A midnight revelation

I’ve been trying for a long time. Trying to figure out. Trying to figure out how. Trying to figure out how to piece together these enormous and all-encompassing interests of mine. Of mine, these interests with no end and no apparent beginning.

After just two days of classes and a whole lot of thought, I think I have come to a conclusion for my next round of PhD applications. It combines Latin American Politics with Literature. Oh, and wait, it also combines Europe and Latin American in a concise way. Latin American Exile Literature written in Europe. I want to study the writings of Latin Americans who sought refuge in Latin American during political crisis. I want to see how politics and literature unite. I want to jump into the writings of the Argentineans during the Dirty War who lived in Paris. Or the Chileans living in Sweden during the epic of Pinochet. It seems so obvious, right? Myself an exile of sorts, I want to explore this theme wholeheartedly and passionately. I want to jump inside of this theme and swim around in it. Any ideas, allusions or references are much appreciated.

Surviving the student existence…

I now find myself in the idyllic state of Vermont, where the summers are short and sticky, but the sunshine does make the occasional appearance. Enrolled in classes at Middlebury College, I am currently in the language learner’s version of Utopia. There are eleven language schools going on this summer, representing levels from the beginner to the graduate student and beyond. Back in an austere dorm room, I have slowly attempted to make this place feel a little bit cozy. A mattress pad, a blanket, a throw pillow, and sham. Anything I can do to not feel like I am a transient gypsy. It is funny how one tends to build up these little coping mechanisms for change. Mine is coziness.

And tomorrow it all begins. They say a day here covers a week of the normal language curriculum at a university. I am not sure if this is entirely true, but it is certainly intense. If you love this stuff, it doesn’t seem so bad. A few funny tidbits so far. I met a Swedish girl. Yep, straight out of Malmo. She had just started learning Spanish, so our conversations were sparse, but we smiled and laughed at the coincidence. Also, I ran into some Germans yesterday who were gossiping about some other language school. Better watch that tongue, guys. Not everyone is only bilingual. Lastly, I have been missing little Sweden a lot lately. Sweden has given me so much, I realize now. The ability to listen, to be quiet sometimes, to be alone with oneself and be totally comfortable. These are all things that I am appreciating now in my first days, when I don’t know anyone yet. I am sure more stories are to come.

On coming home and moving on…

The other day my sister and I were driving around in our old neighborhood. Every time we are in the area, we make it a habit of swinging by our old house. Some might call it stalking, others admiring, others reminiscing. Call it what you like, it had become our little tradition. We never did more than swing by the house, though, preserving it in our memories while wondering what exactly had changed inside the lovely abode. Finally, the wondering has ended. I decided as we swung by the house for the thirteenth year in a row, that today was the day. We were going to knock on the door and see if anyone was home.

Speech in head prepared and ready, my sister parked the car. Blood pressure rising, sweat collecting beads on forehead, I exited the car and walked up the small pathway to the front door. Out of nowhere a huge dog came swooping round the corner, teeth showing, growling and barking. I reached my hand out to knock on the door, but just as my hand hit the glass, the door creaked ajar and I was greeted by a pair of sparkling white teeth. “Hi there!” “Hi, my name is Ms.Musings.” “Musings, yeeeeeeeeeeeeeess. Hello, come in.” It’s almost like she read our minds. She knew why we were there. I waved to my sister who approached the front door and we both entered our old house for the first time in thirteen years.

Some things had changed, much had stayed the same. Projects my parents had begun were completed, others were renovated into something entirely different. The family who moved in had gotten divorced and their two kids were nearly grown. The wife stayed behind and just bought the home. Much like we had loved it and nurtured it, so had she. She spoke of her projects and the nooks and crannies of the house with great pride. These walls had seen three families, the raising of seven different children, pregnancy, divorce, death, families moving in, families moving out.  What dawned upon me irrevocably and eternally, however, was that this house was no longer ours, it was hers now. It was not the space that made the house, it was the people. When we left, the house ceased to be ours. We had moved on, and so had it.

During those thirteen years when we would swing by the house periodically, I remembered the house exactly how it was. My room, our backyard, our kitchen. The cedar closet where my dad hung his sweaters and we used to hide. Crystallized in time, those memories were entirely mine. They were pure, idyllic, and unchanged. Now the house had taken on a different character in my mind. It was the home of its current owner and her two grown children. I finally accepted that fact. Simultaneously I understood my parents’ decision to move on, in a way that a tween never could. No longer devastated by childhood anxiety, I realized just what the move meant for the first time, just how good and right it was. I forgave them wholeheartedly, after all these years. “I could never have been so brave as to walk into my old house,” the new owner noted. I smiled at her, not sure what to say. After a pause, I said, “Thank you. I am glad I did.” I truly was.

