2011: Ring out, Wild Bells

"You're moving to Switzerland right?"
"No. Sweden."
"Oh."

Sweden doesn't hover on the consciousness of the average American. No, it's not Switzerland. Yes, it's an "sw" country in Europe with a history of neutrality, but it's still not Switzerland.

I understand the confusion and ambiguity – I certainly don't have all of my African and Asian countries down. I can't find most of them on a map, can't pronounce the majority, wouldn't recognize the name of a significant number of them. But I've never had this problem with Sweden. It has always been on the radar as the country of my father's first post.

My father was posted here in 1985, at the age of 26. Swedish has been my parents' secret language for as long as I can remember. Part of the "secret language" plan was for us children to eventually pick up the language. I suppose we weren't as bright as hoped for in that area, as the only Swedish I ever figured out was some of the numbers, (from hearing them discuss restaurant bills every time we ate out), a phrase or two ("watch out!" and "I love you"), and words my mother found funny (the full word for bra sounds like "breast holder.)

My older brother, Will, was born and experienced the luxuries of a toddling around the baby-friendly, carriage-filled city of Stockholm. Baby-friendly to an extent: my mother often recounts being nervous about finding him sucking on rocks outside around the time of the Chernobyl disaster.

When she tells this story, I imagine her as a young mother – 23 – sitting inside watching T.V. and hearing about the nuclear disaster. The radiation was spreading everywhere and – OH NO, young William is playing outside, sucking on now radiated rocks. She runs outside, scoops him up, and removes a tennisball-sized rock from his clenched fist. It is has a dark patch where the drool from his mouth has left a temporary impression.

"No William. No more rocks. Very dangerous," she tells her one-year-old.

I'm almost positive it didn't happen like this.

**

This August was my first, tangible interaction with the country of Sweden. After a few months of halfhearted attempts to learn the language via Youtube, studying its culture through blogs and The Local, I was reasonably prepared to take our relationship offline and meet face to face.

And what a face. Stockholm is unlike any capital I have ever experienced; green, fairly reasonable traffic, filled but not crowded, and dotted with sparkling lakes (now beautifully frozen). Physical attraction, check. I myself, for the first time in my Middle East dominated life, fit in physically: tall and fair with blond hair and blue eyes. No stares, no assumptions.

Now, as 2010 draws to a close, my time in Sweden follows suit. I am on the verge of accepting a contract as an English teacher in South Korea. East Asia has always been a huge question mark in my mind. The culture, food and people I've experienced from the region have always been Americanized. I'm ready to discover them for myself.

My short time in Sweden has been eventful for me personally as well as for Sweden as a country. This summer had unusually high temperatures, but by November, we had started an intense winter: December's temperatures were the coldest in 100 years. In September, the far-right, anti-immigration party won seats in Sweden's parliament for the first time in history. The Center-Right party was reelected for the first time in the past 100 years.

Also in November, Sweden accused the U.S. Embassy of spying on its people. Around the same time period, Julian Assange, editor-in-chief of Wikileaks, was dealing with charges of sexual assault on two different women in Sweden. Then, perhaps the biggest shock of the year, in December, Sweden experienced its first terrorist attack. Only the suicide bomber – a Muslim extremist – himself was killed, but it shook the nation, and brought up issues of latent discontentment among unassimilated groups of immigrants.

**

Last night, New Year's Eve, we watched on television as thousands of Swedes gathered outside at Skansen – the world's first open air museum – to celebrate the new year. There were various musical performances, and then Actor Jan Malmsjo dramatically read Tennyson's "Ring out, Wild Bells," which has been read at Skansen on New Year's Eve since 1897. Landing the job of reading this poem is kind of like being elected a Supreme Court Judge: it's your position until death. Malmsjo has been reading it since 2001. I think it's a lovely way to start a year.

Ring Out, Wild Bells

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,

The flying cloud, the frosty light;

The year is dying in the night;

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring, happy bells, across the snow:

The year is going, let him go;

Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,

For those that here we see no more,

Ring out the feud of rich and poor,

Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife;

Ring in the nobler modes of life,

With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

The faithless coldness of the times;

Ring out, ring out thy mournful rhymes,

But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,

The civic slander and the spite;

Ring in the love of truth and right,

Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;

Ring out the thousand wars of old,

Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand;

Ring out the darkness of the land,

Ring in the Christ that is to be.

unusually and exceedingly peculiar and altogether quite impossible to describe –

my new wand

Blond.

**

Kiriakos and Pavlo, the two half Greek boys that Ammadeus and I babysit, made each of us a magic wand this Saturday. I'm going to take a picture of mine later and add it, but for now I'll just say that it's really awesome. Pavlo used a knife to whittle the wood, and added a special green stripe at the bottom.

Naturally, when he handed the wand to me, I raised it up and used a spell, waving it for effect. The spell I used? Avada Kedavra. It just popped out. That's right, an unforgivable curse. And not just any unforgivable curse, the death curse. Everyone was silent and Ammadeus looked at me, appalled.

"I can't believe you said that."

Yup. That's me, making social gaffes through the most unlikely of methods.

**

Simply Sweden:

As an easily identifiable foreigner – I walk around shivering in uncoordinated outfits, don't speak Swedish, etc. – I am often asked what my favorite part of Sweden is.

Public Transportation. I love it.

The SL (Storstockholms Lokaltrafik) system is, in comparison to other cities I've lived in, terrific.

