At Christmas, Europeans look less united than ever

Never call VHSIKEAEUa Swede as the sun sets—absurdly early—on Christmas Eve. For at 3pm the country collectively stops in its tracks to watch a bit of televisual lore. Since 1959 the public broadcaster there has served up much the same hour-long show of Donald Duck and other vintage Disney cartoons to the nation’s children and their nostalgic parents. Despite being over six decades old, , as it is known, is among the most-watched shows of the year. Such is its centrality to celebrating Christmas that Swedes living abroad were once known to smuggle versions out on tapes; now YouTube serves up the antique quacking on demand. Sitting down to watch old American cartoons has become as archetypally a part of Swedish national culture as extended paternity leave and couples having blazing rows at .New dads getting time off and flatpack marital strife have long since become a pan-European phenomenon, if not a global one. By contrast the Christmas traditions dear to Swedes have remained firmly national affairs, shared only with a couple of Nordic neighbours. A political scientist yet to sign off for the holidays would find much to ponder here. Even as Europe has come together in myriad ways—a common currency across much of the continent, a single set of parliamentary elections every five years, a shared horror at the prospect of a second dose of Trumpism—its most intimate moments seldom cross national borders. For much of the year Europe looks like a continent melding into a union, one set of chemicals regulations at a time. But when it comes time to unwind during the festive season, Greeks, Italians and Lithuanians retreat into their national cocoons.