The most important person in the universe

Singing in the car, a fierce sense of independence, gooey ice cream running down your chin on a sunny day. Stars and stripes waving in the distance, pop music and popsicles, baseball games and little league uniforms, wide streets and porches, catching lightning bugs on a moonlit field. This is my summer in America. I feel like the exchange student at times, noting and remarking upon the vast differences between this life and ‘home.’ Ah, the mother country, I would say.

Slowly, however, these rootbeer floats and lazy days on the lake are starting to feel more and more like home. I am starting to slowly shift realities. Who would have thought that it only would take a week and a half? During my gallivanting and scheming in the rural landscape of my homeland, a good friend from DC and I got to talking. Talking about things, about men, about life, about futures, dreams and ideations. I am remarkably blessed to have a number of well-spoken, witty, smart and funny girlfriends. They like to listen to NPR and discuss pop science. They run marathons. They speak foreign languages and go to medical school. They write. They read like ravenous banshees. They are thoughtful and poignant, ambitious yet kind. Spending time with some of my own girlfriends from college, high school and DC gives me renewed faith in mankind.

Though only together for a year and a half, I was lucky to develop a great group of friends in Sweden, a group which was wonderful, loyal and generally awesome. But let’s face it, life was different. We were working. School was over. Our common denominator was often Sweden, often the expat experience or traveling. These friendships are and were equally important, however, just in a different way. It was only towards the end that I started to feel truly connected to a handful of people in Sweden.

That said, I am a firm believer that people come into your life for a reason. Some friends are emotional companions, some are intellectual contemporaries, some fulfill a need, some provide companionship, others support. Each friend is remarkably different. The best make you feel like the most important person in the universe during the time you are in their company, regardless of the circumstances. Hours fly by as you sit eating ice cream on wooden bench. I have been blessed to feel this way now five days in a row. The last hurrah will be a dinner/sleepover at my lake house with two girls from college this weekend. Maybe this coming home thing wasn’t so bad after all.

Clunky, chunky but a little bit funky: One week in…

It’ll have been a week tomorrow since my arrival back in the US. After the incredible high of coming back, I hit a low point mid-week which came suddenly and inexplicably. Had I changed so drastically that I would no longer be able to fit in again here? Was I becoming a Euro-snob, an elitist? Everything felt big and clunky here; the furniture, the clothing, the food, the cars. I longed for a sense of moderation, clean lines and cups that could fit in the palm of my hand. I also realized that I had idealized a number of critical life-relationships. Living with your parents in your late twenties is never ideal, but I saw these two weeks as a revival of sorts, a journey to older, simpler times when mom and dad were all I needed.

Well, times have changed. It turns out what I need is something a little more complicated. Meanwhile many of my close friends have left the area. In the wake of suburban sprawl, several of my favorite places are no longer in existence. Just as I have changed and grown, so have my home town and the people in it. So, just when things were feeling pretty gloomy, a reprieve came, in the form of a series of dinner parties, how appropriate.

Wednesday was spent entirely with my Aunt. Though forty years my elder, my Aunt is hip, cool, and a great friend. We did a spinning class, dined at a French coffee shop and had a proper helping of girl talk. On Thursday I met a couple of friends I have gotten to know through their blogs. Although we knew one another in school, we reengaged in this crazy blogosphere. To the tune of Mariachi and the taste of Mexican we sat down and conversed and giggled about real life in real time. I hope future reunions are to come. Friday was a dinner with a group of childhood girlfriends I have know since sixth grade. When you get us together ideas fly, our cackles can be heard three tables away, and you feel like you had only seen one another the day before. To be brief, what I really needed was some laughter. I’ve been taking myself far too seriously lately.