Basically, you can buy a monthly adult SL card for 690 SEK (around 100 dollars), and it works on buses, trains, and the Tunnelbanan (metro). This might not sound cheap, but compared to paying the exuberant Stockholm gas prices/parking costs, and compared to other monthly metro card prices (London, for example), it's not a bad deal.

The SL system has so far been punctual (supposedly it slows a bit during winter), extensive (covers Stockholm suburbs), and easily accessible; bus and metro stops are everywhere.

For me, it's also a personal quality of life improvement. In L.A., I didn't have a car (long story – didn't get my license until my last year there), and was forced to rely on walking, buses, and friends to get around. Unfun. This was partly because the system was not well coordinated – transferring buses involved long wait periods, etc. Also, I didn't like using my friends to get around. Even if they were going to the same place: I didn't like that it was something I could never contribute to (except pitching in with gas).

(During college, no problem. I lived on and close to campus and had easy access to most events going on. After college, unfun unfun unfun. Mostly, the problem was that everyone had a car, which meant that it was a built in assumption into people's way of living.)

So, Life Advice: Don't live in L.A./O.C. without a car. L.A. is not concentrated or connected like New York City. It is sprawling.

In Stockholm, I can get to the center of town in ten minutes taking a bus which is right outside my door. I'm independent again. Minus the fact that I'm living at home. Ah, life.

i had some dreams, they were clouds in my coffee

"Like my profile picture? I googled fat lemur."
-Lexis

**

Yesterday night, the 4 year-old girl I was babysitting wouldn't go to sleep, so I unscrewed her lightbulbs and locked her into her room.

This was in accordance with her mother's instructions. Yes, apparently Anna won't sleep unless locked in a dark room (and she can turn the light on when the bulbs are in).

"I know it sounds cruel, but it's the only thing that works," her mother said and explained that there was a baby monitor that I could listen to in another room. Fun times.

**

Anna's older brothers were really awesome. They are both fluent in English and Greek, and can speak some Italian, Swedish, and another million languages. This meant that I got a free Greek lesson – my name looks fabulous in Greek. " A bit like Elvish but more like Greek." (Yes, I wish I hadn't said that). Unfortunately Greek, like many other languages, hasn't managed to create letters for all the sounds in my name. They missed out on the "sh" and "v" sound, but made up for it with like three "O's."

The boys (10 and 11) told me about how they used to get bullied at a school they attended in Italy. Pavlo said he and his friends would hide from the bully in some old tires near the playground.

"What about you? Have you ever had problems with a bully?" he asked me.
"No. I was the bully."
They both stared at me.
"Just kidding. I'm a girl...we don't really do that."

They disputed this and I agreed and admitted that I was the kid in the corner with a book when I was in elementary school. I have no idea if bullying went on at my childhood schools.

**

I watched The Social Network last night and really enjoyed it. Movie ticket prices in Stockholm vary both by theatre and film. At the cinema in Hotorget, The Social Network cost 100 SEK ($15), Inception cost 110 SEK ($16.50) and other films went down to 90 or 95 SEK.

When I lived in L.A., I got used to La Mirada's dollar theatre prices – most days $2.00, Tuesdays $1.00) – and the Stockholm prices initially seemed really high. But that's just Stockholm; it's a European capital, and everything is a bit more expensive here. Also, big cities in the States hit comparable cinema prices, especially with 3D glasses.

**
Simply Sweden

Grocery shopping is definitely more expensive here. The US embassy puts out a biannual order to the commissary in Frankfurt, and staff are allowed to bulk order all the American goods that they miss (or are too expensive here).

Our family has been with the State Department for a million years, and we're used to not having American goods; in Yemen we didn't have pork, cereal, candy bars, McDonalds, etc. The order we placed was fairly small; a turkey and a pig for Thanksgiving/Christmas, a box of HeadNShoulders dandruff shampoos (you can only buy in bulk), etc.

Other families were clearly feeling a lack of America in their shopping. I was housesitting for a family, and they received a giant order (30 boxes?) which included a box of chewy bars, a box of bisquik pancake mixes, and a box filled with Ramen Noodles. They missed Ramen Noodles so much that they ordered them from Germany (and by extension, the States) in bulk. I still can't get over this.

**

me and my friends made comic book

Things I Like

- When you start out not liking something and grow to love it. Examples: all of my friendships (kidding!), onions, mayonnaise, chocolate, transferring unis, tiny dogs, saunas.

- Yellow leaves

- One word hilarity triggers. Every time I say "Buster," one of the kids I tutor starts cracking up uncontrollably. We just sit there laughing because we think the name is funny.

- Finding things in coat pockets. Money, phone, unused Kleenex

- Being on the right side of an insane exchange rate (yes, I get paid in Krona)

**

Sometimes I write stories in my head as I'm walking. The other day, a couple of characters were having a dialogue in my mind and one of them said something funny. I laughed out loud. I then realized I was laughing at the voices in my head. Problem?

**

Swedes are all about saunas. Alright, maybe that isn't entirely accurate. But compared to Americans, Swedes have a lot of saunas. Many of the buildings (at least in Ostermalm) have them, and private homes have them too. Americans seem to prefer jacuzzis.

"To get rid of the chill you have to take off all of clothing and jump into a wooden box heated to over 100 degrees. It sounds a little drastic but once you’ve tried it, you know the meaning of the phrase ‘toasty warm’." (repairhome.)

