Three Swedish Years and Lessons Learned

I struggled to write this post. Usually when I can’t think of anything to write, I just don’t. It’s easier that way. But I feel like this one needed to be written. It should be reflective and thoughtful. Maybe it should bring a tear to your eye. Or to mine. But mostly it was hastily written and became more of a stream of consciousness post. Which is funny, because I hate that style of writing, once mocking it in an essay in high school after having read As I Lay Dying. But so it goes.

I’m back in the US now. And I’m scared shitless. There isn’t a part of me that isn’t scared. I’m horribly nervous. All of me. And those two feelings are pretty overpowering right about now.

I was in Sweden for over three years. My first year was pretty miserable mixed with a whole lot of good. But hardly a day went by that I didn’t want to leave. Couldn’t figure out why I was there. Couldn’t figure out why I was putting so many relationships into that situation. Then it got worse. For a lot of reasons. Many of them my own doing. Many of them still my own doing.

I ran home to my mamma and pappa. That’s what they are there for I think. And I moped around Greeley for six weeks. Miserably moped. And they put up with me because somewhere in my birth certificate it says that they have to. And when it came time to leave, I damn near lost it when my ticket said I had to fly back to an empty apartment in a crappy part of the Stockholm suburbs with no job and few friends. It wouldn’t have been the first time I lost it in that first year. Life was not good. In my own privileged world. Which is unfortunate, because despite bitching and moaning quite a bit, despite being a grass is always greener kind of person, it is very seldom that life isn’t good for me.

But then I managed to scrape together a life in Stockholm. It took a while, but it happened. I made friends. Suddenly, I didn’t spend entire weekends at home watching Friday Night Lights. I found a job I enjoyed. And that paid me when I was supposed to be paid. I found that I was more than capable of being an adult. Except for trying to cook for myself. It was a strange revelation. But one that I suppose was necessary. I have moments when I still struggle being an adult. It’s an exhausting process.

Stranger still was that once I made the realization that I had a life in Sweden. That I had friends. That I had a responsible, good paying job. That I was half an adult. Well, I decided to run away and move back to the US. I decided that the job I liked wasn’t something that I was going to like years from now. I decided that despite having a life in Sweden, I didn’t want to spend my life in Sweden. I decided I had people I cared about more than I sometimes admit here in the US.

All those questions I had that first year, were answered really by the third. I moved to test myself. To be horribly selfish and do things on my own. But I couldn’t quite let go of home, in more ways than one. And that’s what I learned by year three. That I didn’t need to. That I didn’t want to. That I shouldn’t have to. I learned what I might want to do for the rest of my life, and I learned what I definitely don’t want to do for the rest of my life. I learned enough to know that it was time to leave. And some things are worth moving for. And so I did.

And now I’m struggling again with trying to acclimate. Trying to realize that this isn’t just a run home to mamma and pappa. That this is more permanent. That I have chosen a new career path that has so very little to do with what I have done in the past. That I may end up being in my 30s with experience and education that no one cares about and find myself horribly unemployed. This has resulted in me walking around with a knot in my stomach and eating and drinking enough yogurt to have cultivated a burgeoning civilization in my gut.

So in just a few weeks, I’ll be migrating east. East of Greeley, Colorado to the great Midwest. And by great I mean expansive, not necessarily better than good. And so I will find myself in what can best be described as Scandinavian America. But that doesn’t have much of a ring to it, so instead in an ethnocentric sort of way I will be a Swedish American in Swedish-America.

Welcome to the US. And a Swedish American moving to Swedish-America.

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Adventures in Middle America

I have a blister on my hand from the steering wheel. My right ass cheek is still numb. My elbow is angry and my back is screaming. This is the result of driving about 2500 miles over the course of four days. That’s over 4000 kilometers.

I had never driven east of McCook, Nebraska until Sunday. In fact, I’ve been to more countries than I have states. I don’t really spend much time east of the Rocky Mountain states. It’s safer that way. The mountains make me happy and for some reason calm me down. Which I’ve needed a lot of lately. So driving east into a bunch of flat nothingness kind of stressed me out.

