don't you hear sincerity in my voice when I talk?

“I’m not much of a dancer, but I’ll walk you there,” my father says willingly. He has always been crazy about walking, and living in Stockholm has provided him ample opportunity to engage in his long strolls. He and my mother are the only ones without metro/bus passes, and they walk an hour or two every night.

Occasionally they come back from these walks with fantastic stories about places they found (an extensive animal cemetery, a labyrinth) or events they bumped into (free concerts, etc). Last Sunday’s walk ended at a musical/dancing extravaganza, which they had wandered into on one of the nearby islands. They came home and raved about the free dancing lessons and music, until my sisters and I decided that we would go the next week.

“It’s about a 20 minute walk.” According to father, everything in Sweden is approximately 20 minutes from our apartment. This includes Gamla Stan, Sergels Torg, and every church we’ve visited. In his brain, these walks might actually be 20 minutes – after all, time is a philosophically complex notion, and I accept the idea of its relativity.

But tonight I want something more concrete. “What’s that in human time?”

He smiles. “OK, maybe half an hour. It took us 27 minutes last week. I’ll time it again.”

**

We amble along the waterside, admiring the boats and considering how lovely it would be to own one.

“That could be the Stewart,” he says of a medium-sized yacht. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have it for a family business? I could be the skipper, you could do the bookings and stuff, and Hannah could dance.”

I agree, and we continue walking. The subject inevitably moves to a Stewart dude ranch – a dream that is usually shot down by the family. I assure him that I am game and am, in fact, very fond of horses…and dudes.

It’s around seven and twilight is settling in. I cannot help remembering the summer skies when we first arrived which stayed bright until late. Changes are coming.

**

My father drops me off, and I enter a large, quaint building, which is leaking music into the chilled evening air. The inside of the building feels small – there are many rooms, corridors, and people milling about, practicing instruments and chatting.

The folks inside the building are just that – folks. Literally. They are a range of ages, but mostly older; very relaxed, simply dressed, and completely different than the Swedes who have daily surrounded me in Stockholm. The idea hits: this is real Sweden. It dawns on me that I have based my judgment of Sweden on Stockholm: somewhat akin to judging the United States based on a month in New York City. Informative, but limited and inaccurate.

I enter a cozy, well-lit room toward the back. It is the beginner’s dance class, and there are about seven couples painstakingly attempting the waltz-like moves they have just learned. The instructor is a short, bald, thick-necked man in his early 70’s. He is singing and keeping time in Swedish.

My mother tries teach me what I’ve missed, and softly chants the instructor’s words in English, “Outer, outer, inner.” She is trying to do the man’s part, and it is confusing her. The other couples start twirling, and we join in, our feet are a jumbled mess.

I have always been cursed with a love for dancing combined with a complete lack of any natural or gained ability. I am the 12-year-old who never got used to her growth spurts, and my limbs flail like a baby bird. Everything is awkward; I am tense in the wrong places and loose where I should be controlled. My only consolation is the knowledge that I have never done this dance before, and my partner is my mother.

The instructor stops singing, and begins monologuing in Swedish. Everybody detaches from their partner and finds a new one. As I register this information, an elderly man approaches me, hand held out. He is taller than me, thin with softening features and gray hair.

His hand settles firmly on my ribcage, and we start to dance. I am fine until the twirling commences, and then my feet are stampeding on his. I look down, trying to see what is going wrong, but my attempts are futile.

He tries to help – “Put your right foot here…then…here…Talar du Svenska?” Do you speak any Swedish? He is desperate.

I shake my head with an apologetic smile. “Engelska.” I hope he doesn’t think I am terrible because he is bad at explaining. I am terrible because I was born this way.

The class ends, and we all file through a corridor where a violin lesson is taking place. Lively music follows us as Ammadeus gravitates toward tables covered with piles of homemade food. There are burgundy soups, fresh vegetables, soft spreads, and a variety of baked goods.

Another group of violinists is enthusiastically playing in the corner, and the tables are filled with a mishmash of casually dressed Swedes, eating and talking.

“I’m going to get some food, try to get a seat across from the spicy guy,” Ammadeus instructs me. She has been eyeballing a young man with dark sideburns and big, light eyes. There is no room at Spicy Guy’s table, and we make do with a table in an adjoining room.

**

I walk home with my mother and younger sisters, still feeling energized from the community. Ammadeus is also animated, and we start rapping Justin Timberlake and Eminem. We decide to try rapping Jason Mraz and Taylor Swift songs and are delighted with the effect.

“Lucky I’m in love with my best FRIEND!” our rap is angst ridden; we are expressing our anger, channeling Tupac, electrifying the streets of Sweden.

“We were BOTH young when I first saw YOU!” We are rap geniuses. Superstars. How have we not been discovered?

We are also clearly American, and I am glad the streets are empty – no need to be enforcing Loud American stereotypes. The air is chilly, we can see our breath, and we are walking briskly against the cold, passed on one side by the occasional bit of traffic and staggered buses. On our other side, fancy private yachts are darkly sitting on the water, just beyond the reach of the streetlights.

Our repertoire of original rap songs has run out, and our conversational audibility has mellowed into a tone more complementary with our surroundings. So this is Sweden.