There is nothing that thoroughly heats your entire body like a sauna does. It's really fun to watch the beads of sweat rise on your skin and tickle as they trickle. And the phrase "beads of sweat" is also really fun. It's so perfect.

for papa, make him a scholar

Today the dog I was walking thought it would be a good idea to prove that the ice on top of the pond would hold his weight. It didn't.

Today the fingerprint guy said my fingers were like bird claws.

Today I met a woman from Norwalk, Connecticut. This wouldn't have been a problem, had she not heard that I was from Wilton, the neighboring town. I had put Wilton on my bio hoping that it wouldn't draw attention because it was such a small, random town. I had fun explaining to her that I had never actually lived in the town where I was "from."

Today winter started. It ends in May.

**OR**

Today, while walking Adam, I was fascinated by the thin sheet of ice sitting on a pond. I poked at it, threw snow across it, and admired the branches that were half under, half above it. Adam became curious and jumped onto it, immediately breaking through the ice. Luckily it was really shallow, and he jumped right out. Also, he looked hilarious with part of his body half the size of the rest of it.

Today, my siblings told me that the fingerprint guy said my fingers were like bird claws. I told my sister that he had said hers were like sausages. I win.

Today I met a woman from Norwalk, a small town bordering Wilton, the town my mother and grandparents are from which I've visited every summer my whole life. It was neat thinking that we had probably eaten at the same restaurants and probably knew some of the same people.

Today it snowed and Stockholm was transformed from a place of coldness to a place of cold beauty. It is hard to describe the feeling of peace to be gained by sitting by a window, warm in your room, watching the snow fall to the street below.

the freckles in our eyes are mirror images

Last week, Adam's owner asked me if I'd like to have tickets to the dress rehearsal of a dance show her company was putting on.

"They like to have a small show beforehand. You know, so they don't have to go naked in front of Stockholm on the first night," she explained.

Naked on the first night? I decided that this was a figure of speech – they didn't want to be exposed without having tested an audience. It was a dance show; surely there wouldn't be nudity.

I was wrong.

It was a modern dance performance, and on the whole really enjoyable. The first act included a crazy Bollywood number, a couple of pokes at the audience on our need to pay money to be entertained, and some up close time with the dancers (they donned Rudolph noses and walked into the audience, standing still and staring). The choreographer/writer was clearly going through some sort of existential crisis when he/she penned the piece: one section was devoted to bizarre dancing, dark lights, flashing words, and an increasingly dramatic voice repeatedly asking about beginnings and endings, life and death.

The second act got crazier. A lady sat upstage with a glazed look, repeating the word "Expectations" in a monotone voice. Clothing was shed with every light change, and the final scene had a naked body lying on stage right (just the back of it) and a naked man writhing across the stage on his belly (again, no frontal view). His body was moving madly, but on his face was an extremely realistic looking happy mask; the whole time he crawled/writhed across the stage, his face was in a huge, frozen smile.

i don't mean to seem like i care about material things – like social status

Through a D.I.Y. Foreign Aid NYT article, I recently discovered Maggie Doyne, a 23- year-old from New Jersey who took a gap year before college and ended up living in Nepal, starting and running a children's home and school. My favorite part of her story is when she won a CosmoGirl Leadership contest and they sent her $20,000 for her school. They also flew her to NY for a makeover, which she laughed about, saying that at the time she had lice in her hair and rarely wore makeup.

Her story is awesome. Watch the video.

**

"Last week you had it out, and the week before you had a hat, but now it's up –" Carl made a gesture, pretending to pull his hair back.

Yes, my eight-year-old pays more attention to my hair than I do. This weirds me out because a) he's a boy and I'm all about gender stereotypes and b) he's eight.

My friend Natalia, also a teacher, frequently posts statuses about comments her children make on her physical appearance – clothing, hair, eyes, everything.

"Yesterday one of my little girls patted my tummy and said "wow, big!"--great. Today, however, a different little girl said, "miss Natalie has nice eyes, and nice mouth, and nice ears!"--THIS is why i teach little kids...they're good for the self-esteem--at least most of the time. hahaha :P"

**

Simply Sweden.

"I love this ad!" Amadeus showed me a Snickers advertisement from her student issued scheduler. "Snickers is amazing!" I looked. "Peanut power!"

The ad had a Kama Sutra book with a bunch of post its inside it. "Got a big job to do?" was the slogan.

"That's the Kama Sutra!"

"What's that? One of those holy texts?"

(snickers kama sutra ad)

So the photobooth shot I took is backwards, but you get the point.

Welcome you Sweden.

turn my head with talk of summertime

Numbers in Sweden are different.

I have strings of memorized four digit door codes floating about in my mind. (Almost every apartment/work building has a four digit code required to enter.)

Time is done in 24 hours. Really it's efficient because you never have to specify a.m. or p.m., or rack your brain trying to remember if 12 midnight is a.m. or p.m – it's 0.00. Of course, a.m./p.m. is rarely needed for context (no, school doesn't get out at 3 a.m.), but when it is needed, things can get confusing. I've known many people who have missed flights over these confusions.

Time is also different because Swedes are on it. They are always on time. They are never late, and if they are early, they drive an extra time around the block so that they arrive exactly on time. (The embassy's briefing words, not mine). You can see this obsession with time in the bus system – buses often hit arrival time to the minute, and if they're running late, they're libel to drive right by you to make up for time. (Haven't experienced this, but heard it happens). Not convinced? Perhaps the omnipresent giant outdoor clocks will help make my point.

