Småland
Personally, I think the reason Ikea features a cafeteria and snack bars is not to make a profit off a captive audience but rather to prevent the homicidal killing sprees that seem warranted after fighting your way through a ready-to-assemble labyrinth populated by milling throngs, kamikaze shopping carts and screaming infants. We had the foresight to arrive well (i.e. 45 minutes to an hour) before noon on Sunday, yet somehow found ourselves swallowed up in a time vortex, flushed down a drain of flat pack furniture boxes and cleverly designed kitchen knick-knacks; next thing we knew, it was 2:30pm and we both wanted to either murder, die or do both in no particular order.
Ikea was awesomely unhelpful when it came to living room furniture, offering no examples of the leather chairs that inspired the trip in the first place. Not surprisingly, there was some confusion as the seats in question turned out to feature a different given name than the ostensibly matching couch (this information required finding and consulting two different employees). The upholstered versions on display would have sufficed for testing comfort, but I wanted to verify the quality and texture of the leather itself before shelling out several hundred dollars for two of the things (not to mention going through the misery of packing them into our borrowed SUV and braving the traffic home). Alas, after watching a befuddled old man type a half-dozen variations on KLAPPSTA into his computer (kudos to him for knowing the keyboard shortcuts to produce every imaginable diacritical mark that can accent the letter A), they had nary a sample for my chosen chaise. We were, instead, encouraged to wend our way into the depths of self-service and check out the chairs there.
Upon our arrival at row 12, lot 40, though, I began to suspect we'd have more luck with the Ark of the Covenant than these leather armchairs. The experience went a little something like this:
Lot 37 - chair.
Lot 38 - chair.
Lot 39 - chair.
Lot 40 - air.
Air.
There was no chair there; no chair, just air.
And boxes, of course, plenty of fucking cardboard boxes.
We stood around for quite some time, debating our next move. I had a folding knife in my shorts and was a hair's breadth from slicing open a nearby box but our milling about drew the attention of two Ikea worker drones. Both were actively engaged in cutting and collapsing cardboard boxes, so it seemed only natural that they might open one of the poorly labeled containers we had come to believe wrapped some significant portion of the chair in question. Instead, they refused, while simultaneously discouraging me from opening anything myself. I explained that we could not in fact go back upstairs and examine a chair in person because there were none. Similarly, there was no swatch available for my furtive fingering. Alas, my tale of woe fell upon apathetic ears. We were told that either we could cart the box over to "As Is" and (for some reason) have them open it up over there or we could examine the leather surface of a different recliner that they assured us was very similar in texture and quality. Yet another wild goose chase ensued as we wandered in search of, and eventually found, a chair nothing like that which I had intended to purchase, boasting a leather surface that would be wholly unacceptable to me.
At that point, despite the overwhelming urge to just leave altogether, we headed back to the Lot 40, piled a single box onto a dolly, then wheeled ourselves to the "As Is" department so someone other than myself or the responsibility-averse box cutters from aisle 12 could perform the miraculous feat of making a leather chair materialize from behind an eighth of an inch of cardboard. First, however, we had to ring a doorbell and patiently ignore the screaming of a nearby infant whose parents had doubtless hoped that "As Is" would accept their own unwanted baggage and damaged goods.
"I don't see what the big deal is," a kid with a wispy proto-mustache said after listening to my rambling explanation. Quick as lightning, he slit the box open and allowed us to run our hands longingly over the smooth, shiny expanse of leather within. Visibly perturbed by the orgasmic like stroking that followed, he taped everything back up and turned back to his Internet porn.
Only, we were so amazed to have finally found someone helpful, that we didn't let up; we asked him where we could find the legs for the chair. A debate ensued as to whether the whole chair was included in the box despite the fact that a) the box was too small to contain anything other than the core, b) we had just opened the box and seen nary a sign of legs or underframe, and c) there was clearly an iconic depiction of a legless chair printed on the side of its box. Despite the ample evidence to the contrary, our knife-wielding savior was dubious, so he slit open the box he had taped shut just moments before and we worked together to heft the chair out. Sure enough, it was the sort of furniture one expected to find at the Walter Reed Army Medical Center. The fellow taped the box up a second time and spent five minutes on his computer coming up with another address from the depths of self-service - aisle 12, lot 45.
Conveniently enough, just five spaces down from where we picked up the chair in the first place.
We pushed our leftward-drifting cart back to aisle 12, threw the twice-opened box onto the ground and loaded ourselves up with two, brand-new, unopened boxes as well as the necessary hardware to build an underframe and legs, then headed back into the gates of Hell, fighting against the tide of herding shoppers to grab two lamps. Of course, it turned out that, despite one on display, they had none of the brown variations we sought. D. foolishly waited in line at information to receive the predictable confirmation that, indeed, we would have to order the lamps to be delivered to my home (something would could have done with the chairs had we not already jumped through a dozen hoops to get to that point). We came to Ikea with the intent to purchase at a minimum two chairs, two ottomans, one to two tables, and two lamps; due to a variety of obstacles, we were leaving with two chairs. D. shot me a look that made it clear he was done; he wanted nothing more than to get the hell out with two chairs and what little sanity we had left, but I had another plan.
As crazy as it sounds, even after hours of dead-ends, disappointments and anticlimax, even after the long checkout line and the pain of maneuvering those giant, awkward boxes into the back of the SUV, even after the claustrophobic crush of bodies and endless collisions with consumerist lemmings wielding metal carts like brush-clearing machetes, we moved the car from the loading zone back into underground parking, disembarked and headed once more into the store.