But away I went. I had things to do and people to see. 2400 miles later I have realized just how Scandinavian Middle America is. I passed signs for a Danish windmill and Danish museum. I passed signs for Little Norway. I passed signs for Gothenburg, Nebraska. I drove on Sorensen Parkway and Kronshage Drive. I saw enough Scandinavian names as dentists, doctors, and real estate agents to make me forget where I was. Despite all of this, it had a distinctive Americanness to it all. And not the good kind of Americanness like a root beer float, but the bad kind of stereotypical Americanness.

A woman told me she thought Swedish was just English with a Swedish accent. I cracked a bad joke about that only being the Swedish Chef from the Muppets. She didn’t laugh. Not because the joke was so bad, but because she was serious. She actually didn’t know Swedish was a different language. First I felt bad because it seemed like I was making fun of her when I cracked my joke, then I realized that she probably deserved it.

Welcome to the US. And Scandinavian-America.

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The Weather Never Changes in Hell…

…This Church is Prayer Conditioned.

Let that one sink in for a little bit. This is my new life.

Despite the heat in Greeley lately, and despite some people probably describing Greeley as hell, I cannot make a claim to this tag line. Instead, a local Baptist church is to blame. I pass this sign on the way to my old man’s office and I think it is making me angrier every time I pass it. The first time, my brother pointed it out and I laughed. Now, when I drive by, I shake my head in disgust.

On a good day, I might be described as agnostic. But that’s when I’m feeling generous, because when it comes down to it, I don’t believe in God. Or god. Obviously, that clouds my judgment. Part of my disgust with the sign is the pretentious all-knowing undertones. You know, basically the same style I use in my writing. But who are we kidding, the pretentiousness is nothing compared to the ridiculous of the statement itself. Not the weather never changing in hell, but the prayer conditioned.

My brother claims that puns are the lowest form of comedy. My brother makes this claim when I utter a pun of my own. My brother is right. I’m not sure what the church is trying to accomplish. I’d like to think there aren’t actually people who go around worrying that hell will be too hot. I’d like to think there aren’t actually people who go around thinking that prayer conditioned is funny. I’d also like to think that churches not need to stoop to the lowest form of comedy to get people through their doors.

I think I’m wrong. I guess I forgot just what an influence religion has on everyday life here. Especially in Greeley. I could care less if you believe in God. That’s your prerogative. Your belief. Your faith. But don’t be an ass about it. And don’t make bad jokes about it.

Welcome to the US. And bad church signs.

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Sweden and the US Make an Eye Exchange

A few days ago I managed to rip my left contact. Which wouldn’t be a big deal if I had some extras lying around. I don’t. Or if it hadn’t been in my eye at the time. It was. Or if I had been able to get the other half out. I wasn’t. Unfortunately, it was a big deal.

After over ten years of wearing contacts, I have trained myself to shove my finger in my eye and not flinch. Evolutionarily speaking, probably not a good idea for the future protection of my eyes. For my eye sight though? Spectacular. That skill allowed me to root around in my eye ball trying to find the other half of my contact. I did not find it though. So I moved to plan B. My mother.

She washed her hand. I sat down, threw my eye open, and she began rooting around in my eyeball. To no avail. Finally, still hurting from jet lag and at this point just really grumpy, having a floating piece of contact lens in your eyeball will do that to you, I went to bed. With the contact lens still in place. Awesome.

I had no problem falling asleep. I did have a problem staying asleep though. And so, I woke up early and decided that instead of getting up I would pop open my computer and try to catch up on e-mails. Which I did. But my grumpiness returned as I realized that I still had a piece of contact in my eye. About an hour later I’d had enough of e-mails and headed to the shower. And then, sweet release. The contact popped out. It looked like a small puss filled larva. It was disgusting. And amazing. And my eye hurt like hell. So glasses it was. Well glasses it was because I didn’t have any other contacts.

Which has proven to be a bit of a problem for me. I don’t have the actual prescription for my contacts. Instead I have the packaging from the contacts I have been using. You know, the one with the prescription written directly on it. I went to my eye doctor, I went to an online distributor, I went to a retailer. Al said I had to have the actual prescription. No one explained why. I just thought they wanted me to pay for a new eye exam. Finally, several days after the search began, I was informed that it was required by law. That means that contact lenses are considered to be some sort of controlled substance. Which is ridiculous.

I wasn’t planning on ingesting my contacts. I wasn’t planning on injecting them. Or snorting them. Or smoking them. Glad to see the American public is being protected from those evil substances. Like contact lenses.

