Some Swedish Generosity, with a dash of Sexism.

Alternately Titled: A Man Wishes He Had Breasts

1.5 litres of mineral water, a dozen eggs, a 3.5% bottle of Mariestad beer, and a 2.2% can of something featuring a sailboat advance on the conveyor belt, the bottles rolling forward and backward. My purchases for the evening. The Swedish have a regulation that grocery stores can sell alcoholic drinks of no more than 3.5%. For anything more potent, you have to plan ahead and visit the Systembolaget, which closes at the unfortunately early hours of 7pm. Take note Montrealers, no spontaneous wine runs at 10:55pm.

It is nearly closing time at the compact two-storey provisions shop beside Medborgarplatsen metro. The man in front of me scribbles on the back of a receipt and gives it to the cashier. He looks back at me. 'Cheque,' he winks, as the cashier hands him a stack of 500 krona bills.
'This my shop,' he continues.

I hear some North American English behind me. A man of Indian descent with black framed glasses loads his basket onto the belt. The Swedish, and so far most Scandinavians I've met speak, as Dylan Moran puts it, a bewilderingly excellent English. However, a fellow North American is unmistakable.

I turn back to the shop owner, and jokingly ask if I can also pay 'with cheque'. My total is 71 krona. He waves my wallet away, and offers one of the 500 krona bills back to the cashier. 'I pay for you!'
I look back and forth between the owner and the cashier, who looks just as perplexed as me.
Again, jokingly I ask him, 'Do I have to pay YOU in cheque?'
He laughingly shakes his head.
'Well, I should come here more often!' I declare, putting on my friendly Canadian face to try to hide how awkward it was for me and everyone else that the owner had just given me groceries for free.
'Yes! Come back!'

Then I motion to the North American Indian-looking guy behind me, 'What about him?'

The owner shakes his head. 'He is a boy.'

I had left the flat wearing braided bangs, dangly shell earrings, eyeliner, lipstick, and a floral scarf. I look the owner in the eye and reply, 'So am I.'

The man pauses and stares at me.

The North American guy chortles. 'I think you just confused the hell out of him.'

I give the sailboat beer back to the owner as a thank you, which also seems to confuse him. He sets the can back down on the conveyor belt as if he's not sure what to do with it.

I leave the scene quickly - this man has had too many perplexing things happen to him in the last minute, and he was just trying to be nice. As I arrange my things to fit into my bag, The North American guy walks past and offhandedly comments, 'It makes me wish I had a pair of breasts...'

The ones that made it back.