Hey Bjorn, I’ve Got Your Umlaut Right Here: My Visit To Ikea.

Ikea has been open in my area for at least a year.

When this giant retailer announced that they deigned to sell their stuff here in North Carolina, the local media went into a frenzy. That was enough to make me decide to never go there. My committment to my personal boycott was cemented by every story of how wonderful the store would be and the people lining up days in advance for the privilege of shopping there first.

Then came the fateful discussion with good friends about how it would be helpful for my son to have a footlocker in his college dorm room. The fruitless search for this trunk lead to a helpful person who said “I know they have them at Ikea, I go there three times a week.”

The die was cast. Based on the word of an Ikea cult member, I would violate my boycott for my son. I’d go to the ends of the earth for that guy. I’d even go to Ikea.

Here is what I learned from my experience.

Ikea is Swedish for…

…home of the glassy-eyed shuffle.

No one walks in Ikea. Most shuffle through, slack-jawed and staring.

The Ikea Shuffle is partly due to the fact that something approximating the population of Vermont is passing through the building at any one time. The other contributing factor is that Vermont is being forced through a maze of stuff. There is no other way to sort out what is inside that place. It is a giant maze of house stuff.

There are maps and departments, but with a horde the size of Manchester on your heels it is impossible to navigate through the building. The people stopped in the aisles to examine the latest in pillow technology don’t help either.

Ikea is Swedish for…

…a lot of redesigned stuff that didn’t need redesigning.

This is my spatula. I think it is a Rübbërmäïd.

The spatula has been the same reliable instrument since the time of the first King of Sweden, Eric the Victorious. The spatula has two parts, the flat thing and the handle. There is only so much you can do to change the spatula. A spatula is a spatula, even if you rename it späätulä.

The same principle applies to any other of the household goods jammed into the Ikea maze.

Ikea is Swedish for…

… I am lost.

Hey, excuse me there, my liege...

Suppose you were alive in the day of Eric the Victorious. If you were lost in his castle you could have said to him, “excuse me my liege, I’m Ikea.”  King Eric would have walked you right to the drawbridge.

We found an employee who told us there were no footlockers in the store.  No longer having a mission at Ikea, we decided to leave. That was no easy task.

Retracing our steps didn’t work. Following exit signs didn’t work. Eventually we found another employee and asked how we could leave. Her response was simple and to the point.

“Do you have any merchandise?” was her response. I considered telling her I had a case of woks in my pants, but opted for a simple no. I just wanted to avoid an international incident and go home.  She directed us to a door that was labeled with the company equivalent of employees only. It led to the back of a playground built into the store …and daylight.

Once again a free man, I have reinstated my boycott. I won’t go back.

If you were keeping score at home, you know the final score was not even close.

Späätuläs 15, Foot Lockers 0.

Update: Kate, whose  writes the primo blog called Punch It In, just shot me a related link in comments that is a can’t miss whether you love or hate Ikea. Enjoy the quiz…Ikea Product or Swedish Olympian. I got a 55%.  Go read some Kate first.

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