But fine, I e-mailed my eye doctor in Sweden because of the time difference. And received no response for two days. So I called on the third. They actually don’t check their e-mail. Which is an excellent service to have then. But they were happy to help and would fax me the prescription. But it didn’t show up. An e-mail did though last night (apparently they have learned how to use that newfangled electronic mail). They can’t fax it. Instead, snail mail it is. And so, my contact prescription is crossing the Atlantic. Still days away.

Welcome to the US. And Swedish-American eye exchange.

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Welcome to America

I’m writing this at an airport in Newark, New Jersey right now. And I am overwhelmed. I don’t know what I was expecting when I finally moved, but I don’t know if it was this.

I’m tired, my eyes burn, and I just ate the last of my lösgodis. Followed by my shoving down half a bag of Cheez-Its. It seemed like a fitting way to enter the United States.

But I am not overwhelmed by the travel. I’ve done enough of that to know the feeling. And just so everyone knows, I made it through Arlanda and flew with SAS without incident. Well played. It only took three years.

It’s everything that is going on around me. It’s the conversations that I keep picking up on. Throughout my time in Sweden, I developed an uncanny ability to pick out English speakers. So much so that I could hear them over the din of my iPod on the subway. Unfortunately, this ability is now akin to being schizophrenic. I keep hearing voices, and they are all talking to me.

It’s the friendliness of the people. Within ten minutes, my boyish charm and awesome laptop with the Colorado sticker on it attracted two different people to me. One older man, and one not older woman both of whom felt I was a good source of information. And I was.

It’s the stereotypes. Like the girl behind me on her cellphone for the last 45 minutes being the reason that people hate America. Or the girl lying on the floor laughing at the announcement being made in German for a Lufthansa flight. Or the woman across the terminal who just happened to be overweight and a good candidate to be a participant in the World Championship Porcupine Race explain she would be out of town because she was going on vacation. In Nebraska.

But most of all, it’s this strange desire to explain to everyone what I’ve done. Why I’m here. That I’m not just traveling, but moving. It’s horribly egocentric. And annoying. And pompous. And pretentious. And all things I have been accused of before. It’s also something I was expecting. Turns out this desire is fairly common for people returning home after an extended experience abroad. For that very reason, it was an experience. For the person involved. Unfortunately, it was not an experience for the people involved. And unless you are capable of telling a good story, which I am not, explaining that you once saw a girls boob in the elevator in Sweden while chuckling and constantly retracing your steps so you don’t leave anything out, kind of loses its appeal. And I think that’s it. Retelling all those old stories means I’m just retracing my steps.

Welcome to America. And overwhelmtion. And making up words.

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Midsummer Sailing

Despite coming from a long line of superior seamen (I think we all see what I did there), I am not what can be described as an accomplished sailor. I have managed to fall in the water and be on a boat that ran aground. So it may seem strange to you that my last Midsummer in Sweden, I chose to go sailing in Denmark. It may seem even stranger that this sailing expedition was actually an amateur sailing race hosted by a sailing club in Helsingør. The key word being amateur. When I finally got back to Stockholm, my decision seemed strange to me too.

The sailing started off well enough. The sun was shining as we sailed the boat from Landskrona to Helsingborg. We managed to get our nautical maps with us, the GPS and depth meter were all working, all in all, a good start. Of course, no sailing trip with me involved would be complete without forgetting something. We chose to forget the battens (I had to look that word up in English. I suddenly have learned lots of new sailing vocabulary words that I have no idea how to translate into English). It worked though. We made it home safe and sound. We did not run aground. I did not get wet.

Friday, we set off early to be ready for the race. We piddled around between Helsingborg with scores of other boats as we waited for the start. Ten minutes before the start we noticed one of the battens was loose. We attempted to lower the sail and save the batten. To no avail. It fell out and sunk to the bottom of the sea. Just a few minutes later, my cousin’s hat, which he had spoken so highly of, also fell into the sea. Not a good omen for the trip to come. But we sailed on.

For several hours we sailed without incident. The sun was shining. Sailing was fun. Sails were changed. Dinner came and went. I went below deck to sleep a while. While asleep, the electricity went out. Completely. Which meant we were sailing without GPS. It also meant that our engine would not start. Of course, if you start your engine, you are immediately disqualified from the race, so that wasn’t a problem. Of bigger concern was the GPS. For obvious reasons. But we sailed on.

