My Swedish host, a banker, surprised me.

“We Swedes have a reputation for promiscuity that is overblown, but it is true that for us, sex is not such a big deal. It’s just something everyone should do a few times a week in order to stay healthy. Like moving your bowels. No guilt or romantic fantasy is necessary. You Americans are a bit neurotic in this regard, perhaps.”

“That sounds pretty healthy, all right,” I agreed.

I had come to Sweden for a week of canoeing and camping with a buddy. Sweden in summer is beautiful – vast pine forests on gently rolling hills, long narrow lakes in each valley, tidy farmlands. Dusk lasts for hours. It’s like Minnesota, with the coastline of Maine. Smooth polished granite is everywhere.

The prosperous socialists of Sweden have an excellent tradition known as “allmansratten” (everyone’s rights) which date from the Viking times. Essentially, it grants everyone equal access to all parts of the countryside. Anyone may camp anywhere, provided you don’t damage anything and stay at least a short distance from existing structures. This makes camping and outdoor activities in Sweden pleasurable and easy.

After a great week in the lakes district, my friend went home. I hitched toward Stockholm, two hundred miles east.

On the way I was picked up by a family of Swedish communists who lived in a renovated windmill in the pretty lake-side town of Stangnas. They took me home to dinner and offered me a bed for the night. The windmill was surprisingly cozy and comfortable. I thought it was excellent.

“You’re really communists?” I asked.

“Sweden is a democracy, and the Communist party usually gets around 5% of the vote,” the dad, a printer, told me. “In practice, we’re generally the junior partner in a governing coalition with the larger and more centrist Socialist party. My mom became a communist back in the thirties, and we’ve all followed her lead. Isn’t that right, mom?”

“Of course I’m a communist!” the grandma laughed. “A cabbage costs seven kroner now – who wouldn’t be?”

In the morning they drove me into Stockholm, a lovely city of cobblestones, islands and canals, where I stayed with the family of an old friend. His dad was a senior executive for the nation’s largest bank, and a big America-phile. He really wanted Sweden to become more like America.

“It doesn’t matter how hard I work. With our socialist tax structure, a bank president makes just a little more than a teacher or plumber. Do you think Mondale can beat Reagan next year? I met him last year and he impressed me. I may be a conservative here in Sweden, but your president is clearly crazy.”

“It all depends on the economy,” I said.

The Swedes suffer a long dark winter, so they take a lot of time off in the summer. Nearly every family has a summer cottage.

They invited me to tag along on a three-day yachting trip in the Baltic Sea.

One night onboard they served spaghetti with moose-meat balls. I was a bit shocked, at first.

“How can you eat moose? Aren’t they an endangered species or something?”

“Maybe in America, but here in Sweden they are everywhere – a huge pest. Everyone eats moose in Sweden.”

I have to admit, moose balls are delicious.

Between Sweden and Russia, the Baltic Sea warms up nicely in summer. It makes for comfortable swimming, but that weekend it was teeming with dinner-plate-sized jellyfish. Millions – you couldn’t dive in without hitting at least one.

(“Very dangerous – you go first.”- Sallah, to Indy.)

My hosts assured me they weren’t dangerous, but I was careful to let them dive in first. It’s a little creepy to have these things bumping against you as you swim. Beautiful, though.

That night over dinner I asked my friend about his girlfriend.

“I remember the first time Inge came down to breakfast with him, back in high school,” his dad said.

Wait. What?

“Here in Sweden, people learn all about sex, STDs and birth control from an early age, and we usually start having sex at fourteen or fifteen. We believe it’s better if young people don’t burden themselves with complicated emotional baggage. If a young couple wants to sleep together, they use their parents homes. So much better than the back seat of a car, or sneaking around, don’t you think? Much healthier. Then they join the family for breakfast. This is traditional.”

My mouth dropped open. My friend laughed.

“It’s true. In my high school class there were about sixty kids – thirty boys and thirty girls. We’d have a dance most weekends, and it was traditional to take your date to your parents’ home afterwards. Once a month we’d have a Sadie Hawkins dance where the girl asks. If a girl asked you to the dance it was assumed that you’d meet her parents over breakfast in the morning. By the time we graduated, nearly every boy had slept with nearly every girl. It’s all very safe and natural here.”

“Holy cow. That is so different. Doesn’t it bother you that your girlfriend has slept with all your friends? I don’t know if I could handle meeting my date’s parents over breakfast at their home. I don’t know if I could handle it as a parent, either,” I said.

“Turns out  you’re a true American neurotic after all,” he observed.

Before you drop everything and rush off to Sweden, you should know that a beer costs about $10 there.