On Getting Lost

On the way to my Saturday morning yoga class a few weeks ago, the bus* came late, resulting in an awkward sprint-shuffle-mind-the-ice-mad-dash from the bus stop to the studio. When I arrived, the door was locked. The class had started a few minutes before and my limited knowledge of yoga etiquette prompted me to reconsider my original plan of forced entry. I turned around and retraced my steps to the stop, but I bitterly remembered the bus betrayal from earlier. I'll walk. I chose a playlist, popped in my earbuds and routed the way back to my apartment. It was chilly, yes, but not enough to enjoy a brisk walk and some Spotify jams. And then my phone’s screen turned black: the dreaded spinning wheel of death. 

The studio is only 3km from my new apartment, and yet I freaked. The cathedral is a pretty solid landmark, but it was blocked from view. Time for full-blown panic mode. Can I find my way home? Do I walk north? Or east? Where is east? Do I have a compass? My phone has a compass! The iPhone compass is a useless feature BECAUSE I NEED IT NOW. Can I make a needle compass? I should’ve paid attention in science. I think I have a needle at home. Should I call a cab? Hail a cab? 

I took a breath and assured myself I was not a total idiot. I could do this. I could Bear Grylls it.** I began to walk in what I hoped was the right direction. Left here, straight here, cross here. As I walked, I noticed. I saw a stunning, ivied school I had never seen before. I crossed a bridge I hadn’t known was there. I admired neighborhood graffiti and listened to the sounds of a city waking up.  And it was beautiful. A thin layer of snow covered the city and the weak winter sun peeked out from behind heavy clouds. 

And I eventually found my way. I found my neighborhood, then my street. And I found that getting lost wasn’t too bad after all.

 

*Does Punxsutawney Phil’s domain include Sweden? Because I need an early spring so I can bike again. 

**There was no drinking of bodily fluids in this adventure. Bear Grylls Lite.  

Note: This post has no pictures because my camera/compass/phone was dead, but you already knew that.

 

On (not) Learning Swedish

I shall call this one "Picture is Unrelated: Stockholm at Christmas."

I shall call this one "Picture is Unrelated: Stockholm at Christmas."

Last month Education First ranked Swedes at the top for English Proficiency and I can second that assessment. Perhaps it's because Swedish isn't too useful outside of Sweden or perhaps it's because Swedish and English share a Germanic root language. But if you ask them, Swedes will attribute their awesome English to television. English programming has subtitles rather than dubbing, so Swedes - especially the younger generations - have grown up hearing English on T.V. and in films. And it shows. Whether it's a wide, nuanced vocabulary or a native-like understanding of idioms and slang, I am continually impressed by the English I hear. Sometimes I'll even hear Swedes apologize for their "terrible" English which is a) so far from the truth and b) ridiculous. I'm the one in their country asking them to speaking my language. I'm the imposition here. But still, the apologies come.

I am fluent in Swedish pastries. 

I am fluent in Swedish pastries. 

All of this excellence has an interesting consequence: It's really hard to learn Swedish here. Sure, having lived in Sweden for the better part of a year means I can understand and read it alright.  But speaking? No chance. My patient friends have heard mostly "Hallå!" or "Jag förstår!" and still they tolerate me. #Thankful for them. I've tried Duolingo, but it lacks a speaking component for Swedish. I've added Rosetta Stone to my morning coffee ritual, but I'm not sold. I mean, there's only so many opportunities to slip "Varför luktar hunden illa?" or "Sköldpaddan är liten" into conversation.  ("Why does the dog smell bad?" and "The turtle is small" for those who are following.) And then there's SFI, Swedish for Immigrants. The government offers a language course for immigrant adults, but reviews from friends and colleagues have been largely critical.  SFI groups students by their education level rather than their experience with Swedish. So even though I have spent several months here, I could be placed with students who don't know the difference between "hej" and "hejdå". And often times, groups of varying levels all share the same teacher at the same time. It's tough enough to differentiate instruction for my fourth graders; I can't even imagine juggling masters level students in the same room as students who aren't literate in their native language. And the kicker? You need a personnummer to register for the course. Which I don't have. I guess it's pretty futile to complain about a service I can't use. So I'll keep muddling on with Rosetta Stone and hope for plenty of opportunities to talk about smelly dogs and small turtles.

