Wow! I feel like breaking out into a slightly re-arranged version of JPY's classic song at this sight:



The ice in the bay is gradually retreating and soon we will be sailing along this bay like we were last summer:



It's hard to believe that it's the same place, isn't it? And I've been doing the very Swedish thing of dreaming about our sailing this summer. A sure sign that I've been here too long. Actually there are some other disturbing signs of that lately as well. Apparently, I did something terribly Swedish yesterday: I refused a coffee date with a friend because it conflicted with my laundry room reservation. That's not as specious an excuse as it sounds: These three-hour slots for washing, drying and ironing are a precious commodity. They require days of advance planning. Doing laundry requires as much thinking ahead as buying alcohol from Systembolaget, and as much patience as standing in line for a Stockholm nightclub; it's an investment in time one should not squander unnecessarily.

When I told my friend my excuse, she immediately said, "Oh, so it only took you three years to become Swedish. That's amazing." Add a generous dollop of sarcasm to that statement. I do hate being predictable like that, but not as much as going without underwear, so laundry room it remains.

Actually there is a whole laundry room culture in this country that needs to be explored. Many people believe in judgement day. A day of reckoning at the end of time when the good and the evil are sent their separate ways. The good get angel’s wings and blessings, while the rest get horns and endless heat.

Anyone who has ever lived in a Swedish flat knows where the final judgement will be handed down – in the laundry room. In front of the drier. For this is where sinners are revealed. It takes about 30 seconds for your doom to be sealed.

Swedish morality is simple and direct on this point: a good person cleans the lint filter on the drier. The filter collects lint from the clothing in the drier. Lint is like our old sins – a grey, diffuse, unappetising tangle. The only difference is that sins are caught by the filter of conscience. Lint is caught by the lint filter.

I know lint filters get no mention in the Bible, the Koran, the Abhidharma or the Mahabharata. To the best of my knowledge, there were no driers in the time of the prophets. But the moral code of the laundry room has deep roots in most religions: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. The Golden Rule appears in many sacred writings, though the wording may vary. It also appears on a sign in my building’s laundry room: “Leave the laundry room in the condition you would like to find it.”

And it is etched in letters of fire on my neighbour’s outraged visage.
“And what is this?” he asks with burning fury.
I look down at the lint filter. My neighbour holds it up for inspection: the entire surface is covered with the lint of sin. My lint, and it’s still there. Foul grey lint. I cringe with shame, searching for words to fend off the judgement I know is coming.
“I...uhm...must have forgotten...” I mumble.
“Forgotten?!” says my neighbour.
His accusation stings. I feel as if the sky may fall on me. My good name is at stake here. My cheeks redden. I break out in a sweat. The neighbour just stares at me and my lint.

Maybe I could assure him that I usually clean the lint filter. That I try to lead a good life, give to charity, am honest and forthright and help children and pensioners whenever I can, that I feed the birds in the courtyard, pay my taxes, always think the best of the people I meet...

But I know these are no more than excuses and evasions. My neighbour waves the fluffy evidence in my face.
“Well?”

It’s odd, actually, that the laundry room makes as big a difference as it does in Sweden. But in many housing areas, the laundry room is the only place where neighbours see one another. Otherwise, we live our family lives in our flats. We welcome our relatives and friends across the threshold, but only rarely do we invite our neighbours in for coffee, a party or a bit of socialising.

Instead, we meet in the cold light of the laundry room, amid humming machinery and piles of damp clothing and sheets. Maybe friendship can flower in the laundry room. Maybe pure Swedish wool can be mixed with Egyptian cotton, white mixed with colours. Maybe a glorious song can rise up from cheerful neighbours gathered round the laundry mangle. Maybe my neighbour and I can become the best of friends once the centrifuge winds down, look upon one another in all our common humanity.

“Well?” he repeats in the voice of doom.

Suddenly I catch a glimpse of his watch. I nearly faint. It’s only four! I’ve booked the laundry room until five – I have a whole hour left. The neighbour got the time wrong, came an hour too early. I have a full hour, 60 minutes, to exonerate myself as a human being, to save my good name. To clean the lint filter of the drier.

A Swedish author, August Strindberg, once wrote: It is not in our virtues but in our faults that our humanity resides. That’s a sign that should be put up in every Swedish laundry room.