Some random thoughts

Because I have failed to update in almost a month, but it's past midnight and I can't really form anything coherent.

- I have discovered the "naturgodis" section of ICA. Dried pineapple covered in yoghurt? YES PLEASE. They're like crack.

- I am invited to my cousin's daughter's birthday party. I have never met this cousin. By extension, I have never met her daughter. I decided to be thoughtful and buy her a present. It was her first birthday, after all! So I bought a classic toy... A wooden turtle on wheels. Cute. Then I got home and realized the girl is turning TEN, not ONE. Back to the store, only to find it's closed. Just another thing to do tomorrow morning, awesome.

- I no longer need to wear my subzero boots out.

- I need to buy some of those plastic waterproof boots.

- Root canals are not fun. Also expensive.

- It's difficult to make friends in Sweden. I know this, because it's Saturday night and I have nowhere to be and no one to hang out with, which kind of blows.

- My high school in the US was approximately 60% Asian... yet I learned how to eat with chopsticks first in Sweden, of all things.

- Swedish guys look a lot like girls.

It's not all meatballs and herring

I like to eat. I'm quite sure that I am not alone in this, but really, what's better than a delicious meal after a long day of class, and, um, sitting around. True to Swedish fashion, I consider it a crime to not at least attempt to represent all the food groups, and though I fail, I console myself by reminding myself that I tried.

Having grown up with a German mother, I know how to cook. While the rest of my friends ate cheaply by devouring fast food, I ate cheaply by cooking. Mostly Italian food, because I am addicted to pasta. Which is cheap.

This has changed with my move. 10 years of living away from Sweden have not changed my appreciation for Swedish food. Although I can't admit to liking herring, I will devour gravad lax (pickled salmon), meatballs with lingonsylt, blodpudding (congealed pork blood pudding), blodkorv (also congealed pork blood, but more solid and shaped like a sausage), falukorv (also sausage), and all the things they come with. Unfortunately, these things are not readily available in Southern California. We tried. We found a German buther willing to cut a ham in something resembling the traditional Swedish Christmas ham. An intricate shopping list was developed for my dad so that he could buy food when in Sweden. Things like Herrgårds ost (a mild cheese), skinkost (spreadable cheese with ham), bilar (candy... delicious, delicious candy) but still.

The point is, suddenly all the foods that I could never really get, are suddenly totally and utterly available. Did I mention the leverpastej? Liver in a spreadable form for my breakfast sandwich!

Last week, I went on my weekly grocery run to ICA, this time accompanied by a friend. Because I am taking a class meant for immigrants, she is Greek. Note that this class is way too easy for me, and my classmates give me many dirty looks. Whoops. Anyway, as we're walking through the store, we're talking, and I am grabbing things off the shelf.

I was standing by the yoghurt, debating which flavor combination I wanted this week (Swedish people, we love our yoghurt. There are approximately four thousand combinations, give or take a few), when my friend E looks at me and says "How the HELL do you know what you want to buy? You glance at a shelf, you grab something, and you are on your way. Every purchase for me is murder. Say I want to buy ketchup. I will find the ketchup, learn that there are 27 different kinds, and I will spend half an hour looking at all of them, trying to pick one."

I was taken aback. I had not even realized. How did I know what I wanted? The food was speaking to me. I was only 9 when I moved away from Sweden, and I had only lived there for 3 years; before that, I had lived in Germany and Poland, though before that I was born in Sweden.... I mean, really. I should have no business knowing what brands existed in Sweden, or what to buy. Yet I did.

I'm still trying to figure that one out. In the meantime, I am going to go enjoy some Sarek tunnbröd with a generous slathering of leverpastej.

Blowing people's minds.

So my landlords are renovating. The ceiling in the family room was sagging, and a collapse seemed imminent, so they called the proper people and now the construction guys are in the house every weekday from about 8 am. Which is not so bad on school days, because I wake up at 7:30, but less fun on days I don't have school, and apparently all of the hammering must be done before 9 am.

But I digress.

There's two of them, one of them is an older Swedish native guy, and one of them is from somewhere else and does not speak Swedish well, but, just like everyone else, he has a good handle on English, and so he usually addresses me in English once he figured out that I spoke it fluently.

The other guy, the native, always talks to me in Swedish, but always looked at me funny whenever I responded to him. Keep in mind, I was born here, and though I lived in a few other countries, I moved back here for first through third grade, and since my father is born and raised in the country, we ALWAYS spoke Swedish at home, even when we moved to the US when I was 9. Additionally, I always begged my dad to bring me books back when he went for business trips.

So even though I was out of the country for over 10 years, I still speak Swedish fluently, and have only a slight accent, usually when I am drunk.

On one day last week, they had some issues getting the windows open. Being the only one home, I dutifully attempted to help them, even though I had never tried to open the windows myself. After several minutes of confused pushing and pulling and some creative swearing, we got the windows open.

