Sweden, Take One

On Thursday I embarked on my little international journey. The first plane from Fort Lauderdale to Cincinnati was a quiet one. There was an extra seat between me and the man next to me, so it was nice to get to stretch my legs out a little extra. I also was sitting by quite possibly the cutest baby in the world. I kept wanting to make faces at her to make her laugh, but refrained from doing so as to not freak out the mother, who was probably the one it would have been more normal for me to strike up a conversation with.

Then I had a four hour layover in the Cincinnati airport. Quite a bit of my time there was spent looking for an outlet (ugh, I could have just asked, I know) to plug my computer into. My battery is totally shot so the computer only works if it’s physically plugged into the wall.

I finally found one and made my little station. I started writing a little and then was approached by a friendly middle-aged man who asked to “steal my power.” It took me a moment to realize what he was talking about. He pluged his phone in and struck up a conversation with me. Turns out he lives in the midwest but has a vacation home in Florida that he visits “every other weekend or so.” Hm. He also told me quite a bit about the Paris airport (my next stop) and recounted some of the times that he had been there. I quickly came to learn that this man was very wealthy. Ot at least he said he was.

I suppose I too could have talked about my summer home, my yacht, or my villa in the south of France. That’s the fantastic thing about being in an airoirt; there’s automatically a limit to the amount of time you have to spend with any one person, so you can essentilly be whoever you want to be for those few minutes or hours. I could have faked an accent and “viola! I’m a French cheesemaker coming to America to sell my newest butt cheese recipe!” Or tell a stranger that I just, at 20, found out I was adopted and am on a month-long journey to find my real parents in South Africa. Or if I had been approached by a not so nice person, I could have always shook my head frantically, waved my hands and spit out a broken “I no talk English!” The possibilities are truly endless.

Buuut, this man seemed friendly and I would have crapped my pants if he had called me out on one of my lies, so I told the truth. Named Cassie. Going to Sweden. Working with other young people at an international arts program. Ta da! We talked a little longer (about the times he sailed through Sweden with his pegasis named Diamonds and his forty Indian princesses), and he was gone.

Phew, back to my computer. I thought.

I had about 30 seconds of downtime and was then apprioached by another man, brown-haired, probably in his late thirties. Handsome, if it hadn’t been for what appeared to be 17th-century dentures lining his mouth. His teeth, some might call them. In a fairly heavy German accent he said something like “I heard you talking about Scandinavia with that man. It is one of the few places in Europe that I’ve never been. How is it? Like any other cities in Europe that you’ve been?”

Uh oh. I haven’t been to any other cities in Europe. Now would be a perfect time to lie. Come on, come on, come on. But no. From the looks of his teeth and the sound of his voice, he would surely be able to call me out on any of the bullshit I could spew about the “other European cities I’ve been to.” Damn. Honesty one, Cassie zero.

I explained that I’d only been to Sweden. I apologized, though now that I think about it I wasn’t sorry. I was glad it was a short conversation, as I was stopped mid-sentence while writing and would have loved to get back into computerland.

Then this happened in my brain. “Wait. What? What’s wrong with me? There is a real person next to me, willing to talk, and all I want to do is be on my computer? Something I can do from anywhere–most notably from my desk in my house in Fort Lauderdale? Snap out of it, you ass-hat! You have four hours here, so just talk to the man.”

So I did, and I am so glad I did. It made the time pass so much faster, and it snapped me out of my boo-I’m-traveling-alone-so-just-I’ll-stare-longingly-at-every-family-and-or-couple-that-passes-me spell.

He was from Munich, but had been living in Saint Louis for the past seven years for med school. He had just finished his residency and was going home to visit his family and friends. In Munich. And Paris. And Venice.

I did get a little embarassed having to give “no” as an answer to so many questions. It was like being the overly prude girl sitting in on (and thusly, losing) a game of never had I ever. Been to Paris? No. Been skiing? No. Ridden a motorcycle through the Swiss Alps? Nope. Finished med school? Nope. Had a long term goal ever in my life? I’m leaning towards no.

Despite all of my no-ing, he was a very friendly man. Almost too friendly at times. He made the fatal mistake that oh so many Europeans do: winking. Winking incessantly. Winking after saying things like “I have to use the restroom” and “a girl vomited on my last flight.”

Do people wink this often in Europe? Or is it just something that they once heard is cool in America so they try to use when in the company of Americans, like cowboy hats or the word “groovy.” I guess, in all honesty we Americans are to blame for this. Every English text book that is ever published should have a tiny word bubble in the margin of, let’s say, page 37, saying something like this…

“The Truth About Winking! It is creepy. Don’t do it. Unless, of course, you actually are a creep.”

Ta da! That way, along with learning the verb conjugation of “drink, drank, drunk” foreign students can also learn how to avoid this unfortunate mistake.

So, Markus and I chatted the hours away until he had to catch his plane to Frankfurt. He exchanged my dollars for some of his euros so I would have some cash in Paris, gave me his email address, and said “thank  you for being here.” I think he wanted for us to fall in love in those two hours in the airport, and although he was fantastic company and quite the winker, I can safely say that didn’t happen.