Five minutes later, my boyfriend and I found ourselves in the living room display area, slouched deep into two leather couches, our feet resting on a shared ottoman, enjoying one dollar soft-serve ice cream cones.
It was either that or shove a cart full of lingonberry-stained babies through a plate glass window.
Ikea was awesomely unhelpful when it came to living room furniture, offering no examples of the leather chairs that inspired the trip in the first place. Not surprisingly, there was some confusion as the seats in question turned out to feature a different given name than the ostensibly matching couch (this information required finding and consulting two different employees). The upholstered versions on display would have sufficed for testing comfort, but I wanted to verify the quality and texture of the leather itself before shelling out several hundred dollars for two of the things (not to mention going through the misery of packing them into our borrowed SUV and braving the traffic home). Alas, after watching a befuddled old man type a half-dozen variations on KLAPPSTA into his computer (kudos to him for knowing the keyboard shortcuts to produce every imaginable diacritical mark that can accent the letter A), they had nary a sample for my chosen chaise. We were, instead, encouraged to wend our way into the depths of self-service and check out the chairs there.
Upon our arrival at row 12, lot 40, though, I began to suspect we'd have more luck with the Ark of the Covenant than these leather armchairs. The experience went a little something like this:
Lot 37 - chair.
Lot 38 - chair.
Lot 39 - chair.
Lot 40 - air.
Air.
There was no chair there; no chair, just air.
And boxes, of course, plenty of fucking cardboard boxes.
We stood around for quite some time, debating our next move. I had a folding knife in my shorts and was a hair's breadth from slicing open a nearby box but our milling about drew the attention of two Ikea worker drones. Both were actively engaged in cutting and collapsing cardboard boxes, so it seemed only natural that they might open one of the poorly labeled containers we had come to believe wrapped some significant portion of the chair in question. Instead, they refused, while simultaneously discouraging me from opening anything myself. I explained that we could not in fact go back upstairs and examine a chair in person because there were none. Similarly, there was no swatch available for my furtive fingering. Alas, my tale of woe fell upon apathetic ears. We were told that either we could cart the box over to "As Is" and (for some reason) have them open it up over there or we could examine the leather surface of a different recliner that they assured us was very similar in texture and quality. Yet another wild goose chase ensued as we wandered in search of, and eventually found, a chair nothing like that which I had intended to purchase, boasting a leather surface that would be wholly unacceptable to me.
At that point, despite the overwhelming urge to just leave altogether, we headed back to the Lot 40, piled a single box onto a dolly, then wheeled ourselves to the "As Is" department so someone other than myself or the responsibility-averse box cutters from aisle 12 could perform the miraculous feat of making a leather chair materialize from behind an eighth of an inch of cardboard. First, however, we had to ring a doorbell and patiently ignore the screaming of a nearby infant whose parents had doubtless hoped that "As Is" would accept their own unwanted baggage and damaged goods.
"I don't see what the big deal is," a kid with a wispy proto-mustache said after listening to my rambling explanation. Quick as lightning, he slit the box open and allowed us to run our hands longingly over the smooth, shiny expanse of leather within. Visibly perturbed by the orgasmic like stroking that followed, he taped everything back up and turned back to his Internet porn.
Only, we were so amazed to have finally found someone helpful, that we didn't let up; we asked him where we could find the legs for the chair. A debate ensued as to whether the whole chair was included in the box despite the fact that a) the box was too small to contain anything other than the core, b) we had just opened the box and seen nary a sign of legs or underframe, and c) there was clearly an iconic depiction of a legless chair printed on the side of its box. Despite the ample evidence to the contrary, our knife-wielding savior was dubious, so he slit open the box he had taped shut just moments before and we worked together to heft the chair out. Sure enough, it was the sort of furniture one expected to find at the Walter Reed Army Medical Center. The fellow taped the box up a second time and spent five minutes on his computer coming up with another address from the depths of self-service - aisle 12, lot 45.
Conveniently enough, just five spaces down from where we picked up the chair in the first place.
We pushed our leftward-drifting cart back to aisle 12, threw the twice-opened box onto the ground and loaded ourselves up with two, brand-new, unopened boxes as well as the necessary hardware to build an underframe and legs, then headed back into the gates of Hell, fighting against the tide of herding shoppers to grab two lamps. Of course, it turned out that, despite one on display, they had none of the brown variations we sought. D. foolishly waited in line at information to receive the predictable confirmation that, indeed, we would have to order the lamps to be delivered to my home (something would could have done with the chairs had we not already jumped through a dozen hoops to get to that point). We came to Ikea with the intent to purchase at a minimum two chairs, two ottomans, one to two tables, and two lamps; due to a variety of obstacles, we were leaving with two chairs. D. shot me a look that made it clear he was done; he wanted nothing more than to get the hell out with two chairs and what little sanity we had left, but I had another plan.
As crazy as it sounds, even after hours of dead-ends, disappointments and anticlimax, even after the long checkout line and the pain of maneuvering those giant, awkward boxes into the back of the SUV, even after the claustrophobic crush of bodies and endless collisions with consumerist lemmings wielding metal carts like brush-clearing machetes, we moved the car from the loading zone back into underground parking, disembarked and headed once more into the store.
Five minutes later, my boyfriend and I found ourselves in the living room display area, slouched deep into two leather couches, our feet resting on a shared ottoman, enjoying one dollar soft-serve ice cream cones.
It was either that or shove a cart full of lingonberry-stained babies through a plate glass window.