 

More on my adventures learning Swedish later :)

 

 

Giving Thanks

Holidays away from home can be difficult and social media doesn’t make it easier. The barrage of snaps, Instagrams and status updates made last week challenging at times. I so wanted to be home with family like everyone else seemed to be. I wanted to hug my ninety-year-old grandma and congratulate my brother and his fiancée. I wanted to squeeze into Nanna’s house with countless cousins and bake pies without visiting the American Food store. I wanted to quote SNL’s “Back Home Ballers” and watch football with my dad. I wanted all of the familiar joy and gratitude of the holiday. How foolish I was to think I could only have that at home. 

 

Last week I celebrated no less than FOUR thanksgivings here in Uppsala. I celebrated with friends, roommates, colleagues and students and I ate more sweet potato than I am comfortable admitting. I laughed around a table with so many amazing people. I prepared my first turkey and didn’t give anyone food poisoning. I botched a pecan pie and then made a killer one. I shared in traditions new and old and broke bread with this family I have made for myself. And I regretted my poor, pitiful me routine.


In three weeks time, I will be celebrating Christmas at home with family and my petty homesickness will feel even more selfish than it does now. Truth is, our world is in a tough spot. There are families without a place to go home to, or families whose gatherings this holiday season will be a much more somber affair. There are many reasons to feel saddened or angered, many reasons to feel hateful or hopeless, but I am choosing gratitude. I have to. 



Roots

This picture is total crap, but you can hopefully see what I mean.

This picture is total crap, but you can hopefully see what I mean.

The building in which I teach was once owned by the university across the street, Sveriges lantbruksuniversitet or SLU, an agricultural college. While the land was under their ownership, birch trees were taken from up and down Sweden and planted along the road. In the fall, these trees lose their leaves according to wherever they come from in Sweden, from the Arctic Circle to Malmö. Now that it is firmly autumn here in Uppsala, some of these trees have lost their leaves entirely, some have leaves changing colors, and some have yet to show any signs of losing their summer abundance. Though these adult trees have grown just a few meters from one another, they retain the seasonal cycles of their origins. I walk past this grove daily and I can't help but see it for the metaphor it is. I feel like one of those trees sometimes. I am very much rooted here and rooted elsewhere, very much a product of the places I have known before. It has me wondering - how much of home do we hold on to? How much of our past experiences define our present? And is that a decision we can make for ourselves? I'm not sure I have any answers, just more questions. But I do know that this is the challenge I face, establishing roots in a place where I am so obviously a transplant, an expat, an unfamiliar birch tree. It is a challenge I have chosen many times before - in Boston, in Louisville and here - and it is a one I will likely choose again. And what a worthwhile challenge it is. 

P.S. Two months in today and just received word that I'll be here through June. These roots will grow a little deeper... Exciting stuff!

Light

 

Please excuse my Saturday morning posts. They can get a bit self-indulgent. 

Yesterday, I hit the one month mark. When I arrived, the sun was rising at 4:21 and setting at 21:29. This morning the sun was up at 5:37 and will set this evening at 20:03. In just a month, we've lost 2 1/2 hours of what seems like the most precious commodity here: daylight. I'm conflicted by this. I love autumn's crisp air and shadowy evenings, how the shorter days make the noon sun all the more intense. But I also love the purply hue of a summer night sky here, the brightness of the mornings, the seemingly endless afternoons. There's this kind of light here that is simply magic. I can't quite describe it or pinpoint it, but there is something to it - something enigmatic. Perhaps it's this place that has some magic in it or perhaps it's in the light that touches it.