Numbers are also different in the dating game. Well, perhaps not, but I thought I'd use the segway. Every Swedish girl who has met my 21-year-old brother has fallen immediately, madly, and aggressively in love with him. This includes quite an age range – high school (19) to well-established (late 30's). They call, text, invite him out, invite themselves in, cook him dinner, introduce him to rock legends, the list goes on. He seems almost bewildered by the attention, but, like any reasonable man, quickly attributed it to karma; "Girls didn't like me when I was young." Not quite true Christophe.

**

It's 8° C here (46°F). To my Middle-East/Californian internal expectations, this is very cold. A glance at the weather forecast gives the joyful news of the degrees marching steadily down; by Thursday we're hitting 2°.

And I've handled it OK so far. No bad weather, only bad clothes. I get that. Problem is, if it gets much colder, I'm going to start thinking that there are a lot of bad clothes out there, because I'm barely getting by.

Of course, when I bring up my weather worries, people always remind me that the actual hard part of Swedish winters is that it is dark all the time. Oh yeah, and that winter lasts for about seven months. S.A.D. Fairly high suicide rates (#28 in the world).

They have "happy lamps" here which give off sunlight type rays and include possible side effects of "being wired."

**

Funky Story:

The benign thief. This is thief we all aspire to be stolen from – he stole a laptop from a professor, and then returned the contents in a magic stick. (Yes, that's what I call them.)


All I ask of you:

Watched part of Phantom the other day. Emmy Rossum was 16 when she played this part. My ex-roomie was called Christine, and she looks quite a bit like Christine in the movie. I occasionally sang Phantom songs at her, but I don't think it had the same effect as Gerard Butler/Patrick Wilson.

she's a good girl, loves her mama

A couple of the Swedish kids I tutor are nine-year-old boys. This means that they are far beyond me in all video/computer game knowledge, even with their limited English. When discussing video games, their voices speed up, their eyes brighten, and their hands start gesturing.

They introduced me to Steam (not 'Stream' which I, understandably, thought they were saying), and explained their love for Half Life, Oblivion, and various other sequeled games (Dark City 4?). I tend to be fairly unenthused about any gaming, mostly because I'm terrible at everything except Tetris, but also because it doesn't seem like the healthiest of addictions for little boys. However, these boys also have other hobbies (they love reading), and it's hard to condemn something that brings so much excitement into their faces. I did make an attempt at addressing the possible violence exposure.

"So do you guys use guns in these games?"

They looked at each other in a half 'what planet is this lady from,' half 'I can't wait to answer this question' way.

"Yes! In lots of them. In '.....' and '....' and '.....' "

"Maybe you should go around hugging instead of shooting. Or giving flowers." (Yes, I tease. I'm so cool.)

"But...we kill Zombies."

"Oh. Well I guess that's OK then." Really, there isn't any other way to deal with Zombies.

**

In my experience, Swedes have odd taste in American media. Ammadeus tells me that the kids at her school constantly sing Toto and other random old bands. The radio stations keep us entertained by playing Dusty Springfield, Billy Idol, Gnarls Barkley, Guns&Roses; all in a row.

My kids have funky movie taste too. Their list of favorites include Men in Black, Star Trek, Star Wars, I Robot, I am Legend, Ace Ventura Pet Detective, and the Scooby Doo movies.

**

Life Advice: Don't take public transportation home at midnight on the night of a Beer and Whiskey Festival in Sweden. Piles of puke. Stumbling, staggering, sickly people.

A mid 30's pale man with curly blond hair, glasses, zigzagged his way toward me and sat down too close, mumbling something in Swedish.

I smiled and shrugged until it became clear he expected an answer. We switched to English – he was fairly incoherent, but this might have been his extreme intoxication, not his language abilities.

"I'm so stupid," he looked distressed.

"Oh." I tried to sound sympathetic as I put a few more inches between us. I don't mind having these conversations as long as they maintain a certain distance.

"I only listen to my own things."

"Ah. That's alright."

"Nooo. I am so – " he said a foreign word I didn't recognize. I looked blankly at him.

"You are not Russian?"

"No," I shrugged. "American."

He spent the rest of our conversation trying to convince me that we were the same age (I denied), and telling me that he liked music. Just...music.

"You are...nice," he leaned to touch my arm. I stood up. "My train is here."

"Sorry!" He called after me.

I got home and told Ammadeus the story. She said I should have gotten his number and texted him in the morning about all the stupid things he had said. I think that would have been 1) harsh or 2) completely ineffective. (ie he would have found it funny.)

**

"Lady Gaga sings strange songs, but she doesn't wear many clothes." Tristan (age 9). Quite well put.

flipping your fins, you don't get too far

What's the name of the restaurant?

His text reply was prompt.

Vapiano. By Zara.

Zara. A reasonably priced Spanish clothing store that reminded me of shopping at a branch in Oman. Shopping. Ammadeus.

Hey, where's Zara?

Her reply was to be expected.

Are you going SHOPPING without me?

No. Chris and I are meeting some babysitting parents for lunch. The restaurant is near Zara.

Oh. It's in Kungsgatan.

I hopped off the metro at Sergels Torg, the city center, and started walking in the direction a bus driver had pointed at when I asked for Kungsgatan.

There it was; Zara. I kept walking. And walking and walking. After I had thoroughly covered the area around Zara, I called Christophe.

Fun Conversation 1:

"Hey, I'm near Zara but I can't find the restaurant."

"Where are you?"

"Um. In a flower and fruit market. There's a giant PUB sign."

"What?"

