Hej... Tack...

For the next several days, I will survive off of "hey" and "thank you." That is the extent of my Swedish vocabulary. Oh, and utgång, but I won't have much occasion to say gate or exit. So far, I've nodded, chuckled, and smiled my way through five different "conversations." Really, it was me politely gesticulating at the imcomprehensive, lightning-fast Swedish as the friendly airport employees address the seemingly pegged 'one of their own'. Uh, nope. No hablo Swedish. Try again. I'm getting good at paying attention to non-verbal cues though. Language, smanguage. Urgän. :) So far I've managed to exhange my US dollars for Krona, catch a bus to the right domestic terminal, check-in at said terminal, get through security, and order an egg and broccoli quiche - all without a lick of Swedish. Although that last one was a mistake. I was trying to get coffee. But I should have started at the beginning, let me go back...

I got to DFW early. Way too early, in fact. I thought international flights required check-in of two to three hours prior to departure. I was wrong. I did everything from checkin to at the gate in less than twenty minutes and had two and a half hours to kill. I flew from Dallas to Newark, NJ and then from Newark to Stockholm, and then from Stockholm caught a domestic flight up to Skellefteå where Bex lives (the childhood friend i'm going to Sweden to visit). First thing i see at my DFW gate to go to New Jersey... three total guidos (forget about it!) and a family of hassidic Jews - all of their way to 'Jersey.' So my plane is filled with people who are the obnoxious equivalent of Fran Drescher, but somehow i got lucky and get a row with an empty middle seat and a flight attendant just bumming a ride. Iäm minding my own business reading the latest Economist manazine, the whole time fielding stares from dozens of New Englanders trying to place why the hell this blonde, birkenstocked, hoodie-clad... Texan?? Nah! is on her way to New Jersey. After a while i quit trying to quantify how mind-fucked they were and just enjoyed reading my magazine.

Anyway, my journey to Sweden is marked, I tell you. Signs everywhere. In my Economist mag, a 5-pager about Sweden's remarkable economic system and how it has been successful here. Very interesting article, actually... and quite informative. Very karmic. And what is right next to the runway in Newark? A fucking IKEA. I couldn't make that up. The layover in Newark is short, easy. I meet a long-time friend I haven't seen in years who lives in the area, and then I'm off to Sweden. Its an eight hour flight and "overnight" so I'm hoping I can fall asleep. Really when I land there at 7:45am its going to be 12:45am my time, so really I'm getting like 2-3 hours sleep on this "overnight" journey. I ran a bit late through security in Newark, too, so no chance of finding a bar to knock a couple back and help make me sleepy. I supposed I could've found somebody who looked as haggard as I did and tried to bumm some Ambien, but I didn't think of that in time. Anyway, I was lucky to get the hour of sleep I got.

I land in Sweden, the land of beautiful people, and it meets every expectation (or better word, stereotype) I had conjured for it. The fucking AIRPORT even looks like something out of a model train village, complete with the quaint, pottery-barn-tries-to-get-that-worn-but-loved-look red planked barn perfectly perched at the edge of the oh-so-still lake surrounded by thousands of trees busy changing into fall colors juuust off the runway. Seriously. Oh, and the entire International terminal at Stockholm Arlanda airport has hardwood floors. Seriously. If I hadnit been in a catatonic state from flying so long i would've taken pictures. I will on the way home, for sure.

So we're caught up. I might have been stressed about finding my domestic flight up to Skellefteå but I had like four hours layover so I was totally okay with winging it and the possibility of getting lost. Except then I found myself about to board a train to downtown Stockholm and thought maybe I should just find my gate and hang out. So that's where I am now. Hanging out at utgång 53. I am enjoying my quiche (and am grateful for the mistake because as it turns out I was hungry), scorched my tongue on the strongest, best damn coffee I've ever had, and I've watched the overcast crack of dawn turn into a beautiful, sunny day in Stockholm. I'm going to like Sweden.