I'm mightily scared that I may turn out to be an Ikea junkie. The drugs have taken effect. Those damn Swedes have taken me in with their open-seven-days-a-week attitude, reasonably affordable prices, okay quality furniture.
I am not alone in this. Every time I go to one of those megastores thousands and thousands of people are already there. And they never seem to leave. Sitting down on a couch; feeling the texture of a cupboard; pulling the drapes of the ceiling.
It doesn't matter which store you go to. An Ikea in the U.S. is exactly the same as one in the Netherlands. They're always crowded, they've always got Swedish meatballs, there's always some kid who wants to be taken out of the childrens' playpen.
Fact of the matter is, it works. Considering it all, I was and am a prime candidate to get hooked on this hobby of stapling-together-Swedish-furniture. If that isn't integration into Dutch society, I don't know what is.
Next time you visit my place, you don't have to ask where that authentic looking dinner table comes from.
Page 113 in the 2006 catologue, Table Ronulum, colour Wood.
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