"I took a right after Zara's."

"Why would you take a right after Zara's? He said 'Go right past Zara'"

"I tried that and it didn't work, so I figured maybe I should turn right."

"Okay, go to the Maxburgare." (Maxburgare = Sweden's version of fastfood.)

"I don't see one."

"Do you see a McDonalds?"

"Yes."

"There's a Maxburgare across from the McDonalds. Do you see it?"

I was far away, but I thought I saw the telltale red markings of a Maxburgare.

"Yeah."

"Okay go there and I'll meet you."

**

Naturally, we soon discovered that we were at a Mcdonalds in two different parts of Stockholm, near two different Zaras. Neither of us could see Vapiano, our restaurant destination. I hopped a bus to Kungsgarten (where he was) and called him for Fun Conversation 2.

He picked up with, "I was wrong. I just spoke to the guy we're meeting and it is in Sergels Torg, not Kungsgarten."

"Great. Well I'm in Kungsgarten now."

"Okay, I'm here too. What do you see?"

"Umm...an H&M?" (This is like saying you're near a tree in Ireland...or a Starbucks in LA.)

We discovered that we were both near NK, Sweden's version of Saks Fifth Avenue; a giant, classy clothing/everything store. We decided to meet under the big NK sign a la Sleepless in Seattle. This led to Fun Conversation 3.

"Hey. I'm under the NK sign."

"I'm under the NK sign."

"Uh, no you aren't. I can't see you. I'm under the sign. It's a huge NK."

"I know. I'm under the huge NK sign."

"Like right under?"

"Well, I'm a bit to the right."

"What right?"

"Like, looking out from NK's viewpoint, I'm to the right."

"Okay, stay there. I'll come."

Naturally, we finally figured out that there are two huge NK signs, about 30 feet apart – the very distance, it turns out, that removes the other from sight.

**

We arrive 40 minutes late after discovering a 3rd Zara within the same two mile radius. Apparently Zara is a big hit here? This was the type of comment we used as we profusely apologized to the man, woman, and four toddlers who were waiting for us.

We then continued on to Fun Conversation 4.

CH, the father we were eating with, asked Christophe what he was doing in Stockholm. Christophe told him about his tutoring/babysitting/housesitting jobs. I decided to pitch in.

"And he's writing screenplays!" This was true, and I thought it made him sound pretty cool, like a struggling writer.

"Oh really? What kind of screenplays?" CH asked.

Christophe smiled, "Oh, you know..."

"Horrific ones," I chimed in. I meant to say "Horror ones"– Christophe has written a very dark, disturbing story about a serial killer which I thought was really well done. Possibly not great conversation fodder for a first meeting with a babysitting client. Other, better topics, might have been his comedies

Oops.

**

Classic Monty Python:

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.

no no no no, stick to the status quo

"It's a shame not to get pregnant here." The man speaking was perfectly serious. No, he wasn't using a bizarre pickup line – he was referring to Sweden's policy of parent worship That's right, a year and a half paid pregnancy leave split between mom and dad.

I know a young, American, pregnant woman who has been working here for around a year. When she found out she was pregnant, she was nervous about telling her boss because she was a new hire. To her surprise, he was excited and supportive of her condition. Work philosophy is different here.

Things I like:

-tubes that are sealed shut and have a little pointy thing on top that you can flip over and use to pierce them. (harder to describe than you'd think)

-bus drivers who wait an extra couple seconds because they see you hurtling towards them like a mad(wo)man

-people who already know how to pronounce my name

-and can spell it

-children

**

I once put up an online bulletin trying to get more volunteers at an elementary school. I titled it "Like kids? A whole lot?" The inside of the post explained that we needed volunteers to come hang out and help with homework.

The one response? "You should think about changing the title of your post."

**

It's amazing the things bored people will do to fill up their time. I've always enjoyed reading the internet forwards about spicing up your life. I think my favorite suggestion was: End every sentence with the phrase "In accordance with the prophecy." I still get a kick out of that.

**

Intelligence is an interesting concept. Geniuses and dummies aside, what do you mean when you call someone smart? Do they have a lot of trivia type information in their heads? Do they pick concepts up really quickly? Do they have an ability to understand more than the average person? (ie. maybe they don't pick things up quickly, but can comprehend more)

I've known some extremely intuitive/perceptive people who aren't skilled at language or numbers, but who can communicate and understand interpersonal relations exceptionally well.

We've all known the seemingly vacuous classmate who can barely find their way out of a room, but who pulls straight A's.

When someone is described as "smart" to me, I either assume a philosophical conversationalist who is well read, or a math/sciencey/nerdy type.

But hey, apparently everything you thought about study habits – including visual/audio learners and right/left brain learners is wrong.

Small Talk Question : Would you rather be exceedingly intelligent and mildly beautiful or mildly intelligent and exceedingly beautiful? Which would get you farther careerwise? relationshipwise? happinesswise?

**

Last night I babysat a 4-year-old named Inaru. She had a wonderful drawer labeled "Make Believe" containing tiaras and fluffy pink skirts and bits of shiny fabric and outfits. I told her I wanted to be a princess. She refused and told me that I would be a dog. So I spent the next ten minutes barking and walking around on all fours as she told me what I could do.

She later asked me if I was an adult, or still a kid. This was the first time I had been asked this question. After assuring her that I was the most responsible, intelligent example of a grownup she could encounter, I turned the question around on her. (One cheap shot deserves another.)

