All the Roadrunning

Last week I did celebrate the Midsummer Festival, although I must make a few clarifications from my last post. Yes the Swedes danced around a pole, however, I was most pleasantly surprised to discover that it was not actually a burning pole, just a normal, non-burning version. Prior to this discovery, I had spent sleepless nights trying to devise an acceptable excuse for not wanting to don the white robes and hood that I assumed would be handed out before the ceremony began.

And yes, old Croatian folk songs were most definitely sung, just as one would naturally expect at a traditional Swedish festival. But the singing did not take place during the dancing. Instead, several overall-clad Croatian folk stood under the shadows of the historic barn in an almost opening ceremony-like concert, strumming their guitars and mandolins, singing words that nobody in the audience could understand. But everyone was smiling and some were even swaying back and forth, rocking in slow motion to the catchy ditties that their grandparents never sung to them when they were children.

This celebration was unfortunately hampered somewhat by the typical on again off again rainstorms that plagued the afternoon. But overall, Midsummer was a success and the evening´s festivities were more than enjoyable, except for the customary shots of Dill & Cumin-flavored aquavit (local liquor).

A few days later I boarded the bus for the journey to Oslo, Norway. The ride across Sweden took six and a half hours and actually left me in quite a sour mood. I simply could not believe that we arrived into Oslo so late. Lateness never happens here, absolutely never. Or so I thought. We were scheduled to arrive at 3:30pm and I was livid when the bus rolled into the Central Bus Station at 3:36pm. How dare this bus driver ruin my belief that Sweden is the most organized and efficient place on the planet? Could he not have made up the six minutes somewhere en route? It was chaos I tell you. I still get tense when I think about it.

And then a friend of a friend of a friend met me at the station, most generously offering me her hospitality for my 16 hour stay in Norway. After taking me on the whirlwind tour of Oslo, she gave me the keys to her apartment while she and her boyfriend were at work. And so I returned to their comfortable pad to rest and relax before I had to leave for the airport at 4am.

Although, when I opened the door to the apartment, I was greeted by none other than a massive pit bull with a giant blue ball in its mouth. It looked like she was devouring planet earth. I immediately froze and it jumped up and down. I remained frozen and it growled, ran around in circles and proudly displayed its two inch fangs. I tip toed into the apartment, not wanting to disturb the possible family of pit bulls that might be hiding around the corner, ready to pounce and attack.

Well, it turned out that there was only one pit bull. And her name was Sassy. But for the next couple of hours, however, I was forced to sit still on the sofa, very still, while Sassy jumped on my lap, licked my arms and lunged for my face every so often. My constant shaking and sweating were ample displays of fear that this dog luckily did not pick up on.

Instead, Sassy finally tired herself out and fell asleep in the bedroom, allowing me to begin breathing again, although as quietly as possible of course. As time passed, I also eventually abandoned the escape route that I had devised upon hearing the first of Sassy´s numerous growls. And considering that this route had required me to leap off of the fourth floor balcony and onto a wooden children´s playground structure, I was quite relieved.

So, I am happy to report that I have survived all of the brutal risks and terrifying dangers of Scandanavia that were thrown directly in my path. Now I must simply survive my flight home, a journey that certainly cannot be classified as ´short´ nor ´direct´. I will now spend multiple hours not only on three separate flights but in between as well, at the fine airports of Amsterdam and Washington D.C., before arriving back in Florida.

And once I arrive, it will already be time to get organized yet again and prepare for the next journey. I have less than two weeks before I step foot onto the Queen Mary 2 and I must transform myself, both mentally and physically, from a backpacking traveler into an officer on the most luxurious ocean liner in the world. Its not an easy thing to do.

I´m still in Sweden.

In fact, Friday is the Midsummer Festival, which takes place on the longest day of the year over here. Although, since every day that I have been here has lacked any darkness whatsoever, I am not entirely sure what to expect. One Swede informed me that the festival commemorates the potato harvest, another said it was the end of the season for making hay to feed the horses. However, most of the Swedes I have asked have simply admitted that they had no idea what the Midsummer Festival actually celebrated.

