After dinner (herring is nasty, btw), we danced around the Midsummer... er... tree... I think it was, and then things start getting a bit fuzzy. We had sack races, played tug-o-war and soccer (Pia nutmegged me for a goal... doh). We sat around a stump and tried to hammer a nail in the fewest amount of strokes. We asked each other, "Who are you and why are you here?" We drank beer and schnaps and daiquiris and more schnaps. Along the way I somehow sprained my thumb and index finger, also cut open my toe and lost my hat.
It was all The Indian's fault.
You see, there was a small statue of an American Indian which is awarded to the person that gets the most inebriated each year. The legend started when someone years ago told of a schnaps-induced dream in which a visit from an American Indian took place. So now, they chase The Indian each year.
The Indian, I believed, stole my ball cap at some point in the evening... but I later learned that he only hid it in my backpack. I did not come home with The Indian, and I'm very happy that I walked away from those vanilla vodka shots at four in the morning... those that did not can definitely have the infamous recognition.