I haven't felt I've done anything particularly exciting or worth mentioning in the past week, but I believe I've made it to THREE readers and with that level of readership, I feel I should at least write of my cultural mishaps thus far.
The three that I am still laughing at myself for are all grocery related but equally ridiculous. My first grocery trip, instead of butter I bought a cube of this brown, clay-like junk, which I later learned was yeast, and did absolutely nothing to salvage my morning eggs. After my move, my host-chick asked if I was planning on buying milk, which seemed like a strange question at the time, until I saw the wall of milk varieties. Swedes take their dairy very seriously - there was laughter when I mentioned how we have choices too; 1%, 2%, skim, and whole. That is mere child's play in the dairy department. I, of course, managed to come home with sour cream. I fucking hate sour cream. Lastly, I buy what I think is olive oil, pour some into a bowl with balsamic vinegarette and watch as the two mysteriously coalesce, defying my mass of knowledge on oil and vinegar. I then notice the label on my olive oil reads "vinäger" and smells of dying Easter eggs. Even with my feeble Swedish skills, I could see that just because it was cheapest and of a similar color to the other olive oils, doesn't necessary make something olive oil. Live and learn. And replace most of my groceries.
Really, the most jarring difference of my 2+ week Swedish vacation of absolutely no responsibilities, is the lack of noticeable difference. I'm living in a large town, which without the student population is relatively meager in size; predominantly caucasian, mainly English speaking. I haven't been challenged by what should be considered a language barrier, my hair stands out as much as it does in the states (though I am somehow even more noticeably below average in height here, the calcium from all of that milk treats the Swedes well. I can't see below my hairline in the mirrors hanging on the walls of my flat...), the academic advisors are equally unhelpful, and I watched "Talladega Nights" with my host-chick and -dude earlier this week. I'm torn on my feelings on all of this, since I'm quite attached to a place in North Carolina incredibly similar to here, and this falls a bit short in the demand for cultural assimilation I was hoping for with my first time living outside of my country. From New York to North Carolina was a much more jarring transition.
A difference that I love here, though, is the open spaces. I want to explore them more, but even what I saw on my journeys by train last week between cities, the amount of undeveloped land was beautiful and boundless. The best experience I've had with it so far, was on a run one of my first days here, through my neighborhood. A kilometer or so from my apartment, I reached a point where a shopping mall and highway was in the distance, the neighborhood of apartments behind me, and directly in front of me - open fields, wind turbines, a nature reserve with a creek, apple trees, berries, and dozens of sheep munching on delicious grass. I visit the sheep often, but they don't seem particularly interested in friendship. Even more exciting, is the freedom with this open space. Somewhere in the depths of Sweden's government, there's something called "The Old Man's Law", which states that so long as you don't purposefully destroy land, all of Sweden is your playground. You can set up camp anywhere (including private property, if you ask first) for free, eat from the trees, and explore behind any fenced in area - since locking them is not the Swedish way. Yesterday, I saw a family with a wooden dining room table and chairs, candles, balloons, fancy placesettings, paper lanterns in the trees and all set up down the hill and next to the creek surrounded by the sheep that pay them no mind.
My last anecdote is part of my transition to a place where I stand out slightly less for lacking any sort of dominant physical genes. I've only seen two or three redheads, but the rest looks like I stepped into Barbie's dreamworld or long, lanky blondes. An adorably old lady, at first in Swedish, but then in broken English, complimented my hair at a time when my efforts to preserve my recessive genes had gone unnoticed for a week or so; an unheard of time for the little ol' ladies in the U.S. to let pass. Recessive gene ego, effectively stroked!
Term officially opened today, yet I still have no classes to attend. Today's goals: become a student again, and buy a bike!
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