Soon, I was off on my nine-hour, up in the air, over the sea adventure. I was seated between an interested (and most likely uninteresting) guy (reading a book about Financial Management, surely a dead end conversation there) and a French woman who know any English. I read, ate, located the nearest exit, listened to music, read, ate, pretended to sleep, read, watched the little white airplane make its way over the endless stretch of blue, and looked around to find which other passenger I would want to hold me when the plane begins its fast and fiery crash in the middle of the ocean. Then I read some more.

394 hours later we landed at the Paris airport, which has a longer French name that I didn’t/still don’t know. Des Gaus? Del Gaudes? Del Gaulles? Dell Guy? Dead Guys? Like I said, I don’t know. These next six hours were filled with adventures: buying Coke Light from a vending machine with Markus’ euros, playing “American or Not?” (your capri pants always give it away, Europeans!), accidentally falling asleep (and drooling) on a bench right next to the security check-point, meeting rude Canadians, trying to look European, and so on.

Blah blah blah. Sat next to an old Swedish couple on the plane to Stockholm. Arrived there. Panicked about my checked bag. Found my checked bag. Descended into the cold cave that the Swedes refer to as the “Arlanda Express.” Took the train from airport un-city to Stockholm city.

There I found Maria and we went back to her beautiful apartment for dinner. I am not kidding, I think this is one of the most beautiful apartments I have ever been in in my whole life. She is in the top apartment, with a view of Stockholm on one side and of the sail-boat sprinkled river on the other side. Not to mention that the apartment is filled to the brim with IKEA wonderfulness.

Maria, her boyfriend David (who is also wonderful), and I had a delicious salmon/cous cous/sadziki dinner on the rooftop. We had wine and great conversation, and I retired to the living room for some long-awaited sleep. I woke up feeling rested, refreshed, and so excited to be here in Sweden.

Maria took me to the central station, where I hopped on a train to Linkoping to meet Helena. The ride was two hours long, most of which I spent trying to figure out the book that the man next to me was reading; the cover was a sunny beach scene in the background, and a half-decomposed bloody hand reaching out of the sand in the foreground. I eventually decided that it was about a girl who was at the beach with her friends, they buried her in the sand as a joke, left her there, where she died and became a beach zombie, and thus won’t rest until she has eaten the brain of every friend that abandoned her there. It seemed very Swedish to me.

Helena and her dad met me at the train station in Linkoping at noon. It had been almost two years since I’d seen her, so it was a awesome, long-awaited reunion.

Helena and I got lunch downtown and went shopping. I spent way too much money, but justified it by saying that there is no good shopping in Oskarshamn, where I’ll be for the next three weeks, so this was my shopping for the whole trip. I bought four pairs of earings, black leggings, black heels, a grey faux-leather jacket, a light blue skirt, a white shirt-dress, a t-shirt, and a pair of white shoes. Whoops.

After shopping, Helena and I walked back to her house, where we had a delicious dinner out on the back patio. Salmon on the grill, potatoes (not for me), sadziki, curry sauce, and a salad. Helena and I then went and picked berries in her yard–wild strawberries, wine berries, cherries–and had them with vanilla ice cream for dessert. Everything about this was so beautiful. It seems that the Swedes haven’t lost their connection to the natural world the way that it seems many Americans have.

After dinner we watched some TV, talked a bit, and headed downtown to hear her friend Daniel’s band play. First we stopped in at this bar called Laureant for some drinks. From there, we walked to the bar called Morners where Daniel’s band was playing.

The band was good. They were like a slightly more Swedish, slightly less obnoxious version of Greenday. Suffice to say, the style wasn’t my favorite, but they were good musicians and great performers. There were quite a few very drunk older Swedes, which was very entertaining. I had never seen this side of the culture here before. The quiet, well-mannered Swedes were now drunk, climbing onstage, and belting “Sweet Home Alabama” into the microphone. It felt like home, sweet home.

After spending the last ten minutes of their set listening to a sweaty Persian man tell me, albeit politely, all of the things he hates about America, Daniel, Helena, and I walked back to Laureant to see what was happening there.

To our surprise (or not really) we found about thirty sweaty, shirtless Europeans dancing on each other to a German techno song. Was it half-naked gay night or just the typical Friday? I’ll never know. Regardless, we joined them for some sweaty dancing for a few songs, and then made our merry way home.

I slept very well here at Helena’s house. This whole household here is like the Swedish parallel to my house back in Fort Lauderdale. Something about it is so comfortable. I woke up and went upstairs about an hour ago, and found Helena’s mother, the only other person awake, sitting in a chair, reading the newspaper, just like my mother does every morning. This house feels like a home. I consider myself so lucky to be here right now, and  to have a friend as wonderful as Helena in my life.

Today I think we are going to meet up with Maja and hopefully meet her new baby. Helena’s mom is making pancakes upstairs right now (just like my mom does, ha!) so I should probably go. Sending my love! Puss! (That means hug in Swedish, not puss as in the yellowy innards of an infected wound. Bye!)