I didn't start out wanting to hate Ikea. I very much wanted to love Ikea, just like everyone else. I bought into the "Emperor's New Clothes" mentality that required I love Ikea or, else, accept the fact that something was very wrong with me. I oohed and aahed, even though never really feeling the magic. I recommended the store to others and pointed out things I had purchased there to visitors in an "I got it at Ikea" bonding moment.
I paid the obligatory visit to the Ikea cafeteria the first time I visited. I went through what is apparently a rite of initiation, trying to figure out how to navigate the lines that start at either side of the store and somehow end up merging in the middle without any clear guidance as to how to clear the chaos that ensues with a head on meeting, blushing in embarrassment as I realized I didn't know proper Ikea food ordering protocol and then clumsily untangling from the merged lines, very nearly missing the detour to silverware, before making my way to the cashier at the far end of the establishment. I was even forced to make the admission that, though I thoroughly searched, I couldn't find a drink anywhere along the winding route that had brought me to stand before her without a beverage. Because it was Ikea, the very normal and understandable aggravation of being so inconvenienced by such non-sensical methodology was overshadowed by my feeling that I, somehow, owed her an apology for being clueless as to the workings of Scandinavian style dining. She, an American who had crossed over to the Ikea mindset hook, line and sinker, gave me the "Oh, you're an idiotic, virgin Ikea eater" look and explanation that drinks, unlike entree items, must be purchased before they are obtained. Well of course. What was I thinking? With an obviously insincere grin, she directed me to the drink location. A location that is accessible only to those who have admitted that they cannot be found or by those who have garnered experience as a veteran Ikea eater.
Still, very much wanting to love Ikea and to appreciate the arcane workings of a nation that had the chutzpah to bring a business to this country and demand that we adapt to their way of doing things rather than vice versa, I took the looks of "what a dolt" and dutifully felt the part for, really, where else would drinks be located other than in an obscure corner far, far away from the food and registers?!
I, as a vegetarian, am very accustomed to tasteless food. Ikea, though, escalated flavorlessness to a whole new arena. As an American, admittedly the only spices I am familiar with are salt and pepper. Scandinavians, evidently, have not even made the acquaintance of those two staples. The dessert, as I found to be true throughout most of Europe, were beautiful to look at, filled with creams and topped with icing, but tasting no more sweet than a slice of Wonder Bread.
Jo-Ann, who had dined at Ikea before, only offered me minimal guidance. I suspect that, once one sufferes through the initial trauma of having had to figure out the start of the Ikea experience on their own, they stand back and allow others the same opportunity (fate!) of the start of the journey.
In any event, while the food went into the garbage uneaten, the coffee, once my long and twisting journey in search of a drink was succesfully completed, was perfectly adequate. I did have to wonder, though, are there repeat Ikea diners? I cannot imagine going through that process to obtain some of the worst food I have ever attempted to eat and, again, I eat some pretty low quality food on a regular basis.
Jo-Ann, who knows my opinion of something can sour pretty quickly, pretended to like her food and stirred it around so it would appear she had actually eaten some of it- even though she managed to choke down no more of the foul food than had I.
I was anxious to get inside the wonderful store, though, which I had so often heard described by others in almost magical tones, so the food was quickly forgotten as I picked up a map and pencil to begin my journey. I totally understood the need for a map, particularly since I had learned how confusing it could be to even get through an Ikea food line, but the pencil had me perplexed. Still, others had them in hand and I wanted to fit in and to love Ikea just like everyone else.
We made our way through the circuitous route that seemed to take us through living spaces rather than a sale floor. People were actually sitting on couches and chairs chatting and I felt almost as if I had somehow intruded into their homes. There was one chair I may have wanted to buy, but daring not ask the lady who was sitting in it to move to permit me a closer examination, I moved on.
After winding through kitchens, baths, an indoor topiary, bookcases, bedrooms and even an entire 450 square foot house and feeling a bit overwhelmed by the whole thing, we picked up, what I thought was a simple lighting fixture and a base cabinet for the bathroom remodel.
