My Expat Dream Deferred

Like many people, I yearn to retire abroad. Given a nod, I would move to Sweden in an instant. All I get is a polite headshake.

Every week I come across stories about couples moving to Italy and scooping up homes for a dollar, retirees settling in Johannesburg and families trying out a new way of life in Belize. I always figured, when I returned to Canada from the U.S., that would be it. Home to stay.

When I hit 50, I came down with the travel bug. Not the kind that had me wondering what was in the water but the type that has me regularly checking flights to Europe on Expedia. I'm cautious by nature, so it was baby steps in the beginning. London to start. Same language, same queen, same Cadbury chocolates.

I braved Dublin next. Same language, supposedly. All my life, I'd been told my red hair, my temperament and a teensy bit of DNA made me the Irish one in the family. I sensed I would visit and decide to be fulltime Irish, rather than someone who took well to St. Patrick's Day. I liked Dublin and my jaunt to Galway, but I did not feel the pull to relocate.

Still, that trip planted the seed that maybe I would want to retire in a city abroad. Maybe, after two decades back in Canada, I needed another bold move.

Hello, Amsterdam. A slight stretch but no significant language barrier. I'm an avid cyclist. I often buy myself tulips. Windmills offered kitschy charm. Plus, the canals are lovely. At first, cyclist traffic intimidated me, but then I rented a bike, found my place in the makeshift peloton and felt the rush of fitting in. Wonderful city. I will visit again.

Copenhagen. Even more appealing, but I stuck out as a tourist. Not my future home.

And then came Stockholm. It was the second half of my trip that began in Denmark. It had been where I really wanted to go, but people said there was more to do in Copenhagen — more fun, an active bar scene plus friendlier people.

After trying on other cities, seeing if I could force a fit, I found Stockholm to be a perfect match. As with many relationships, sometimes you just know. The connection felt immediate. I've spent the years since filling in the whys.

After the inaugural visit in 2017, I returned the next year and the next. I was five days away from my 2020 trip, including a two-week intensive language course, when COVID lockdowns caused my flight to be canceled. I've gone twice since.

I'm writing this while having fika — a midmorning coffee break that somehow has a sociocultural component — at Drop Coffee in my favorite area, Södermalm. There's a new art installation by a nearby metro station, a sign composed of lightbulbs, taunting me with the message, HOMETOWN. Alas, it isn't. I desperately want it to be my adopted city.

The problem is that Sweden isn't interested in self-sufficient 60-year-old Canadians. Not even those who completed a Swedish language course on Duolingo five years ago and spend half an hour each day practicing. Fluency remains far, far away. Alas, so does the prospect of moving.

I frequently Google how to move to Sweden from Canada. I keep getting information I do not want — specifically, the country does not want me. I need to be European or have family here. I need to have specialized skills Sweden needs. Nothing about being a former American lawyer, Canadian special education teacher, school principal, lifeguard, Mexican restaurant busboy or having a paper route when I was 10 garners a nod. Yep, I've looked into everything.

During my last three trips to Stockholm, I've not had tourist activities on the agenda. That's not what interests me anymore. Instead, I enjoy living normal days in the city, beginning with a jog along one of many established running routes, then a series of writing sessions in a long list of favorite cafés broken up by walks along waterways. I have favorite parks — benches, even — where I sit and read. I frequent grocery stores rather than restaurants. I can navigate the subway system. I rarely need to refer to a map.

More than knowing the city, I have a good (and still growing) sense of the Swedish ways of being. I have heard other visitors refer to the people as reserved, even cold. My view is different. As an introvert, I am free to keep to myself and I am left alone in shops. When, however, I ask a question, the response is always friendly. It is their genuine pleasure to answer. I am wowed.

There is a sense of order here. Everything is logical. I like to pass a glove shop in Norrmalm where every item is reverently displayed. I have noticed the same thing in bike shops and a candy store this trip. I do not have an innate orderliness, but I find amazement and amusement in the care that Swedes take.

On a bike ride today, I passed through a park and noticed the many trash cans were camouflaged with wicker-like woodsy screens. Trash should not be seen but neither should the trash cans. Who took the time to think of this and implement it? Every time I hover my key fob at my hotel entry, I am greeted by the message, "Välkommen in."

I smile a lot here. This city is my geographical equivalent to a comfy recliner . . . only it looks far more stylish.

There are bigger, more important things I connect with as well. Every time I visit, it is noticeable how many men are outdoors at any time of day, pushing infants in prams. There always appears to be a baby boom, but I have concluded instead that childhood is revered here and having them seen and heard is a given.

Yesterday, I passed a choir outside Riksdag, the Swedish parliament, singing about climate change. No shouting; just lovely voices.

There are Swedish things I do not connect with such as crayfish parties, fermented herring and large grocery displays devoted to mustard but, as a vegetarian, I will always sit out some things wherever I live.

More than anywhere else, even my home country, I feel like myself in Sweden. I can be my inconspicuous self who loves spotting the littlest details in this society and who appreciates the broader regard for consensus, community and respect for the environment.

I may never have the opportunity to live here full-time, but I will spend several years in Sweden. It will come as an accumulation of smaller bits of time as I amass frequent flyer miles and imbue my Vancouver home with a style and sensibility that reflects the Swedish notion of lagom, where everything is just right . . . or as right as it can be under the circumstances.

As I mustered up extra motivation to complete my run one morning during my most recent stay, I told myself, "Almost home." I meant my hotel, but the notion applies in the greater sense, too. Almost, indeed.

Gregory Walters has been published by The New York Times, The Globe and Mail, CBC, The Gay & Lesbian Review, Funny Times, Vancouver Is Awesome, Cottage Life, Junto Magazine and Writer’s Digest. He has a blog, Aging Gayly, and is partial to salted caramel ice cream and freshly made waffle cones. Read More