"That's so typically me, oh baby, baby"

We had a code word, we had a plan, we were prepared for that dreaded moment when you are served the food you have no possible ability to eat yet are served in a new country and are expected to eat. The beauty of having an "exchange sister" was that I was surely to be rescued from this; I would simply say the word and she would then find some way, preferably by feeding the food to her orange cat Sigge who thinks I am some sort of crazy person stalking him and speaking to him in some language involving lots of "rawr precious baby kitty come cuddle" which probably means "give me all your mice and milk" in his native language Swedish. I don't speak fluent cat, or fluent Swedish, so mostly Sigge just ignores me and pretends that I don't exist.

In the second, or maybe third since I honestly can't remember at all when I first learned this, but anyway at some young age I realized that hot dog was disgusting and was made out of horse. My cousin Brittany told me that, and also informed me jello was as well... I did my part to save horses by avoiding hot dogs, yet stuck to jello because of how bouncy and great it is. Most kids figured out that it was really made out of cow, but I missed that boat. Brittany is a doctor now, so hopefully she realized it isn't horse either, but I suppose patients care more that she knows a gall bladder from a spleen so who knows.

My first night in Sweden in eighth grade I sat down, totally terrified by Kristofer, Linnea's older brother who had thus far spoken one word to me: "hey" and who would finish my three week stay with an effective "bye," concluding our relationship with a startlingly large total of two words. Upon arriving here on Saturday, and his pairing of a full sentence welcome with a voluntary hug was about enough for me to wonder if Linnea had given him a few shots and threatened him with a machete, like the one my dad would like me to carry in my purse incase there are "bad guys." I had sat there, at fourteen, not only terrified by Kristofer and her huge Swedish father with legs that were as tall as I was but also by the massive foot long and four inch round hot dog sitting on the table infront of me.

I was served first, and was given four slices of this magnificantly huge and absolutely vulgar hot dog, while Kristofer was given the single last piece.... I am fairly sure that his starvation that night did not greatly contribute to his desire to be friends with me. The whole point of having a code word to save you from massive hot dogs in mass quantities is that you use it, which would, therefor, involve remembering it. Which I didn't. Four slices and a strong desire to die later I progressed to tell them how wonderful the meal was, at which point Lena said "Oh good, you like it, we will make it again!"

When I decided to study abroad for the full year, Sweden was the one condition that made me positive I would survive. Linnea spent Christmas with my family last year; she was studying in California and working on a year long tan, and this year I am with her family, after working on a year long albino look in the land of endless rain in Santander that I am determined will be very in fashion someday. Preferably that day would be when I arrive in the States in April, but one can't get too high of hopes. My room here is just like I remember, and if my mom wasn't meeting me in Spain in a week I don't really know if I would be able to drag myself out of this deliciously poofy bed and back to mine in Santander, of which I can feel every spring and commonly wake up with a neck stuck strangely to one side and a limp that might start requiring a cane soon.

There is something about Sweden that I absolutely can't get enough of. There are forests all over the place; the government allows you to camp anywhere you want for one night, you can literally pitch a tent in anyone's yard if you want. So all those forests are just screaming my name and tempting me to save all my money and fly right back here as soon as the negative twenty degree weather is gone. And the people here, though supposedly cold according to the Spanish, who think everyone is rude, are actually some of the most genuine and welcoming people I have ever met. Basically: I have a crush on Sweden.

On Sunday night I got to go to what is called a "Christmas Table." Each year, it is Swedish tradition to go and have all the traditional foods; ours was in a beautiful house type building and full of Swedes and food, so obviously I was in heaven. A mandatory part of being Swedish is liking herring, which I don't, so I will never be able to pull of saying I am a Swede... liking herrig would be as impossible for me as learning to make that weird throat noise necessary to speak Swedish. I stuck to the Swedish meatballs and desserts and cheese. Rudolf also made an apperance at dinner, in the form of sausage. Santa probably would neglect me a tad more than usual (I am still waiting for a puppy after ten years now...) so I avoided Rudolf and his friend the horse, also in sausage form. Some things are just not on my to-do list of eating. Which is quite vast, so if you are excluded from it you are very strange and nasty or just politically/morally/digestively incorrect.

What I don't have a crush on, however, is the fact that you need to wear a polar bear in order to stay a reasonable temperature. Or you need to drink excessive amounts of whiskey, thus explaining why the Swedes and Finns are notorious for drinking and why their government basically makes buying alcohol as easy as getting through an airport with a bomb strapped to your forehead. Freezing to death is on my agenda here on a daily basis: Sunday was the walk to the lake, Monday was the walk around downtown, and yesterday was the Ghost Walk. Which was, to be honest, probably the most freezing and most interesting thing thus far, aside from all the eating and Bilar. I find this slightly amusing... people paying to walk around at night freezing their booties off to be taught history and ghost stories by an Australian who enjoys popping up in your face and making loud noises to scare you. He told us all these stories about ghosts in the palace, and despite the fact that I also have crushes on all the Swedish guards, I listened the entire time. Props to the Australian cause I have sever ADD when you try to lecture me while I freeze to death. I'm not really one for ghost stories, but if you can give me real history that is totally messed up, I will definitely listen. (As the Australian pointed out, Swedes has a sick fascination with death... apparently, so do I.)

We came to this super cold square (named "Big Square" in English, another of the Swedes talents other than death obsession is obviously naming things in very creative ways.) In this square is now the site of a Christmas market and a fountain for little kids to play in (in the summer, if they tried to dance around in the water right now it would freeze in the air and they would be stuck to the fountain like little dogs on leashes, thus getting hypothermia while their parents drank) but in 1520 was the squre that hosted the ever-interesting event known as: The Stockholm Bloodbath. Here's the short and "sweet" version of what you missed if you weren't there (if you want a first hand account just ask Mrs. Conlon):

the king was having a dinner, lots of people were invited, the Dans arrived and crashed the party, and took 17 women and children hostage and then decided to murder the other 83 men at the party. So they lined them all up in a square, and the executioner started at one end and began chopping their heads off. Apparently it took two blows, and the details made me want to either cry or throw up on the Australian. Half way through the line, the executioner just got a little hungry (of course) so had lunch and some shots, and then kept at his merry work. Only the sword was dull by now so it took more than two swings, and he was a little drunk so he kept missing (fun for you if he gets your arm instead of head and then you have to bend back over and let him have another go) and thus progressed to kill the 83 men. He must have gotten a little tired because he didn't have the energy to clean them up, after all that hard work he was putting in all day, so then when it rained the whole square filled up with blood and rain and thus: the Stockholm Bloodbath.

Neat, huh?

The Australian gave us a few tips for the Ghost Walk, mostly involving not falling down stairs or down the sidewalk. Which, combined with the fact that I was in a group of people, pretty much guaranteed that I was going to fall down. I wasn't super thrilled when the man with the bucket of rocks walked by me, as I attempted to stand up from my little spill, and tossed rocks out where I had just made an ever so graceful slide/crash/bang. Anyway, I am ashamed to say that, upon falling the only thing that seemed appropriate to say was "Oops, I did it again."