Once an item is selected from the display, though, the fun of the Ikea experience truly begins. Like an Easter Egg Hunt, items that one wishes to purchase must be found. The displays are just for viewing. Not unlike the food court where meatballs are in one section and colas are in another department entirely, it turns out that items at Ikea may hidden in various nooks and crannies somewhere nearby, if one is lucky, in a section one has passed and must return to, against the flow of other oohing and aahing Ikea visitors if not so lucky or even, for the very unlucky such as myself, nowhere near but, rather, in a warehouse that doubles as a checkout area. The light fixture, known as a Sovergn, with two dots over the "v", could be found, according to the red tag dangling from it, in the Godmorgen section of the store.
Even though I had learned that my instincts were not particularly reliable in the Scandie culture, I had only to hope that, since I was buying a light, the Godmorgen section would be somewhere in the lighting area as indicated on my map and, hopefully, would be located not too far away from the light displays and, hoping against hope, even in conjunction with the flow of traffic! Ironically, though standing in the most lit section of the store, my mood was starting to dim.
I should also mention that I am not for certain that the proper term for Scandinavians is Scandies. I will also admit that I have little inclination to research it, particularly since the Scandies set the tone in not finding the proper words to make my search easier before relocating their goods to a store in my town.
I eventually located my Sovergn, with two dots over the "v", along with a plush orange Ritva, aka a throw blanket, which we were certain our hairless dog, Opie, would enjoy. Oddly, the Ritva was located near lighting- as if to keep me guessing as to the logic of the arrangements or perhaps enthralled at the genius of locating totally incongruous items next to one another as if they naturally belonged and had been improperly positioned and displayed by savage Americans for the last 250 years or so.
We even managed to find lot number, aisle number and bin number on the bathroom cabinet tag so that I could enjoy the hands-on experience of going into a warehouse, manhandling the heavy item with no assistance whatsoever from the overhead shelves and then lift it with my back, fresh from a chiropractor adjustment, onto the cart which was as difficult to locate as had been the cafeteria coffee.
The Scandies, unlike our institutions such as Wal-Mart, have either been granted diplomatic immunity or are not yet aware of the American custom of lawsuits. If I need a 2 lb item from anywhere above the third shelf of an American store, I am prohibited by warning signs from getting it myself. In the interest of staying financially solvent through the avoidance of tv lawyers and astronomical payouts to injured customers, an associate, wearing a back support belt, gloves and safety goggles, will ride down the aisle in a cherry picker to retrieve the item for me.
In the absence of aforementioned diplomatic immunity, when the oohing and aahing of the Ikea experience wears off, the Scandies may very well have to make an adjustment to warehouse procedures in spite of their apparent unwillingness to conform to the American way of doing business.
We eventually made it through the lines that form single file and then split for various registers, where I was told by another scolding cashier that I needed to backtrack to the conveyor belt several feet behind me to place my items upon it at that end rather than placing them on the belt close to the register, because, in spite of 44 years experience of placing items on counters at American stores, the Scandies and the American Ikea workers who have crossed over to the Scandie side, do things, and demand things be done, a bit differently. Stupid me.
Once finally free from the clutch of the Ikea experience, I stopped at a gas station to use the filthy restroom because, after consulting the Ikea map, I realized that the plight of winding my way back to the store restroom was just too much for me at the moment.
We arrived home to my first smile in awhile as Opie did indeed love his Ritva but he was the only happy Ikea customer in my home, although Jo-Ann still claims to love the Emperors New Clothes.
The Sovergn, with two dots over the "v", as it would turn out, did not include the light bulbs. It would not have been that consequential other than the fact that the only bulbs that would fit the Sovergn, with two dots over the "v" were a set of 2 Sparktens, with two dots over the "e", compatible with IP4, and only obtainable at, yep, Ikea. I was going to have to return to that maze of a building to retrieve two Sparktens, with 2 dots over the "e".
My Ikea experience had taught me that Sparktens, with 2 dots over the "e", were just as likely to be located on a shelf beneath floor rugs as they were to be anywhere even close to the lighting section of the woefully confusing store, so it was not a return trip which I relished making.
I also noticed the instructions inside the Sovergn, with two dots over the "v", and did so with much dismay. Unlike every other industrialized country that provides product instructions in at least 47 languages, near novels in fact, which I must even sometimes flip over and upside down half way through due to a change in printing direction in my search for the only 3 pages in English that apply to me, the Scandies, not surprisingly, take a different approach.
