At 6:50 a.m., the sparkling-clean Wilczeks jumped back into bed and turned off the light. We were, of course, wearing our “dignified pajamas.” (Since I’d had no time to buy new pajamas in Stockholm, we had put on our heaviest and still-unwrinkled long underwear.) Soon, we heard the Lucia knock at our door….
The Lucia singers were escorted by two ladies from the Grand Hotel’s “guest services,” so we didn’t have to get up to unlock the door. Soft singing and candlelight slowly progressed into our darkened bedroom. The Lucia girl had a headdress with real lighted candles–her attendants all carried candles in their hands. (I later found out these were students from a local music college–their voices were lovely!)
The Lucia attendants wore tall pointy hats (the “star boys”) or green wreaths with flowers (“maids of honor”). They sang “Santa Lucia” (in Swedish, that’s pronounced “Loo-see-ah” rather than “Loo-chee-ah”), a bit more Swedish Christmas music, then slowly filed out singing “Santa Lucia” again.
David Gross told me later that one year a laureate was really surprised by this Swedish custom. The sleepy laureate woke up to melodious singing by handsome young blondes in long flowing robes and jumped to the conclusion he’d died and gone to heaven.
The Grand Hotel Lucia singers also brought us coffee, saffron buns, and a wrapped Lucia gift that turned out to be a ceramic Lucia. At the time, the coffee was much less exciting than their singing. Which, for coffee-addicts like Frank and me, suggests some kind of miracle.
Later, I saw the same singers down in the lobby and snapped a few photos. The singers are serious but the people they sing to are smiling from ear to ear–I know we were.