As we speak, I am blogging from our cottage on the lake. The sun has hit what is often termed as the magic hour by photographers, cascading across the horizon in a series of deep and multi-faceted shadows. It’s the kind of light that makes you believe in heaven. I am sitting on an over-stuffed couch, with my legs on a clunky coffee table. Somehow, and despite all odds, I couldn’t care less. It is the light and the heavy blanket of home which has engulfed me for now. I hope this feeling lasts…

Do you have a Green Card? Observations on coming back…

Touching down in the Philadelphia airport was a thing of wonder. Exiting the plane, I started to notice diversity all around me. Diversity of height, weight, skin color, age. Cool, I thought. My senses were totally engaged. Lights, colors, sounds, loud noises. I felt like a kid in a candy store. Suddenly my jet lag didn’t seem to matter. I wanted to take in this familiar yet somehow strange environment, and sat people watching with great care while waiting for a connecting flight.

A funny thing happens when you spend a long time out of the country. You become the odd one. Understanding codes, slang, rhythm and patterns takes a couple of days. Bumping into a women at the airport brought only Swedish to my brain, as I kindly said, “Ursäkta,” to the bewildered woman. No, I don’t have to speak Swedish here. People understand American. When greeting a little girl who sat playing with toys a few chairs down, I blurted out, “Hej, hej! (hey, hey).” You only say hey once here, dummy. The Swede’s might greet eachother with two heys, but saying it twice here makes you look like you have Tourette’s syndrome.

People smile a lot here. They are friendly and acknowledge your existence. Weird. They wear shorts and t-shirts, flip-flops and backpacks. Being comfortable often supersedes style. There is something highly comforting about this embrace of the casual, though. It’s a small relief after seeing the Euros stuffed into their tight jeans and blazers, hair slicked back into a helmet.

I seem to talk about Sweden constantly. Comparing, sharing, reminiscing. I’m like that kid who came back from camp and can’t seem to shake the summer from their bones. ‘In Sweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeden we do it like this.’ Notice the ‘we.’ Not they, but we. Looks of interest soon turn to boredom as I Swedify everything. I can’t help it, though. It’s almost like a nervous tick. Want something to drink? …In Sweden… How are you doing?…In Sweden….What time is it?…In Sweden… Someone shut this girl up!

When did I become the outsider? Straddled between two continents for so many years has been great, but somewhere along the line I became the funny one. I have been told in the past that I have acquired an accent of sorts. While my closest friends and family claim otherwise, I often wonder myself. Two days ago I was asked if I had a green card. No, silly, I live here. Sort of. I’m an American, gosh darn it! I may sound funny, talk funny and look funny. But that doesn’t mean I have a green card. Then the nervous tick comes back….In Sweden…’ ahhhhhhhhhh!

More observations to come.

Don’t press that snooze, put on your shoes

Working out might have excellent weight control benefits, but lately I have seen its true value in the emotional balance it brings. Recently I signed up for a triathlon, thinking that having some sort of fitness goal would help me get motivated to move my booty more regularly. I have been alternating running for an hour and swimming for an hour, four times a week. Though the weight loss effects have been relatively slow, the true beauty of this new schedule has been the massive amounts of endorphins it has released. Blame it on the weather, blame it on the bit of vacation I have had, but I can tell you that I have walking around with rose-colored glasses since I started. Decreased anxiety, increased calm.

Often it seems that we associate excersice and weight loss too  intrinsically. If one is happening, so is the other. Not always, and not often quickly. Really it is a question of caloric intake to output. Exercise has much deeper effects, though, ones that cannot often be measured on a scale. It brings emotional stability, lowered blood pressure, increased circulation, and a general sense of good health. They say that regular jogging has socio-psychological effects similar to a mild anti-depressant. Wow. So moving your bum makes you happy. Duh! What if we hid the scale for a few weeks and jumped on the treadmill. How much better would we feel? Now if only we could remember that at 7 am on a Monday morning, with dust collecting on our sneakers. Happy moving, people!

First taste of summer…

The summer here in Sweden almost makes the winter worth it. It is bright, particularly up North, and the sun doesn’t really go down at all. It sort of hangs in the bright horizon, waiting to creep back up just a few hours later. The plant life is luscious and green, boasting fields so green you almost feel like walked into a Technicolor film. Okay, granted, it does rain. But the rain often comes in these short little bouts, not lasting long and almost charming.