The guy then looked at me and said "Wait... I thought you were an American or something."

"Well... I lived there, sure." (because even though I spent half my life in the US, I still don't consider myself American)

"Then how come you speak Swedish so well?"

In hindsight, instead of responding the way I did (which was my explaining my roots) I should have just said

"Well, I've been living here for 6 weeks already!"

Learning the hard way

So my whole life, my dad has been telling me how I have a habit of insisting on learning things the hard way, and I think he may be right. A snow storm rolled in on Friday, and I can tell you first hand that it was freaking COLD. I know this because I was out all night, and did not get home until 6 am on Saturday morning.

Unfortunately, this did not happen due to a neverending party. Nor did it happen because I went home with some guy I met while partying. No. It happened because I just could not get home.

Let me explain.

On Friday evening, I headed to a friend's home (I will call her E to simplify the story telling process) in the southern part of the capital, dressed to kill and armed with a bottle of raspberry vodka. Amid laughter and forced application of red lipstick, we drank ourselves silly, and then headed out to the snob clubs in the city with another friend of hers, whom I will call J. We linked arms as we headed to the subway station, laughing hysterically, in the way that only giddy drunk people can, every time one of us almost fell due to the combination of vodka and icy roads. This was around 11:30 at night.

We meet up with some of E's male friends, and head to a club. After being denied at one for failing to meet the age limit, and rejecting one due to an excessively long line, we end up gaining access at the third club around 1:00 in the morning.

At 3 am, as is the (inexplicable) norm in this city, the club closed, and all seven os us stumble out of the club, exhilirated and still pretty drunk. One of E's friends proceeds to rip off his jacket and shirts, encouraged by the catcalls and laughter. Let me remind you: we are standing in a snowstorm. Huge snowflakes are falling from the sky. Me, dressed in knee high boots, tights, skirt, top, jacket, and a wool coat, would PROBABLY be freezing my ass off if not for the alcohol zooming through my veins, numbing my senses.

A few minutes later, we pile into a subway train, an explosion of different languages and shouting and swearing from the cold. E invites me to stay the night at her house, which is much closer than mine; but I want my bed, so I tell her no thanks. Moments later, I look up as we roll out of the station I should have gotten off at. Damn.

At the next station, I bid my comrades good bye. I needed to take the subway back one station, in order to take the commuter train from there to home. With a big smile on my face, I head back to the subway that will take me back. My smile starts to fade as I realize I have to wait more than 10 minutes in the cold for the next train, while a very drunk guy pesters me because of my (very slight) accent. But, fueled by the fun night I've had, and looking forward to crawling into bed, I soldier on. Around 3:40 am, I board the train that will take me back.

Legs hurting, I get off the train at the correct station this time, and walk through the entire station to the other end, where the commuter trains are. In my drunken haze, I fail to realize the importance of the fact that the boards for the departing trains are all blank. I reach the doors to the commuter trains, and push. Huh. Maybe they're pull doors? I pull. No dice.

A light bulb goes off in my head. I look through the windows in the doors, and it occurs to me that it is dark. With a horrible, sinking feeling, I realize that the commuter trains... they don't run all night. Oh. Shit. I did not know how to get home from here...

The panic makes the after effect of the alcohol wear off quickly. I fight back desperation, and calmly walk back to the subway. I decide to take the subway to another station where I know there is a bus terminal. Of course, I have to wait another 15 minutes for the train, but it finally arrives and I climb aboard, too exhausted at this point to even turn on my mp3 player. I slump into my seat, and pray that there will be a bus that will take me home.

At 4:15, I arrive at the bus terminal. In a sleepy daze, I proceed to the bus schedules, and scan them to see if any of them go to my home station this late at night. None of them do. One of them goes to a centrum that is about a 25 minute walk away from home. I realize this is my only choice, and check to see what time it will depart. My soul is crushed when I realize that it leaves at 5:00 AM, and it is now only 4:17.

Groaning, I drag myself to the waiting room area. I cannot stress how much of a good thing it was that I could wait "mostly" indoors (there's walls and a roof, but no heating). The snow storm is raging on outside, as I curl up on a bench. 10 meters away, a spanish guy is throwing up on the floor while his girl companion yells at him in Spanish.

The minutes tick by. Finally, finally, finally, the bus arrives. The eyes of the bus driver look at me with pity when I stumble on board and make my way to the back of the bus. I stare out the window as we drive, trying not to think about the 3km walk I will have to endure when I get off the bus later.

At 5:20, I get off the bus and try to orient myself to where I need to walk. I look around, and it occurs to me that there IS a bus that goes from where I am to a stop that is about a 5 minutes walk away from my house. I also decide that maybe the morning traffic has now commenced, and if so, there is a chance the bus will be working. I check the schedule... and sure enough, it will be leaving at 5:36. I know at this point that I would be home SOONER if I walked, but I cannot bring myself to walk that far, as I am beyond exhausted.

