"Helter skelter in the summer swelter..."

Swedes love to talk about the weather, or so the travel guides say. Personally I think you'll find a similar assertion in travel guides about every country from Afghanistan to Zimbabwe. Nevertheless, when I'm stuck in the elevator with one of the hundreds strangers I share an apartment building with, internally debating whether it would be more or less uncomfortable to initiate conversation, a statement about the weather never goes amiss - especially because I know lots of weather words in Swedish. Over the past few weeks, I've found myself repeating "fan, vad värmt det är idag". ("It's really goddam hot today").

And it is. The apartment is unbearable, even with our windows wide open. I've been forced to go swimming almost every day to avoid melting like a mjuk glass (overpriced soft serve ice cream that melts all over your hands before you get a chance to introduce it to your tongue). There's a beautiful lake (Delsjön) only a 20 minute bike ride from our house, which is where the entire population of Gothenburg seems to live on a Sunday, but which still offers plenty of secluded spots to lie on the big flat rocks or splash around in the deep warm water. I managed to fall in while approaching one of these secluded spots; a branch snapped underneath my foot and suddenly I found myself, complete with backpack, shoes, and bicycle helmet, lying in the lake with a bruised bottom. But if you have to fall in a Swedish lake fully clothed, summer is the time to do it!

I also had my first swim in the Swedish sea. Axel and I, and our friends Mark and Anna, had decided to spend the day swimming, eating and lying in the sun on one of the idyllic islands in the Gothenburg archipelago. Axel and I had bought our en-gångs grill (disposable barbecue) and chorizo sausages nearly a week in advance, and I planned to add to the feast with home-made tzatziki and foccacia bread. Of course, the day turned out to be the only overcast and windy day during the heatwave, I forgot to pack the sausages, I took too long making the bread and couldn't bake it, and we missed our boat. Instead we went to the beach at Fiskebäck, and all our failures didn't seemed to matter when two things became apparent: 1) Good friends make anything fun, especially when one of the friends is willing to take an extra 40 minutes on the bicycle to buy you food; 2) THE SEA WAS WARM! It was kind of an amazing experience bobbing about in this black sea under an iron grey sky, surrounded by gargantuan hunks of stone worn smooth and flat by aeons of ice. It felt almost primeval, if only the water had been colder. Despite appearances, it was warmer than Wellington beaches. Swedes, however, are total wimps. Mark (an Irishman) and I both enjoyed lenthy swims, but our daintier other halves merely dipped in and hurried out after less than a minute, claiming to be too cold. When I got stung by a small jellyfish on my third swim that day, Axel told me he hoped I'd learned my lesson about staying in the water too long.

As if I wasn't spoiled for choice with both a lake and the sea to hand, I've also signed up at the swimming pool a couple of minutes from our apartment. My first visit to the swimming pool reminded me what it is that makes me feel foreign - it's when I break the social codes that everyone else knows and follows without thinking. Initially I thought I was doing quite well, I spoke some Swedish to the reception lady, and found my way to the locker rooms entrance. I opened the door and emerged into a tiny room lined with benches, and a sign that instructed me to take off my shoes. Carrying my shoes, I passed into the next room, which was filled with lockers. I got changed, stowed my gear in the locker, and passed into a third room. This room was harshly lit, and filled with steam and naked women. The walls were papered with signs instructing people to take showers before swimming, and that it was forbidden to wear your swimsuit in the showers. So I took off the swimsuit I'd just put on, and jostled for space with the other naked women in the communal showers. Only, I couldn't figure out how to turn my shower on. Strangely enough, I felt decidedly uncomfortable about standing there naked and using my broken Swedish to ask the naked woman next to me how to turn the shower on. Eventually I found another shower, quickly washed, and put my swimsuit back on. Then went through another door and found a kiddy pool. Then went through another door and found, at last, the swim-training pool.

Here though, was another challenge. In NZ we have lanes to separate Slow, Medium, and Fast swimmers. I didn't understand what was written on the signs here, but I knew it wasn't to do with speed. Eventually I asked someone, and discovered that the Swedes differentiate based on what kind of stroke you want to do - freestyle or breast-stroke. The breast-stroke lanes are the most popular, with people going round and round in perfect harmony with hardly a ripple. In case you don't get the idea, they even have a sign that directs you to turn around again once you get to the end of the lane. I had my little chuckle at that, but then had to re-enter the cursed bureaucratic changing rooms on my way out: Back through the doors to the shower-room; off with the swimsuit... wait, my towel and shampoo are in my locker... Back on with the swimsuit, and into the locker room, which I suddenly realised was completely dry except for the trail of water I'd trecked in. I got my shampoo and went back to the shower room, hoping no one had seen that it was me who defiled the sanctity of the dry locker room. Off with the swimsuit, then shower... oops, forgot the towel. Back to the dry locker room, taking more water with me. I got dressed, and because I was in such a fluster, I put my shoes on before I reached the appropriate outer-cubicle. In the matter of Me and Swedish Swimming Pool Ettiquette, the judge decalres a verdict of FAIL.