photo: Ronald Zak/AP/AFP

Emma Midgley, Austria

As early as January last year there was a change in Vienna. Suddenly it was possible to visit the spectacular Cafe Central without queuing or get reservations in a restaurant at short notice as the number of tourists visiting from China dwindled to nothing.

Austria imposed a strict lockdown in mid-March. One of the world's first coronavirus hotspots was the Austrian ski resort of Ischgl, which led to infections all over Europe as people returned home after holidays. 

Now for most of the year Austria’s top tourist attractions have been empty. Vienna’s historic cafes and restaurants are struggling to survive. Century-old coffee houses are being used as study rooms for home-schooling teenagers rather than for paying customers. 

Before coronavirus it was easy to travel by train to Prague or Budapest from Vienna for the weekend or board a sleeper train at Vienna in the evening and wake up in Venice. People regularly commuted to Vienna for work from nearby Bratislava in Slovakia. Now travelling to neighbouring countries involves filling in forms, taking corona tests and even quarantine.

Before coronavirus, laws had been brought in making it illegal to wear face masks in Austria. It was often only possible to pay with cash in shops. Now FFP 2 masks are mandatory and paying by bank card is standard. Coronavirus has also stopped the traditional greeting of shaking hands. 

Last summer brought some normality, but after cases rose dramatically in the autumn, we were locked down again. Austria has suffered badly in terms of its economy, which is particularly dependent on winter tourism, and this has led to protests against the lockdown. However, the outdoor-loving Austrians continue to enjoy hiking and winter sports, with skiing and ice-skating permitted for locals even during the pandemic. Hopefully with the vaccine rollout, better times are ahead. 

 

 

 

 

SHOW COMMENTS