Malmoe

A highlight is taking the lift to the top floor of Kronprinsen, the multi-storey building that rises like a totem pole from Malmö’s tarmac plain. It’s an advantage to have seen Magnus Gertten’s film about the city and read Fredrik Ekelund’s “Taxi Seven-Two Among Dreamers and Fools”.

There’s no way of knowing how long the Malmö way of life will last, but its speech is living on borrowed time. It’s the fault of television and immigrants: the immigrants’ accents are diluting the genuine Malmö dialect, while TV has a similar effect. In a few generations it will be difficult to hear the difference between a Scanian accent and a Stockholm one.

Malmö’s condition is explained by a need to compensate. Its lack of urban elegance is offset by a heavenly lilt and a way of life to arouse jealousy among the denizens of other Swedish cities. Since there is nothing to see, Malmöites have to leave their city to see anything of beauty. That’s why the Öresund Bridge was built – to serve as a trapdoor for Malmö’s inhabitants. Yet they seldom get further than the Copenhagen waterfront, where – after a few beers – they wish they were home again. Malmöites are themselves. They see Helsingborg as a haughty beauty at the northern entrance to Öresund and think Copenhagen’s not too bad. But neither of them, they say, are quite like Malmö.

Malmö is a city to listen to, which is why language is important. The Malmö accent is disarming, and the Malmöites themselves are casually laid-back and lacking in any American braggadocio. So much so that you can sneak in to a restaurant or bar, sit down beside their table and listen to the torrent of words pouring forth. Before I’ve managed to say anything the talker leans towards me, looks me straight in the eye and says:

“So, what d’you think of Malmö?”
As if my opinion counts! No, when I listen to the brutal, tender, affectionate, ironic and vital Malmö way of talking I feel a sense of love deep in side.

But even love can be pressed for time, and when I’ve heard enough it’s time to venture out into the city. A mist has enveloped the rooftops and seems set to stay forever. I walk to Kronprinsen and take the lift to the top floor, where the view confirms all I heard from the adjacent table.

Before the mist lifts and the city reappears I remember that this is Sweden’s bastion of social democracy, where the Social Democrats were in power from 1919 to 1985, which must be some sort of record. Eventually the Malmöites got together and voted for change, though it didn’t take long before they voted the Social Democrats back in again. What on earth can one say about such people and such a city?