Luckily for me, the bus is already there, waiting for departure time, and the bus driver let me board the bus early.

At 5:45, the bus drops me off, and I, powered by a sudden burst of adrenaline of being almost home, practically run home, and crawl into bed a few minutes after 6 am.

Please, take it from me: Figure out how you are going to get home BEFORE you go out. And when offered a safe place to sleep, TAKE IT.

Oh, and the snow storm I mentioned a few times as wreaked a whole other chaos, but I will save that story for later...

Note to self

I took a Latin dance class in the fall of 2009. We learned steps to Meringue, Cha-cha, and Salsa. I had a ton of fun (and had a pretty fantastic partner) and even though I sucked pretty bad (I'm uncoordinated, as we've covered) I would totally do it again, even though I haven't actually danced since my final, which was in December.

So my dad flew into Sweden today (he does work here on occasion) so chances are, he will come check out my dwelling at some point in the next few days. Obviously, I am now frantically cleaning everything, and, like everyone else on the planet, I blast my music when I clean (and dance like a fucking loser, but hey. You do it too, don't deny it).

Of course, my playlist then decides to play the song we had to perform for our final in that Latin Dance class, and I, high off goofiness, decide to attempt to remember the moves.

Bad idea.

Especially when, after about 10 seconds, I realized I couldn't remember the moves at all, and instead jumped about like an even bigger loser, and crashed into my bureau, which sent all the books on it cascading down onto the floor, creating an even bigger mess for me to clean.

Classmate shows concern

I'm a clutz. I know it, my family knows it, my friends know it, and perfect strangers know it. Curbs are mysteries to me; I never notice them until I trip over them. Poles are invisible to me until I walk into them. I don't have bruises often - I always have bruises. Pointy corners, door knobs, armrests... my enemies, all of them.

I've been fairly successfully hiding this tidbit about myself from my new classmates... until today. At the halfway mark of my 3 hour writing class, we were released for a 15 minute break. I wandered to the bathroom for no reason, then wandered back to class. The only people in the room at this point are me, the guy that was sitting next to me, and someone across the room.

So I strut back into the room, tights, skirt, knee high boots and all. I make my way toward my seat, and that's where things went horribly wrong. See, under the windows, there are heating elements. They have knobs to adjust the temp. My knee hit one of the knobs with a vengeance. The local equivalent of "FUCK SHIT OW DAMN!" comes out of my mouth as the knob literally snaps off and goes flying. Almost instantly, the guy in the seat next to me jumps up to make sure I am okay (thank you, guy next to me) and attempts to fix the knob. Knob is a lost cause.

GNTM cracks a few jokes about how I must have decided that no one was allowed to control the room temperature, etc etc, and all is well. A few mintes later, class resumes. We are told to edit each others papers. Pencil in mouth, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, I grab the armrests of my chair to scoot forward closer to my desk.

I silently scream as my thumb gets jammed in between the metal armrest of my chair and the metal leg of the desk. Half crying, half laughing, my head falls down onto the table as GNTM looks at me, eyes full of confused concern, wondering what the heck I just did to myself.

You know you've made quite the failed impression when the last thing a new acquaintance says to you before you part ways after class is "I'll find you on Facebook later to make sure you made it home okay without dying."

The US is not the only high tech place in the world!

I went to the local library a few days ago because I need to read a play for one of my classes, and buying a copy seemed dumb. I actually stumbled across the library by accident when I was trying to find the bus station after getting done at the police station (where I requested a new passport, nothing bad for once).

So I walk into this library, hoping to GOD that it works the same way that it does in the US. You know, you walk in, go to the information desk, get a library card, find your book, and then go check it out at the register or desk or whatever.

No dice.

I walk in, and see... a lobby like thing, with a couple of computers. No information desk, no friendly librarians... Shit. Well, I spot a helpful sign that says "ADULT SECTION UPSTAIRS". I then walk upstairs, hoping that "Adult Section" does not mean "Porn Section" and thankfully, it was not. It was just the non kiddie books.

There's a lot of non-kiddie books. Where's my play?

I finally spot someone that looks like an employee and ask for help. She looks at me sort of like I am an idiot, but does help me find the book, and she signs me up for a library card. Then she asks me if I would like her to show me how to check out a book.

You mean you can't do that for me?

She takes me to another computer. Or rather, it's a monitor, and in front of it is a big red pad.

This is what I learn:

Put your library card anywhere on the pad, face up. This logs you in.

Then, select check out on the touchscreen monitor.

Place your book on the pad, wait about 10 seconds, and boom. You've checked out. If you would like a reciept, hit the reciept button.

Computers are taking over the world.