 The Swede and I are up North at the moment. We have been here in the winter, we have been here in the colorful and breathtaking fall. But no season tops the early days of summer. Lilacs, buttercups, fields that make the thousands of dandelions seem like a blanket of gold stretching across the horizon. We have been walking in the woods, exploring the lavish hillsides and mountains, the valleys and the mighty river that cuts across Hammerstrand, where his family lives. I was even compelled to skinny dip in a creek! With no bathing suit on hand, the Swede assured me that absolutely NO one was coming any time soon. So I drop literally everything and slowly lowered myself into the water. I admit I didn’t last too long in there, given the cold. But it was lovely all the same. Here I feel as though the thin veil of stress and worry of Stockholm have slowly started to come off up North, as the Swede and I have been sleeping like babies every night. Eating reindeer, wandering in the forest, chit-chatting then enjoying the silence. The other day I noted that Sweden is often therapeutic. It calms you down, it lifts you up. It makes you throw your inhibitions to the wind and dip into the silvery cold waters of a rural creek. Ah, the rejuvination of the first days of summer sun.

On time and the (temporary) end of the golden carrot chase…

When I first graduated from college and joined the ‘real world,’ I soon came to realize that the joke was on me. This real world thing meant sitting behind a computer for eight hours a day. In my case, my first real job was in Northern Germany, but the story was the same. Me, computer, desk, and lots and lots of time. My second full-time job was in DC. There, again, computer, desk inside a cubicle, and oh wait, lots and lots of time. Sweden was the same. Desk, computer, time. I’ve done a lot of different tasks, some of them I enjoyed more than others, but the basic scenario repeated itself indefinitely. I went from a wild stallion to a trusty draft horse, chipping away at the last three years like a steady woodpecker. A friend of mine once told me that they wouldn’t pay you if it wasn’t work. Fair enough. There are no ideal jobs where it is sunshine and roses every day, certainly. Moments of glory are always coupled with some boredom, I suppose. And we all have those longings for freedom on a Friday afternoon at 2 pm. But to think that that was it, that that was the extent of ‘life,’ often felt cold and sterile. No more stars on your graded homework, kiddies. This was the point of no return.

Suddenly I find myself without a desk, with an optional computer, and with all the time in the world. I have the next 2.5 months off. (Okay, I have to take some Master’s classes this fall, but hey, those are fun. ) Today, June 1st, marks the beginning. It feels a little strange, this funny thing they call freedom. Looking at the clock is only out of curiosity and meals mark the different phases of the day. There are no more Monday mornings for a while. No more weekend excitement in the same way. I feel like one of the protagonists of a Murakami film, noting the passage of time with reflection and ease. I feel like someone has given me a huge gift with a giant bow and I am now sitting inside of the box, relishing in the sweet simplicity which is time. It is now mine, and I am a spoiled rotten kid in a candy store. I can now stroll, not run. Ponder not worry. But like all good things, there is an end to this too. Just don’t remind me until tomorrow. Though it is a little taboo to not be chasing after the golden carrot. I hope you will forgive my sloth and giddiness. I’m new at this.

A 5 K a day keeps the doctor away…

In Sweden, there is this funny idea that if you treat your employees like human beings,  they will be happier and more efficient. This can be seen in a number of interesting ways, including a common yearly stipend that many employees receive for health and wellness. My company provides a yearly 4000 Swedish Crowns, or about 530 USD according to today’s exchange rate, for such benefits. This can be used at the gym, yoga classes, massage therapy, golf, dancing, you name it. On top of this there has been an informal exercise campaign running for a couple months now at my company to promote getting in shape for the summer, “Beach Body 2009.” One staff member who is a gym instructor, gives us free butt, abs, and aerobic lessons at a local gym a couple times a month, while another staff member teaches belly dancing. As part of this initiative, yesterday a bunch of us went to run an all-female race near Stockholm University.

We got all dressed up in our company tees, wandering onto the metro and then through a sea of bouncy and bubbly women to get to the starting line. A variety of different fitness levels were represented yesterday. Some of us ran fast, some of us jogged, some of us walk/ran, some of us walked. I was more of a jogger, coming in at 33 minutes for the race. The fastest girl on our team made it back in 23, to give some perspective on it. She was a tall and thin Finn, so let’s be honest, there ain’t no way to compete. Despite having a swarm of blonde-haired bumble bee Swedes flying past me from left and right, I felt pretty good during the run. Much like the 10 K last summer, there is something truly unique about running in a huge pack of women. The race was followed by a free picnic, provided to larger teams. As we sat there in the large field filled with masses of women, sipping on our juice boxes, and eating our Swedish bread and cheese, I gained a new appreciation for the humanity of the Swedish working culture.

ps. I don’t run a 5 K a day. Maybe a week. If. I just like the way the title sounded!