"Are you still just a kid, or are you an adult?"
"No, but I will be one soon."
"How soon?"
"In a few days I think."

**

Babysitting is ideal rehab for recovering sarcastics. Sarcasm simply doesn't translate well to a four-year-old, and when nobody is chuckling at your remarkably pithy comments, you lose your drive.

Case in point: The daughter of a family we were eating with asked my brother and me where ours other siblings were.

I shook my head and said, "We don't talk about them much."

"Really? Why?"

"Because they aren't as attractive as we are."

She just looked at me. My brother, sitting next to her, gave me a look before turning to her:
"We pay her to say things like that."

Again, silence.

This could only happen to me

Simply Sweden:
Apparently you can't get through a winter in Sweden without wiping out on the ice patches. Oh, and big shafts of ice also work themselves loose and dive into passerby.

**

Last night I ran around strangling people. Clones, actually. And they were in my dream, so that almost makes it better. I mean it would be problematic to indict someone based on dream crimes. Unless you're talking Inception. But that's a dream too.

The problem with clones is they look like real people. And they're evil. So I was madly running around trying to warn people before they got cloned that a clone of themselves might appear. I tried to explain how to recognize if it was their clone or a real person. In retrospect, this information was fairly superfluous – 95% of the time you're the one who can tell if it's a clone or yourself. You're having a pretty serious identity crisis if you aren't sure whether you are yourself or your clone.

Anyways, the clones tended to give themselves away by repetitively muttering something along the lines of "We want you, we want you." So that was helpful.

I spent my night sprinting towards people, discerning if they were a clone, warning them if they weren't, and violently attacking them if they were. I didn't feel guilty then, and I still don't. They're clones.

**

Right, I know. Nobody really wants to hear about someone's dream. Dreams are filled with intense emotions that don't translate in "reality." They differ from memories because they don't deal with normal laws: time, gravity, our freedom from clones. It's hard for a listener to empathize. And, of course, they aren't "real," so they're considered less significant.

Also, half the time dreams are stupid, but the dreamworld was felt so strongly by the dreamer that he/she thinks it will somehow translate to the listener: "And then we walked over to this building! And I was with Mike, but he looked like Jake, but I knew it was Mike!" Or, the dreamworld isn't fantastic, it's mundane, and the subconscious is having extended conversations with friends. Just sitting and talking.

Fine, nobody really needs to share those dreams.

But what if the most interesting thing I did this week was fight clones? Why shouldn't I tell you about that story instead of how I missed my alarm and was late for the bus and blah blah blah? Most conversations are silly, small-talk affairs; why should it make a difference if our stories happened in our head or in the realm we share with others?

Maybe it's selfish to expect someone to only talk to you about something you could have done.

Clones, man. Get you thinking.

Oh, and next time you're telling someone a dream and they're acting like they actually care, consider these options: Either

1) they are faking it, OR
2) they feel guilty and are trying to make it up to you by listening, OR
3) you are a terrific storyteller, OR
4) they think you are telling them something that actually happened (notice their expression when you mention how you started flying and your cape changed colors) OR
5) your dreams are actually entertaining to the general population, OR
6) your listener is madly in love with you and listening very carefully trying to decipher a hidden symbol of reciprocated affection (ie. in my case: were you a clone in my dream? Did I strangle you or shoot you? etc.)

**

We're house sitting a dog named Peanut. He's small, white and fluffy and we generally refer to him as a "she," despite the Harley Davidson handkerchief his owners tied around his neck in an attempt to avoid such gender confusion.

We also call him Peepee. This is because everytime he sees a leash he gets so excited that he tinkles on the carpet.

**

There are some marvelous radio stations here. This was playing yesterday:

they're like the real world meets boy meets world meets days of our lives

My father chose the wrong family for his career. I suppose he only has his genes to blame. Still, a few of us have suggested that he utilize a separate, representational family, for various family-included functions he has to attend. He treated this suggestion as a joke, "Haha how witty we all are," but, like most humour, there is much truth to be found.

Today our family was invited to fika (Sweden's version of afternoon tea. But it's coffee. They're obsessed) with an ambassador and his family. Or, as it turned out, a foreign ambassador, his wife, and their DCM. No children. Except, of course, the four giants in our family.

Eventually the conversations diverged into their natural directions: the men discussed politics and history, the wives discussed the women's clubs in Stockholm, and the four offspring had our own quiet conversations which ranged from biology to adult content to gender roles.

**

Highlights from our fika conversation:

Ammadeus (my 17 year old culinary sister) lectured me on her newfound knowledge of viruses. I'm not going to give anything away because she has promised a guest blog, but it's exciting stuff. In her virus speech, she went through the qualifications of life (reactions to surroundings, transference of energy, etc.), including reproduction.

"You aren't alive! You haven't reproduced!" she exclaimed and laughed hysterically at her own genius.
"Well then you aren't alive," I protested. "You haven't reproduced."
"I have reproduced! I've created many poop babies." Nice. At the ambassador's residence.

Ammadeus staring at me as I looked across at the foreign dignitaries:
"I see your profile! I see your profile."
I quickly turned to her, but it was too late. "I can still imagine it!"

That's the scary thing in life: you have no control over the imagination of others.


Ammadeus: "They just had this conference to define pornography, and they finally came up with 'We can't define it, but we all know what it is.' Hahahhahaha." (she is easily amused)
me: "Like love."
Ammadeus: "Like life."
me: "You've already defined life."

**

I get no kick from champagne

Simply Sweden:

"There is no bad weather, only bad clothing."