I awoke to no GPS but a shining sun on Midsummers Day. Good times. The other three members of our ramshackle crew went to bed. My cousin, her boyfriend, and I stayed awake and carried on. We decided to change sails to a spinnaker. Essentially a big ass sail that balloons out and is supposed to give you a whole lot of speed. This being a race, speed was essential. So we changed sails. No problems at all. For about 45 minutes we were chugging right along.

At this point, I think it is important to note that the boat we were sailing in was 40.7 feet long and said to be uncapsizable in just about all conditions unless you find yourself out in the middle of the Atlantic. And despite not having any GPS we had not gone that far off course.

I can, in fact, confirm that the boat was uncapsizable. Because were sure as hell tried. The three of us attempted a jibe. Basically we wanted to turn. Except jibing with a spinnaker in high winds with three people, one of whom, me, knows not a damn thing about sailing is not a good idea. That’s because the sail will be ripped from your cousin’s hand, catch the wind, and attempt to drive the boat into the water at a 90 degree angle. The ropes will be ripped from your hands, leaving blisters on the tips of your fingers. The rudder man will be helpless because the rudder itself will be out of the water and turning a rudder in the wind doesn’t do anything. Your other cousin will come running up the stairs, knife in hand, ready to cut the sail loose. He will take stock of the situation, release several ropes, which will suddenly turn into formidable whips capable, and eventually get the sail into the water, thus allowing us control of the boat. And that is exactly what happened. It’s not a good idea. No one and no thing fell in. So we sailed on.

I went to be a little while later. Excitement is exhausting. I awoke when I realized we were not moving. At all. Awesome. I went upstairs only to see that we had run aground. Straight into a sandbank right under a large bridge. Awesome. There were attempts made to free us without starting the engine. We didn’t want to be disqualified you know. They failed. Then attempts were made to start the engine. Of course, as mentioned above, the engine would not start. And so we sat there. For quite a while. Eventually, an anchor was thrown in and my cousins began heave-hoing our way to freedom. And by freedom I mean off the damn sandbank. With no engine, we sailed into the nearest port, Stubbekøbing. That’s actually Danish for Time to Stop Sailing Port. Or something like that.

And we did just that. A phone call was made and we had withdrawn from the race. The next phone call was an electrician, who came out to us within about 10 minutes. Now my Danish is less than stellar, but it turns out that we had just managed to flip a switch somewhere along the way to the wrong side. This resulted in the batteries running down. So basically, we forgot to press the on button. Awesome. Then the friendly Dane began to babble on about the race. And suggesting that we continue. We hadn’t started our engine (for obvious reasons) and so we had not cheated. So another phone call was made and we were back in the race. And so we sailed on.

Late Saturday night, or early Sunday morning, I don’t know the time because I spent my shift on deck shining a flashlight at the compass due to the compass backlight being broken, it was just my cousin and I awake. We were clipping right along, no problems for several hours, heading straight for the lighthouse with the red light that was supposed to be on that particular compass degree. We were feeling good. Until suddenly we noticed that red light was gaining on us. And we weren’t going that fast. And it was getting bigger. Turns out it was a boat. We had been sailing on a collision course with this boat for hours. Just following the red light. The boat turned to the right. We turned to the left. Which was unfortunate because that means we essentially turned into another collision course. We turned further left. The boat this time also turned to its left and disaster was avoided. As the boat whipped by, I could have probably hit the broadside of their ship with a baseball. That ship was moving so quickly, that within about ten minutes, it had disappeared over the horizon. With everyone intact, my heart beating furiously and adrenaline coursing through my very tired veins I decided it was time for some chocolate. So I settled into my position of shining a flashlight on the compass and ate some Marabou. And we sailed on.

Several hours later I went to bed thinking we would cross the finish line right about the time I was waking up. But again I awoke to the ship not moving. My immediate reaction, because I can apparently be conditioned into thinking things, was that we had run aground. Again. I went upstairs. We had not run aground, but instead found ourselves in a pocked with no wind. Which was unfortunate because, judging from the boats closer to the coast, there was wind to be had. So there we sat. Kronborg jutting out from Helsingør was in sight. The finish line was in sight. But we did not sail on. We couldn’t.

