Nostalgia, they say, comes with rose-colored glasses. But in the case of IKEA, it can also come with nausea—and not just from the Swedish meatballs.
This tale goes back a few decades, back to the era when my daily leisure activities were partly dictated by the parents.
One such lovely afternoon—I have no idea exactly when or where—landed me in an IKEA.
And in that place of comfort and joy, I felt something else: misery.
If I recall correctly, there was a winding path through a large showroom, full of furniture and other stuff I didn’t need. Somewhere around there was a restaurant with the (in)famous meatballs. The maze ended in a sort of warehouse, where everything was suddenly in a flat box.
But after that came the worst part of all: going home and assembling the sh*t.
Lack of aptitude coupled with lack of interest, both layered upon mysterious DIY instructions, sealed the deal—I officially hated IKEA.
Over time, of course, the stance softened a bit.
I learned the story—a 17-year-old Swedish kid named Ingvar Kamprad founded the place in 1943, the name being an acronym of his initials, the family farm (Elmtaryd), and his hometown (Agunnaryd).
Its claim to fame, beyond the above, included reasonable pricing and Scandanavian (i.e. minimalist) design.
With something like 500 locations in over 60 countries/territories, the simple beginnings had turned into a global phenomenon.
And I came to realize that anywhere that was anywhere had an IKEA.
That’s when, about 15 years ago, I began pining for one in Upstate New York.
I knew the probability of me ever stepping foot in the store hovered around zero, but I felt an immense desire to brag that Rochester offered spherical animal protein, planar boxes, and the chance to spend hours putting together a desk.
Rumors swirled, but nothing materialized.
In typical Rochester fashion, the ideal spot for an IKEA instead became an orthopedic unit or something of the like.
I waited patiently, finding some solace in the opening of a Whole Foods, which I drove by regularly but never entered.
And then, in 2025, the unthinkable happened.
About 75 miles east, in the metropolis of Syracuse, IKEA opened its first ever Upstate New York location.
Granted, it was a small-format store—not the traditional behemoth—but I knew immediately that the Salt City had an economy, even mentioning the mammoth occurrence in this book.
About eight months later, in equally shocking fashion, I learned that a similar-sized location would be opening in nearby Buffalo.
In other words, despite evidence to the contrary, I mattered.
Thank you, IKEA.