So say the people trying to prep me for wintering in Stockholm. The fact that this mantra has already been thrust upon me several times – in August – bodes ill for its veracity. Still, it is clever and probably necessary PR.

According to my pseudo co-worker, Swedish men are currently on the lookout for a woman to settle down with over the winter. They like to have these things fixed before the weather sets in. Breakups happen in Spring.

My American notions reject this mindset: Winters are spent cold(ish) and lonely, and Springtime is lovetime, twitterpation time, Valentine's Day. Spring is a terrible time of year to break up. Don't the Swedes watch Bambi?

Like a sprained ankle, I ain't nothin to play with

Simply Sweden:
"In Sweden, H&M is like Starbucks. It's on every corner," Ammadeus explained to me. It's true. They are everywhere, and they're all different. They're very reasonably priced, like in the States.

**

There is a California Whopper at the Burger King here, which I am anxious to try and review for y'all. Until then, another AFN life lesson:

you know i read it in a magazine

"Siobhan, guess what your sister subjected me to that is something you would subject me to?" Llama looked vaguely pained.

It's prefaces like these that make me excited about the person talking to me. A friend was spouting out golden prefaces to his thoughts one day, my favorite of which was: "Now this may be an indication of my severe psychoses..." (Or something to that effect.)

Anyways, in Llama's case, Ammadeus (our younger sister) had "made" her model every letter in a yellow shirt and yellow tights. I have placed X as the photo for this blog, but I will be creating an image of my name for your viewing pleasure.

Life Advice:

How to Make People Like You

1) Give them unsolicited advice
2) Mix up the gender of their baby
3) Sniff them
4) Pull an April Fool's prank on April 2
5) Tell them they don't take criticism well
6) Tell them they resemble a celebrity of the opposite sex. Or Sarah Jessica Parker.


None of these have worked for me so far, but I'm thinking it will happen for me one of these days. (And unspoken #6: Make like an absent father and throw money and gifts at them.)

**

Or try liking them first. But Siobhan, if people only like me because I like them, are they liking me for me or for them?

I don't know. Why do you want them to like you in the first place?

**

Simply Sweden: The samples at the grocery store are actually not samples. This happenstance has resulted in my brother and mumsie coming home with a ton of guilt candy that they bought after chowing down on the samples.

**

Hit #2 for "How to Make People Like You" (I figured I'd check out the competition) was this site. It includes advice like "Make a good first impression" (what if it's too late); "Project a 'Really Useful' Attitude" (wow), and my personal favorite: "...learn how to be like them. This requires you to deliberately control your behavior to become sufficiently like the other person to form a connection..."

Yes, these were taken out of context. I gave you the link, go look at the context. But really...really.

but all that i can see is just a yellow lemon tree

Jet lag blog # 2: Now with more coherency!

I had an English book in 10th grade which boasted in a bright pull out star: "Now with more analogies!" We made fun of it quite a bit.

**

My sister, Llama, sleepwalks/talks more than anyone I know. I share a room with her over holidays and she generally manages to mutter something more than once a night. Due to my special hours right now, I've been awake for several of these occasions, and they are rather entertaining. Apparently she gets very stressed when she's asleep, because she's always frustrated when she talks.

Last night she got up out of bed mumbling something about writing a letter to mom. She walked over to the desk by my bed and started sorting through papers. I told her that she didn't need to and she was supposed to go back to bed. She obeyed - as a sleepwalker she's very compliant.

A couple weeks ago, she woke up in the middle of the night, worried about the piles of laundry on the bed that needed to be put away. She got up and scooped them off the bed, taking them into Ammadeus' room. She walked back to her bedroom to go back to sleep and became very frustrated when she saw that her comforter was gone from her bed. She looked all over the room and couldn't find it. Later she realized that the "piles of laundry" she had removed were actually just her blanket. Tricksy.

These are the types of actions she does in her sleep. When she talks, she switches between English and her own made up language which has rules unto itself - there is a clear consistency nouns and verbs. Conversations are always enjoyable, and I've always wanted to record one - maybe if I'm still jetlagged tomorrow night I will. And hey, maybe I'll post it on here.

**

My good friend Nony used to tell all her secrets in her sleep. Her parents would sit up at night and ask her questions about her life. Kind of like a natural truth serum. How much privacy do kids deserve?

**

Simply Sweden: Yes, I have a million of these sub-headings and don't keep up with them, but I figured I needed to have a special Swedish one for the things I'm learning in Sweden. I was trying to get an alliteration thing going, but it came out strangely, so any ideas would be appreciated.

Today's Simply Sweden is the conundrum faced when seeking employment as a foreigner. Christophe and I are filling out work permit paperwork which requires us to have a Swedish job sponsor - but before we can get a job we need to have a permit. How does that work? I'm not quite sure, but it will.

We are also applying to get a "person number" as they call it. We've been very excited about becoming persons. Thrilled, even.

**

I feel the need to apologize for the current photo header. Yes, it hurts my eyes too. I plan on taking a high res one of somewhere pretty tomorrow. Stay posted.

**

Tonight I met a fellow from the Embassy who used to be on Broadway. Specifically, he was in Cats in the '80s. (He also did a bunch of other theatre, on and off Broadway.) He then decided theatre wasn't his route and considered law school. He wasn't sure how law school worked, so he wrote to Harvard (because it was famous) and asked if an undergrad BA in Music would be appropriate to build a law degree upon.

