Costco: My White Whale

Living in a foreign country certainly introduces some strange cultural mindsets. Friends visited us recently, and we partook in some Swedish delicacies. Or, as I like to call them, “fishy bits.” At one point one of our guests asked for a drink of sparkling water, which we served up. Then, innocently enough, “Do you have any ice?” My first thought: it's straight from the refrigerator; it is already cold! You see, in Sweden, nothing is served with ice. Whether your drink is ice cold or lukewarm, there will not be an ice cube in sight. We spend such a large portion of the year freezing our tails off that the idea of artificially chilling something is just an anathema. However, this cultural anomaly can be observed all over Europe, so it is probably not related to Swedish winters.

Nevertheless, we got her some ice. The cultural schizophrenia in my head was not noticeable to outsiders - I hope. Sweden successfully transformed my American propensity to load my glass with ice before filling it up. It seems like a small thing. It doesn’t feel like a small thing.

Thoughts like these probably led me to my most recent adventure. Last fall, I decided that I wanted something in my life that reminded me of my unique heritage. It turned out I needed Costco. One recently opened 18 km north of town. I didn’t just want to go to Costco; I wanted to drive to Costco and load up on lots of oversized packages of stuff that we could not possibly eat. Thus began my quest to get my driver's license, which I covered in excruciating detail here.

First, I needed a car—not just any car, a Volvo. Our friends belonged to Volvo On Demand (VOD), a car-sharing service that shared only Volvos. There are other car shares in the city. Mrs. Cinnamon Buns joined one when we first got here. But I needed the premium service—not the mundane Toyotas and Kias of other car shares, only the best for the Buns.

I signed up on their app. Which is awesome, by the way. The American brain cannot comprehend how fully wired financial services are in Sweden. All of the banks cooperate using a service called Bank-ID. This is a cross between a government ID and two-factor authentication. With Bank ID, you can connect anything electronically to your bank for automatic payments or identify yourself to any institution using face ID. This allowed me to sign up for VOD seemlessly in just a couple of clicks. When I connected, I was verified, and my bank was linked automatically. A little note popped up during the process, “Unable to verify income.” No worries, I don’t have an income. I checked to make sure cars were available nearby. Lots to choose from. Super amazing.

The day before my destined Costco run, I attempted to sign up for a car. During the checkout process, I again got the pesky “Unable to verify income.” And I was unable to book a car. Bummer.

I called customer service, which was amazingly quick and efficient, and I connected with a Swedish service representative who spoke perfect English. I was politely informed that I was not eligible for an account if I did not have an income. It didn’t need to be large, but an income I would need. I informed her that my wife had the income in Sweden for our family. Not a problem; she could sign up for an account and “share” the electronic key with me! Happy days! Good to go.

Only after I hung up did I remember that Mrs. Cinnamon Buns did not have a Swedish driver's license. Not only that, but her current US driver's license had expired. Bummer. Oh well, there were other car-share services.

Still, I mulled over the Volvo service. I’m over fifty years old, so I should be the type of customer they wanted—a nice, granny-like-driving father of two. And I ran my own company for twelve years—a financial company at that! I was a bit chuffed, to say the least. This would not do.

I remember that I recently reviewed one of my investment accounts, and it showed an estimated income generated by my investments. Now, it wasn’t a lot - being mostly just interest and dividends - but it was an income. The account produced a report of the current and estimated income. I contacted them again, this time through the chat function. Again, super easy, and I chatted with another service person. Would investment income work? Why yes, it might. Do you have a report? Why yes, I just happen to have this handy income report. Boom, I’m approved.

I logged in to book my car last! At this point, half the day is gone. Horrors! It won’t let me book a car. My first thought was that someone up the food chain denied my income report. Back to the chat function. What’s the deal? Oh no, no worries. Your account just needs a reset. I’m on my way. I go back to the app, and I book my car for the next day. A Volvo XC40 - a hybrid, of course.

The Friday of my Costco run dawns sunny and warm - like a promise of beautiful things to come. I go to the garage to pick up my car. Probably the hairiest part of the whole day would be getting the car out of the garage, but I prevailed. Here is me and my ride:

The drive to Costco is uneventful. It is a lovely day, and I ride along with the sunroof completely open. And then… I reach the promised land. Costco. It looks exactly the same as an American one. Inside the store, it is so familiar that I almost don’t realize all of the signs are in Swedish. It’s like they don’t even register as Swedish since it all seems so familiar. Here I am in the temple to commerce itself:

Truth be told, I’m a little overwhelmed. I haven’t bought anything in bulk in such a long time. It takes me a while to get into the swing of things. I gingerly grab a 5 lb bag of tortilla chips and some cooking oil. I feel a little giddy. A container of Almond butter the size of my head. And these should come in handy:

I head to my favorite department: meat. Sure enough, there are acres of ribs, lamb chops, steaks… and do they have them? Filets. Yes. Filet mignon. In the States, every time we go to Costco, I would get filets. Such a great price, and their turnover is so high, they are always super fresh. In fact, the Cinnamon Sticks thought that filets were steak. They never ate any other kind, I’m almost emabarassed to admit. When we moved and started getting different steaks from the store, our youngest said, “This isn’t steak.” No, they are not spoiled.

Although my shopping choices are fairly random, I check out anyway. There are several employees that are full on American, speaking only English with a typical US accent. Hey, maybe I could get a job here? I feel like the trip has to be labeled a success if you think about working there when you are done.

I take the car back to the garage and walk home. It’s a bit of a walk, there are no pick up points in direct proximity to our apartment. Ironically, when I check the directions on public transportation, I learn that there is a bus AND a train that departs from the station across the street from our apartment and drops off within a ten-minute walk to Costco. Good to know for future visits! I think things turned out pretty well anyway:

It was worth the trip!