Since we had come this far without an engine, we sure as hell weren’t going to use it. Of course, we were assuming we could get the engine started despite the GPS blinking on and off due to a very tired battery. So we waited. And I ate. Because that’s what I do when I’m bored and there is food around. It’s a damn good thing I am not bored very often or I would be a very fat man.

Finally, a few gusts of wind came by and we were able to get moving. We sailed past the finish line 49 hours and 36 minutes after having left. And we tried to start the engine. Which, of course, did not start. The battery was dead. So instead of sailing into Helsingør's port, we headed over to the Swedish side and Helsingborg. At this point, sailing into a harbor without an engine was old hat to us and we glided right in. The crowds at the café stood and applauded as we gracefully touched down, men asked for our autographs, women threw their bras at us, life was good. Or I was suffering from a lack of sleep. I don’t remember.

Having unloaded the boat, loaded the car, unloaded the car, eaten dinner, and driven up to Stockholm, I was in bed by two in the morning on Monday.

But we made it. No one was hurt. No one fell overboard. No sails were damaged. No boats were damaged. Maybe most importantly, no relationships were damaged. It was a success. Or a failure. Or a successful failure. I suppose it depends on your definition.

Welcome to Sweden. And my likely retirement from amateur Danish sailing.

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My Welcome to Sweden Moment

I moved here on June 5th of 2007. But those first few days in Sweden were spent trying to get my feet under me, and by feet, I mean trying to sleep with the damn sun up at 10 in the evening while I was horribly jetlagged. I was staying at my uncle’s apartment until I got the keys to my apartment and all of the papers signed and squared away.

So it wasn’t until a few days later that I really started to live live in Stockholm. Because up until me moving into my apartment, it felt more like I had just been visiting again.

My first apartment was out in Flemingsberg. Which isn’t always considered to be the nicest part of town. Or even considered to be part of Stockholm. But it’s close enough. Living out in Flempan means you need to take the pendeltåg in and out of town.

My time in Flemingsberg instilled in me a deep hatred for the commuter train that exists still to this day. And it all started that first day.

As we all know, seeing as how I stabbed myself in the nape of my neck with a toothpick while asleep, I am an idiot. And so it was that I decided to go out to Flemingsberg for the first time while dragging with me two suitcases. Some people might go out and do a little reconnaissance. Check things out. Find where they were going. Not me. I was unemployed and had no friends. It’s not like I had all the time in the world to travel back and forth between the city and Flempan.

So I made my way onto a packed commuter train right around rush hour on a very sunny summer evening. We made it a few stops without incident. And then we made it a couple more. And then we had an incident. We stopped. In the middle of the tracks. Not moving forward or backwards. Awesome.

Eventually, the kind conductor came on to let us know that, yes we had stopped, no we were not imagining the failure to move forward, and he did not know how long it would take before we started moving again. Awesome.

We sat there for over half an hour. Which wouldn’t be so bad. You know, if it hadn’t been summer time. And rush hour. And if I wouldn't have been hauling two suitcases. And if I wasn’t such a hairy sweaty guy. But I am. And it was. Awful.

Finally, we lurched to a start again and I made it to Flemingsberg. At which point I immediately began walking in the wrong direction. Because I am incapable of reading maps correctly. I realized my mistake pretty quickly and headed back. And started hiking. And hiking. I walked through a group of apartments, heading in the right direction. As I walked, someone above me was blasting “Gangsta's Paradise” through their windows. Yes.

Having wandered around for 15 minutes and not having found my apartment I came to the realization that I was living on the 12th floor. And so, if I counted the floors on the buildings I would be able to start crossing off potential dwellings as my own. So I did. I would stop in a central place, suitcases in tow, and do a 360 as I counted floors. I slowly moved my way forward finally coming to some orange and purple buildings slightly reminiscent of rainbow ejaculate.

I started counting. Twelve floors, thirteen floors, fourteen floors. YES! They had more than 12 floors. I stumbled around the buildings in search of a building number. Found it. I kept stumbling in hopes of a street sign. Found it. I checked the key. I was in. Up I went, to a very empty apartment and dumped my stuff, promptly stripping to my boxers while opening all the windows. I told you I was sweaty.

A walk that should have taken about ten minutes, took nearly an hour. A train ride that should have taken 18 minutes, took nearly 45. This was my welcome to Sweden moment.

And so… Welcome to Sweden. And Gangsta's Paradise.

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