Harvard wrote back saying that a Music degree would not be a good foundation for a law degree. He then took the LSAT, aced it, and was accepted at Harvard Law among other places. He sent them a rejection with their previous reply photocopied and stapled to it, and wrote that he didn't think a Harvard Law degree would be a good foundation for law.

So he went to Stanford Law School which he loved, but after practicing as a lawyer for 8 years decided it wasn't his thing. So he joined the Foreign Service.

**

What I loved about his life story was that he always followed his dreams. I know it's very Disney of me, but I think it's really great when people believe in themselves and aim high. Clearly this guy had a lot of natural talent (singing, logic, etc.), but he also had a lot of gumption. Even if he had done some small town theatre and unaccredited law school, at least he would have been making his way, pursuing what intrigued him.

**

This will probably sound really ignorant, but I didn't know Pterodactyls still existed. But they do. In Sweden! I always thought they were extinct (like turtles and alligators), but they aren't. I promise.

i'm not a present for your friends to open

Today it hit me that I'm leaving for Sweden in a month and have an entirely Southern Californian wardrobe (with the occasional remnant from a childhood in the Middle East.) I'm not talking fashion here, I'm talking warmth, sunshine, heat.

My current plan? Use my wardrobe as an excuse to stay indoors on horrid, freezing days. It's not that I don't like the cold – I actually really enjoy drizzly, rainy, overcast days. There's something artistic about the sky becoming moody. But I like these days to be spaced out for better appreciation. When it rained in Oman (a couple times a year during winter), teachers would let us out to go play in the rain. In high school. So yes, I prefer my chilly weather as a rare treat like sushi...not cereal.

And then I tend to try and pull the whole "mind over matter" thing and will myself not to be cold. Even if my teeth are chattering, my nose is numb, and my arm hairs look like they're about to march into battle, I will deny being cold – and in my head I'm not. I'm a little worried that if Sweden is constantly freezing (which it is – its summer temperatures are what I'm used to during winter), I will eventually have to a) confront reality and realize that I get cold or b) sink irreparably into my delusion – which I mostly wouldn't mind except I like having the option to visit reality. (Choices and all that.) Also, I might get frostbite or something.

Anyways, while I'm on the subject, Sweden is home to the world's largest (and only) ICE HOTEL. It melts and is rebuilt every year. This reminds me of Roald Dahl's description of a chocolate hotel. Or was it Paulo Coelho?

**

I went to Walmart to get my passport photos done. My current passport is about two years old, but as of August I will no longer be a dependent of my father, which means I lost my diplomatic passport. And immunity. I never even got to properly exploit it. Sigh.

Anyways, the passport guy was this mid-thirties scowling fellow with wonderfully deadpan sarcasm. (Or what I seriously hope was sarcasm.)

He abruptly told me to push the hair out of my face and look up. Not up at him, but up into the air. He then told me to stop smiling because they wouldn't accept it. Naturally, the minute he told me to stop smiling, I burst into laughter, and he lowered the camera glaring at me. (Apparently it's easier for some people...). I quickly tried to straighten my face, but the corners of my mouth kept climbing, and I ended up with a really awkward "I'm trying to stop smiling and I really don't think this is that funny but I can't help it and I hope I don't look ridiculous" look on my face – while I was looking up as though I was about to be raptured. (Add that element to my expression.)

During some point of my inner struggle, and after telling me to "stop looking like a terrorist," he snapped the photo. I, of course, was a little nervous, and asked to see the image that I would be stuck with on countless voyages over the next ten years.

He told me not to worry about it because only two people would ever be seeing it; him and the airport dude. I told him that a whole ton of airport people were going to see it, and I'd really rather have a look. Reluctantly he let me glance at it for a couple of seconds.

**

I Skyped with my younger sister today, who is currently paving the way for me in Sweden. She said it was really strange to live in a place where you looked like the locals, but weren't one. Apparently she has to avoid saying "Hey" back to people because in Swedish "Hey" means "Hi" and then they assume you know the language.

After this conversation I realized that I will be experiencing a completely different cultural phenomenon in Sweden. Growing up, I always stuck out as a non-native, and there was always an immediate understanding/label based purely on my appearance. Moving to the States was strange because I looked and talked like everyone else, and the differences were all on the inside. In Europe, I will look like everyone else, but not actually be one of them.

And people think my identity issues stem from acting. :P

**

I have a friend who is currently deciding between getting a subscription to Vogue or The Economist. This is why I love my friends.

**

I love the Bible. It's like Harry Potter – every time you read it, you get a million new things out of the same words. (Okay, mostly I made that comparison to scandalize my readers...) I remember in high school, trying to explain why I was trying to live by certain Biblical principles, and my friends pointing out that it was an ancient text and not applicable to modern day. I disagree. But I digress.

David never gets old to me. He spent whole life building morals and ideas for them to be shot in a minute: in that one moment he became so irrational that he simply ignored years of experience and life standards. I used to slightly judge him. David and Jonah and Gideon. I always figured that if God spoke directly into my life, there was no way I would ignore it. I also thought that I would always be perfectly logical in important situations. There were human elements that I hadn't experienced and didn't fully understand. I was young and extremely principled. I still am.

FML Friday (Yes, I realize it's Tuesday.): "Today, I was watching a movie with my sister, my roommate, and my girlfriend. Half way through the movie, my girlfriend left the room and texted me that she was breaking up with me. She then came back in the room, sat on my bed, and enjoyed the rest of the movie with us. FML"

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