Erik doesn't seem appreciably older. His face has matured a little bit. He would be...thirty? We have been chatting, awkwardly for five minutes. We don't seem to know what to say to each other. It's been mostly about the weather, in Malmo, rather on the cool side, but spring has finally kicked in.
"Greta says hi", he says, his face solemn.
"How is she?"
"Raising her kid with her partner and doing research on marine habitats and global warming. Her partner, Mehmet, is Turkish, but he's lived here in Sweden since he was a kid."
"Which makes him a Swede."
"Well, a de facto Swede, I imagine."
Yes, I do remember that subtle European racial arrogance. Not even the most progressive of the progressive white Swedes appear too eager to fully embrace a visible minority as one of them. We can hardly do it much better here in Canada, and maybe we're just better liars and greater hypocrites.
"My aunt really likes him. She thinks of him as Swedish."
"Well, he is Swedish."
"He wasn't born here."
"And that should matter, because..."
There is no answer from Erik. I wasn't anticipating an argument about racial bigotry so soon.
"How old was Mehmet when he came to Sweden?"
"I think he was just two or three years old."
"Does he have Swedish citizenship?"
"Yes."
"Does he speak Swedish, fluently?"
"English, too. He says he's forgotten a lot of his Turkish."
"And that doesn't make him Swedish?"
Erik is silent again. Then he says, "Tell me about your retreat..."
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