A Life in Progress

I’ll be flying off to the States in less than a week now, and of course I’ve been busy making preparations. My previous trips back to San Diego were sort of rushed, but this one will be longer, and I’ll have more time to spend with family and friends. So this time, in addition to all the obvious stuff I need to take on such a trip, there are other things I’d like to take, too--items and experiences from Sweden that I can share that will give my family and friends an idea about how life is here. After living in Sweden for five and a half years, there are also a few cultural points I need to remember to keep myself from looking like a fool, uh, I mean foreigner, in my own homeland. A list is always a great way to make sure you don’t forget anything, isn’t it?

Karen’s “What to Take” List

1. Presents from Sweden
I’ll be dining with several of my friends in their homes, and I’d like to give each host a small present when I arrive. But what kind of present, though? Showing up with a plastic horned Viking helmet just won’t do. Everyone knows real Vikings didn’t have horns on their helmets, and on the grounds of historical accuracy, I refuse to perpetuate the myth. On the other hand, some handicrafts, such as the merry red Dalarna horse, may clash with more conservative décor and cause others to hint about leaving Christmas decorations out in the wrong season. Swedish crystal candle holders, however, are tasteful and neutral enough to blend with any decor, reasonably priced, and, regrettably, can be used as boat anchors or as a blunt murder weapon. I bought six of them. It feels like I’m smuggling bowling balls when I try to lift my carry-on bag. And then I noticed the shape of each piece. One candle holder looks distinctly like some sort of disc-shaped ninja weapon I’ve seen in a movie. Another, with its knobby form meant to look like a raspberry, looks like a little bomb. The candle wick sticking up from the top completes the look. It must be some sort of cruel joke the Swedish tourist board plays on tourists and ex-pats—they make sure the most affordable souvenirs and gifts are fragile, require a body builder to lift, and make you look like your ready to sign up with a paramilitary group.

2. Swedish food
Finding a suitable type of Swedish food to take to my American family and friends was tricky. The good stuff—such as Västerbotten cheese and messmör (sweet butter made with whey), are perishable. Other items, such as knäckebröd (hard bread), would be reduced to hard crumbs by the time I arrive in San Diego. I thought about sill, (pickled herring) because you can get it in small jars and the fact that it comes in different sauces would make people more willing to try it. But then, pickled herring is not really cooked. The pickling process means that it’s not really raw, either, but it certainly looks raw—and nothing that enters my family’s house raw stays that way for long. That jar of sill would end up in a frying pan within seconds of being opened, and would sizzle away there until it was “done,” which in my family means “incinerated.” Just thinking about how that would smell makes me queasy, let alone how it would taste. I realized that if I wanted to take some Swedish food with me, it would have to be hjortronsylt (cloudberry jam). It’s delicious on toast and ice cream, and everyone will love it. Of course, it comes in large glass jars suitable for strength training if you don’t have dumbbells handy. Lined up neatly in two little rows in the bottom of my carry-on bag, each jar of the gelatinous substance will probably look like a little canister of napalm going through the airport x-ray machine. I bought eight of them.

3. Swedish culture
I’ll be visiting my cousin and her husband, who are members of an informal singing group that meets at the beach on Friday evenings. I was thrilled when they invited me to attend one of their sessions. I’m going to take the opportunity to introduce San Diegans to Swedish snapsvisor (drinking songs) by teaching the group “Helan Går,” roughly translated, “The Whole (whatever, in this case it’s a drink) Goes.” I chose this ditty because it is short and has an easy melody—important attributes since I’ll have to sing it solo for the group at least once so they can learn it. It then occurred to me that even if I print out the text, some of the Swedish words may be difficult for Americans to pronounce. “Går” will certainly become “Gar,” so we’ll be singing in "Swenglish" about a “whole fish” instead of about drinking. So I printed out “Hell and Gore,” which is "Helan Går" translated into English phonetically. The words make absolutely no sense but sound just like the Swedish text when you sing them. My husband said that a song with a name like "Hell and Gore" would be appropriate for my singing voice. I’m still trying to figure out what he meant by that.

Karen's "Things to Remember" List

1. Remember not to say the T-word.
After moving to Sweden, it took me six months to learn to ask, “Where is the toilet?” when I was out and about in Stockholm. I don’t mean to say that I couldn’t pronounce the Swedish word—it’s pretty much the same: toalett. The problem was that I asked for neither the "toilet" nor the "toalett." I asked for the restroom, the washroom, or the ladies room when I had no intention of resting, washing, or being a lady--I just needed a toilet. In Sweden, you call a spade a spade (you really do, it’s the same word in Swedish and English), and if you need a toilet, you ask for a toilet. Any other request gets you a blank stare. Once I got used to saying toilet, I got directions instead of delays while Swedes tried to figure out what I wanted.

