Tjena, Kexet: How I Learnt to Flirt in Swedish in My Late Twenties

There are few things more powerful in this life than a woman in her late twenties, travelling alone, just confident enough to speak up and just unhinged enough to try out a ridiculous pick-up line in a foreign language.

I was in Sweden. Late twenties, single, curious, and still at that beautiful intersection of knowing what I wanted and being completely open to whatever the universe might throw at me. The plan, such as it was, involved a few cities, some light sightseeing, and a lot of coffee. I’d brought two books, a too-heavy coat, and the vague hope that something unexpected might happen. I just didn’t know it would start with a biscuit.

My Swedish, at the time, was limited to polite words and hopeful gesturing. I could say thank you, hello, and “can I have that one please” while pointing at pastries. It was enough to get by, but it wouldn’t win me any friends. Not until my actual Swedish friends — two of them with excellent bone structure and even better comedic timing — decided to arm me with something more powerful.

“You need a proper line,” one of them said, sipping wine. “Something unforgettable.”

“Tjena, kexet – står du här och smular?” the other chimed in, eyes already sparkling.

I stared at them blankly.

“It means… Hi, biscuit. Are you standing here crumbling?”

There was a pause.

“I’m sorry, did you just call me a biscuit?”

“Yes,” they said, in unison, with absolute seriousness. “It’s a thing.”

Apparently, in Sweden, calling someone a biscuit is genuinely flirtatious. Kex (pronounced like “chex”) implies they’re sweet, attractive, and slightly irresistible. And the rest of the line? That’s where the absurdity lives. The idea of someone so lovely they’re crumbling in place, like a slightly stunned digestive, is so wonderfully bizarre I couldn’t stop laughing. And that was exactly the point.

“Say it like that. Exactly like that. And he’ll love you.”

Now, under normal circumstances, I don’t do lines. I’m more of a “smile and pray he speaks first” kind of woman. But there was something about this one — maybe because it was silly, maybe because it wasn’t trying too hard — that made me want to try it.

So I did.

The first attempt was in Gothenburg, in a cosy bar filled with candles, exposed brick, and the kind of lighting that makes everyone look ten percent more interesting. I saw him across the room. Tall, bearded, rugged in a way that suggested he knew things about trees. He was standing by himself, drink in hand, wearing a navy jumper and a kind expression. I walked over, heart in my throat, and said it.

“Tjena, kexet. Står du här och smular?”

He blinked. There was a second of total silence. Then, laughter. Real, unguarded, surprised laughter.

“That’s the best thing I’ve heard all year,” he said, smiling so wide I couldn’t help but laugh too. “Where did you learn that?”

He bought me a drink. We sat at the bar for hours. He taught me how to say “cheers” properly, and how to swear politely. I told him about my travels, and he told me about fishing cabins, saunas, and how Swedes never make eye contact on public transport unless they’re in love. We kissed. Softly, like people who know it won’t last but want to remember it all the same. I never saw him again. But I still think of him when I hear the word kex.

It became a pattern. Different cities. Different men. Always the same line.

In Malmö, a man with long hair and a quiet voice laughed so hard he spilled his drink and spent the rest of the night teaching me how to say “You’re trouble.” In Stockholm, one wrote out a whole list of phrases for me on a napkin, including a very unhelpful one that turned out to mean “I have a goat.” We laughed until we cried. I kissed him too. He had the kind of hands you remember.

Every time I used the line, it worked. Not in the manipulative, get-what-you-want kind of way. But in the way that made people light up. It invited them in. It said, “I’m not here to impress you. I’m here to make you laugh.” And more often than not, they did.

That’s what no one tells you about flirtation. It doesn’t have to be clever. It doesn’t even have to be cool. It just has to be human. A little moment of mischief between strangers. A flash of joy in an otherwise ordinary evening.

And Tjena, kexet? That was mischief in a sentence. A nonsense phrase with magical powers. It made people laugh. It made them curious. And best of all, it made them kind. No one ever rolled their eyes or made me feel stupid. They joined in. They leaned closer. They played.

I learned more Swedish from those few weeks than I ever did from books or apps. I learned how to say, “You have lovely eyes,” and “That’s my coat, actually.” I learned what fika meant — not just coffee, but a whole cultural pause for connection. I learned that Swedes are rarely forward, but deeply affectionate once you crack their shell. I learned that sometimes, all it takes is a line about crumbling to bring someone closer.

But more than that, I learned how to flirt like myself. Not like someone trying to be seductive, or impressive, or irresistible. Just like a woman who is happy to be here. Happy to make you laugh. Happy to share a language she doesn’t understand and a night she won’t forget.

It was one of the most freeing things I’ve ever done. Saying yes to the moment. To the silliness. To the not-knowing. Because when you’re in your late twenties, there’s this wonderful pocket of time where you’re not trying to prove anything. You’ve lived enough to know what matters, and you’re still wide open to everything else. And when you’re lucky, the world gives you a biscuit joke and a handful of kisses as a reward.

Those weeks in Sweden were filled with small, perfect memories. Rain on cobblestones. Cinnamon buns the size of my head. A stranger handing me his scarf when I looked cold. A man explaining the northern lights as if they were old friends. None of it was serious. But all of it was real.

I didn’t fall in love. Not in the forever sense. But I did fall in like, over and over again. With the language. With the people. With the version of myself who could walk into a bar, say something absurd, and trust that it would be received with laughter and kindness.

I’ve used the line a few times since. Sometimes for fun, just to see if anyone recognises it. Sometimes as a story at dinner parties, the kind that makes people laugh and say, “You didn’t really say that, did you?” And I smile and shrug and say, “Of course I did. It worked every single time.”

Because it did.

There’s something I miss about that time. About the freedom of it. The ease. The joy. But I don’t miss it in a wistful, pining way. I miss it like you miss summer when the leaves turn. Fondly. Gratefully. With the knowledge that it happened and it mattered.

I still have one of those napkins, scribbled with Swedish phrases in someone’s looping handwriting. It’s tucked into a book I haven’t opened in years. Sometimes, when I’m tidying or travelling or packing up bits of life again, I find it. I smooth it out. And I smile.

Because somewhere in Sweden, years ago, I walked up to a stranger, called him a biscuit, and everything good that followed started with that.

So if you ever find yourself in Stockholm or Gothenburg or Malmö, a little heart-bruised, a little brave, walk up to the tall one by the bar. Smile like you mean it.

And say the line.

Tjena, kexet. Står du här och smular?

And see what happens.