I have been invited to a ´traditional´ celebration during the day, which apparently involves dancing around a burning pole in the middle of a large field while singing old Croatian folk songs and drinking shots of the Scandanavian liquor aquavit. This odd event is then followed by a dinner of smoked salmon, herring and gingerbread cookies and a party at a golf course. I´ll let you know how that one goes.

I have now visited several castles around Lake Malaren and have hiked across some if its islands. I toured the Vasa – an old naval ship from the early 1600s that sank 20 minutes after leaving its dock for the first time. But it was then rediscovered 338 years later and raised to the surface, 97% in tact, its excellent condition attributed to the low level of salt in the region´s waters. Only in Sweden would they build a massive museum complex to proudly display what has to be one of the most embarrassing naval disasters of all time.

And so, as I continue to observe people purchasing ice cream by sending text messages on their cell phones and as I continue to contemplate why packages are delivered to the supermarket for pickup instead of to your home or the post office, I can not help reaching the conclusion that Sweden is an even stranger place than India. Honestly, nowhere else do people purchase such high quantities of bag-in-a-box wine.

But regardless, I do plan to remain in this quirky, yet lovable land until Monday, the day when I will jump on board the elongated yellow Swebus Express and travel across the country to Oslo. I will spend two days there before catching my flight back to the states, giving me a week and a half to mentally prepare myself for my stint back on board the ship.

And before I end this entry, I want to wish my sister a most happy birthday today!

Now that four days has passed here in the land of Swedes, I am finally over the fever that attacked me during my drastic change of location. And as much as I was hoping that Sweden would turn out to be the ¨India of Northern Europe¨, it has naturally turned out to be exactly what it is, Sweden.

Auto rickshaws and their bicycle cousins have transformed into Saabs and Volvos. Every breath of air is so ridiculously fresh that it is almost as equally disturbing as a lungful of Delhi´s thickly polluted version. It is peaceful wherever you go, not much rushing around taking place at all over here. The scenery is simple – a flat landscape where the purest green abruptly changes into the purest blue. You need to wear sunglasses just to look at the grass. Sunset does not come so early, actually, it barely comes at all. Where I am, the sun officially sets at 11pm and rises at 3:30am, however, it fails to get dark in between, the blazing ball of fire always lurking just below the horizon. It is light enough at 2am that you could drive around safely without your head lights on.

Everything is always organized and on time. The trains and buses are simply never late. Everyone waits for the traffic lights to change before crossing the street (and this is not Manhattan, there are seldom any cars approaching at all!), driving faster than 30 mph is considered dangerous and grounds for being committed. There are bicycles everywhere, people of all ages choosing to avoid the unaffordably high prices of petrol. Despite having relatively warm weather for only two months a year, Grandpa Gustavsson and little Bjorn continue to bike around even in the middle of winter. Many a Swede have proudly displayed the scars on their bodies that resulted from mid-winter bicycle accidents.

Even with it being June now it is still cold. Temperatures are struggling to reach 50 degrees during the day, which is the same as 0 degrees to me. After so many years now in hot climates, anything under 70 degrees requires me to pull out my winter wear. It even hailed yesterday, leaving an inch layer of ice on the ground in some places.

But it is summer nonetheless and the Swedes refuse to let something as silly as extremely low temperatures stand in the way of their enjoyment of this warmest of seasons. People are sunbathing in bikinis in the parks, wearing short shorts and sitting outside to eat their meals. I have yet to see one person wearing winter attire, even at night when it drops to 40 degrees. They simply refuse to have their short summer taken away and so the entire nation defiantly denies the cold. As a result, it appears that they really do end up feeling warm in the end, enabling them to actually think it is summer weather and therefore to make the most of the summer months. Meanwhile, I went shopping for a winter hat and gloves and began sewing my own long underwear.

It is a beautiful, atmospheric country. An expensive, beautiful and atmospheric country. It seems that every time I step out into the streets I end up spending $100 and all I have to show for it is an empty muffin wrapper and a tiny packet of tissues. But, the people are kind and warm and down to earth, just what you want in a ´people´. And I say this despite their widely held belief that it is quite normal to cut off ones small toes if they become bothersome after the age of 25.