Things were just hunky dory until one of my first trips back to the States, where people call a spade a “manual earth moving device” and dance around unsavory subjects such as emptying one’s bladder the way Swedes dance around maypoles at Midsummer. I was at a shopping mall when I realized the rental time on my Starbuck’s coffee was up (considering how fast coffee goes through my system, I can never really say that I buy a cup of coffee). I walked up to an information booth to get directions to the nearest porcelain fixture. “Excuse me, where’s the toilet?” I asked politely. The moment the T-word left my lips, I knew I’d blown it. The expression on the face of the woman behind the counter, which had previously been cheerful and helpful when I’d approached her, suddenly hardened—her brows knit together in disapproval as she studied me with disdain over her horn-rimmed glasses. Even the perky smiley face button she wore on her blouse seemed to grimace in offense. Just at that moment, a thick gray cloud passed over somewhere way up in the heavens, dampening the bright California sunshine that had just moments before been tumbling through the huge skylight above us. I’m sure it was my imagination, but it seemed that everyone within earshot stopped what they were doing to look in my direction. It was so quiet all of a sudden. So very quiet. And I still needed a toilet.

“I beg your pardon?” The woman asked indignantly as if I’d hurled vile curses at her. I crossed my legs hard. If I didn’t find a toilet soon, I would be in need of a mop instead. I stammered, “Uh. . ., I. . ., Oh yeah! Can you tell me where the restroom is?” Whew! What a difference a word makes. Suddenly, all was right with the world again, or at least with that end of the mall, anyway. Expressions all around me softened in sympathy for my plight: “Oh, the poor thing has to go.” The lady behind the counter smiled indulgently and leaned forward as if she were going to divulge a juicy secret. “Take the escalator up one floor, then it’s immediately to your left.” Sunbeams gleamed on the tile below my feet to help me find my way.

“Thanks!” I said with relief.

“You’re welcome! Have a nice day!”

Had this little exchange delayed me to the point that waste water had backed up to my brain, or did that smug little smiley face on that woman’s blouse wink at me as I turned to leave?

2. Remember to use proper American identification.

Just before my last trip to the States, I received my Swedish drivers license, which I tucked into my wallet with my California drivers license. One evening, my husband and I went out to a local Mexican restaurant with his family, and three of us ordered margaritas. The drinking age in California is 21, and I know restaurant staff cannot always go by how someone looks to judge age, but of the three of us, only one of us could pass for younger than 21. It was by no stretch of the imagination me or my husband. The waiter sensibly carded my 27-year-old sister-in-law, then ignored my husband (I think he was a little insulted), then came to me.

“ID please.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

He assured me he wasn’t. Of the two drivers licenses and the passport I had on me at the time, the first thing I fished out of my purse was the Swedish drivers license. “Oh well,” I thought. “This should do it. It has my picture and my date of birth on it, even if everything else is in Swedish.” I also thought it would be a fun little experiment to see how the waiter would react to a foreign ID.

Well, you'd think I had said the “T-word.” This little piece of pink plastic set in motion a five-minute lecture on the evils of possessing or presenting anything other than an American ID. This isn’t exactly what he said, but I’m pretty sure this is how his thought process was working: “Say, what state is this from? Hey, this isn’t even in English! It’s pink!—is it her Communist party membership card?.”

I listened respectfully to the lecture, all the while thinking how absurd it was that some pimply-faced waiter young enough to be my son was questioning whether I was 21. HALLO! I turned 21 in 1982, when Ronald Reagan was president, compact discs had just come on the scene, and the Internet was in its infancy, as was the waiter. The point is, I’m no kid, and I don’t look like one, either. If I actually looked 23 years younger than the 44 years I was at the time this happened, I certainly wouldn’t be sitting at some Mexican restaurant in a podunk town in the foothills of the Sierras discussing IDs. I’d be making millions instructing others how I managed to stay so well preserved.

Somewhere in the course of his lecture, it occurred to me that this youngster just might deny me my margarita. Now, I’m not big on mixed drinks as a general rule, but I admit that I do have a weakness for margaritas. This is nothing against Swedish bartenders, but I have never, ever been served a margarita in Sweden that was worth the salt on the rim of the glass. Margaritas are not so popular here, so I guess they just gloss over the subject in bartending school. That’s why I look forward to getting a “real” margarita when I come to the States, and that’s why I suddenly began losing my patience at the prospect of being denied one. Just when I was ready to tell the waiter to kiss my American pASSport, the manager intervened and said that it was OK--I could have my margarita.

So much for my amusing little experiment.

3. Remember not to perform amusing little experiments.

Well, it’s about time for me to sit on my suitcase and see if I can get it closed. Wish me luck getting through airport security and finding a comfort station when I need one. Even if I don’t need to be comforted but just need to use the toilet. And I’ll drink a toast to Sweden and all my friends here with my first margarita--have a great summer, wherever you may be!