In a "one size fits all" method (which no doubt cuts down on paper usage, thus saving a couple of the trees in what I imagine, in my almost zero knowledge of Scandinavia, are a scarcity in the frozen tundra of Northern Europe) the Scandies use illustrations rather than words.
The illustration concept could, perhaps, be effective if they employed actual illustrators rather than what, very honestly, appears to be the use of Scandie elementary school children to draw stick figures throughout the manual.
Being that I am not handy, by any means, I even considered the fact that maybe, just maybe, the cartoon like figures made sense to those who were more adept at the usage of tools and product assembly. The colorful language of my contractor, though,confirmed to me that the apparent child renderings used to explain the process of putting together cabinets and such are, indeed, woefully inadequate.
I returned, with a knot in my stomach, to the labyrinth of a store and, happily, even found a couple of short cuts that enabled me to bypass the shoppers who had, evidently, taken up residence in the 450 square foot apartment display.
I made my way to lighting and was delighted to find that the bulbs were not too horribly far removed from the lighting fixtures. This was information I gained on my own as, in neither visit, did I ever see an employee on the floor to assist me. Even though I was certain I would be opened to thinly disguised ridicule for not being familiar with the Ikea way, I would have asked for help. I can, in fact, think of no time and in no store where I was ever more in need of assistance.
I began my search for the Sparkten, with two dots over the "e", only to discover that, unlike my Sovergn, with two dots over the "v", which is a specific item in the Godmorgen collection, Sparktens, with two dots over the "e", are not specific at all but, rather, is a generic term for light bulb.
I had no choice but to dismantle, without the aid of legible instructions nor any natural ability on my part, the display Sovergn, with two dots over the "v", so that I could ascertain just what type Sparkten, with two dots over the "e", that I would require.
Having done so, I returned to the Sparkten, with two dots over the "e", section where, in a rare break of Scandie protocol, they had hired someone to translate their message into English. There I was educated about the superiority of Sparktens, with two dots over the "e", to American bulbs as a Sparkten, with two dots over the "e", can illuminate for approximately 17 billion years whereas the inferior American bulb must be changed in a significantly shorter period of time. I suppose they felt the need to translate that info to justify the price, which is about 17 billion times more than an American bulb, to explain why their lighting products only accommodate their very own brand of Sparktens, with two dots over the 'e" and also to not squander an opportunity to take a good ol' jab at the wastefulness of American citizens.
Thoroughly educated to the superiority of Scandie lighting, I found my needed Sparkten, with two dots over the "e", on the display shelf with an empty plastic tag dangling from it and an equally empty bin beneath it.
Turns out, from all I could surmise, in the total absence of any employee assistance, Ikea Tampa was either out of stock of the Sparkten, with two dots over the "e", model bulb compatible with IP4 or the company no longer carries such. In either case, I found myself with a Sovergn, with two dots over the "v", that was, without the benefit of an Ikea Sparkten, with two dots over the "e", and incompatible with any American made bulb, in words my Mom often uses to describe exactly such a situation, "as useless as tits on a boar hog".
I stood there for a moment, wanting to, instead, be curled up in the fetal position along side Opie in his orange Ritva (oddly lacking any dots in its spelling).
As the frustration mounted, I became desperate and did something not characteristic of me. I suppose it was time in a pseudo-foreign land, facing challenges that my culture simply hasn't equipped me to handle, that brought out the survivalist in me. I went back to the display, dismantled the Sovergn, with two dots over the "v", and took what may very well be the last two Sparktens, with two dots over the "e", in existence, or at least in existence inside of Ikea Tampa.
I was tired of being ashamed at my inability to adapt, understand and adjust to the Scandie way. As I unscrewed the Sparktens, with two dots over the "e", I actually hoped that an elusive store employee would appear and attempt to give me a tongue lashing as to protocol. I would have pointed out the lunacy of the Scandie way that thinks it ok to sell a fixture, that neither includes the required, and unsubstitutible pieces, for the item to function properly nor are such said pieces even available.
In my head burned the desire to scream, "I hate Ikea!" just as hotly as did the heat on my fingers as I unscrewed those stupid, stupid display bulbs, yes BULBS! Sparktens and their pretentious double dots, my rear! This is America and those are bulbs here!
And, since they may very well be the last two bulbs in existence that are compatible with IP4 they had dang well better last 17 billion years as promised!
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