Last weekend I was witness to the most important Swedish ritual of the year — Midsommar — wherein small children are converted to socialism whilst adults revel in the ungodly pursuit of booze.

My midsommar took place on the Stockholm Archipelago, which was constructed to maximize the amount of coastline, so that a waterside summerhouse could be had by all according to need, not greed. Joachim and Elise and their two-year old, David, invited me.

Before setting off, I was instructed by my hosts to report to System Bolaget, the state organ in charge of alcohol dissemination. I have a love-hate relationship with this monopolistic institution. Although I am against monopolies in principle, there is something to be said for the state deriving significant income from my drinking habits — clearly, our interests align in his case.

Most System Bolaget stores look like pharmacies. You take a number; while waiting for your turn, you may peruse giant glass-cased display shelves of wine organized by color, region, price and type. Go to the counter, where a functionary takes your order and fetches it from their stock. At first, I would simply ask for the vintages or brands I craved, but now I have discovered another advantage to the monopoly regime: Since I am not about to buy this alcohol anywhere else, store employees are actually quite happy to discuss my purchase at length. They even have a help line.

Let me just repeat that. They even have a help line. In other words, whereas other countries might subsidize AA centers, in Sweden a government employee will gladly help you plan your next blinder.

On the ferry to Ljusterö, which was chockablock Thursday afternoon as the city emptied, the boozing started in earnest. On deck, in the rain, a man cradled his case of oversized beer cans, going through them at an impressive rate, but careful to keep the empties so he could recycle. His pal decided to gift ferry passengers his guitar music, and he was soon joined by a chorus of woken, wailing babies.

Two hours later, I was on “dry” land again, with dry in scare quotes as it was still raining, and would do so for most of the weekend. The upside, however, was that we could take David snail hunting. The modus operandi was to place one of David’s toy animals within talking distance of a snail, and then to engage it in conversation. David did most of the talking: “Hej snigel! Hej? Hej! Hej snigel?…”

On June 20, Midsommar day itself, we were prepped for the ritual dancing around the maypole (majstång), which symbolizes the pivotal role the state plays in Swedish society. First, we all drank shots of aquavit purchased at System Bolaget. Then, the children were carted off by tractor, probably to a re-education camp, while the adults made their way to the festivities:

Before proper homage could be paid, the maypole had to be raised. For this, foreign labor was required, so I volunteered, and together with other Swedes we hoisted the great green branches of government. Those who work for the state even got to wear branches on their head:

Just in time, the children reappeared, and they proceeded to do a dance where they act out how they are but small helpless deaf frogs (små grodingen, ej öron), in need of welfare.

Afterwards, back at the summer cottage, many of the invited guests took part in an impromptu soccer match in the rain. It was eerily like the last scene in Tillsammans/Together. The object of the game, much like with parliamentary proceedings here, was to ensure a draw for the sake of the children. We quit when the score was 14-14.

June 20 was also the day that one guest, Ludwig, turned 5. He got a cake and a bug examination kit, so we set off to find some bugs. We soon found an ant and a milkweed bug, and I suggested we put them together in the same box to see who would win a fight to the death. We never did find the answer, for Ludwig kept on rescuing the ant. I think he will grow up to work for SIPRI. There was no sun, so the magnifying glass proved useless.

There was some hope, however, in the form of Ludwig’s younger brother, Erwig, who the next day was caught using his boot heel as a WMD on snails. They performed an ostracism on him, and by now he’s probably been cured of all antisocial impulses.

With every passing day, I get closer to the dark underbelly of Sweden’s soul…