Min Otroliga Svenska Resa: Gåvo
aka My Incredible Swedish Journey: Gifts
After returning to Stockholm’s Clarion Hotel Amaranten at the end of a long day of filming, I took to the streets to find food. During my search, I came upon an art shop that had been closed when I passed it a few days before. The door now stood open, and my feet stepped through without thinking. The golden-haired proprietor had a ready smile. Her business sense showcased versatility, compassion, an inner life willing to confront difficult questions, and what I was to learn was a solid love of her neighborhood.
As Malin and I spoke of the art on display and the silver jewelry she designs, I zeroed in on two sterling silver bands, each imprinted with a single word. “What do these mean in English?” I asked, as I passed the shiny circles to her. Nyfiken and erfaren, they read.
Malin smiled. “They mean experienced and curious.”
“That’s me!” I said. I slipped them on like a set, a perfect fit.
Malin packaged the rings and an art print as I fingered Anna’s wedding band, the one that had hung from a chain around my neck since I began my Swedish journey so that it would be clearly visible to the audience and safe from my slippery fingers. My sister had given me the ring in the moments before we attended a Scandinavian Christmas feast in Houston back in 2019, the occasion which inspired me to apply to be a cast member for Season 10 of Allt för Sverige. I would wear the three rings together, the new bands guarding Anna’s ring on both sides.
After Malin rang up my purchases, she invited me to join her at a friend’s clothing shop down the street for ritual Thursday night wine and conversation with her business neighbors. I took her up on it. Katarina’s shop was an elegant high-ceilinged, narrow space, her designs displayed on a rack floating against one wall — silky, flowy jackets, robes, skirts and dresses, easy to view and luscious to feel. One dress pulled my eyes, natural images overlaid with geometric tracks, a curious mix of energies. I hadn’t worn a wraparound style for years and was reminded of the ’70s skirts my grandmother (Anna’s daughter) had made for me when I was bracing for womanhood. Should I try on the Katarina creation?
Malin had told me that the summer line was on sale at half off, but what would that cost me? I calculated that I could spend no more than 2000 kronor (200+ American dollars), a ransom I had never paid for any piece of clothing my whole life long. I was a thrifter, for goodness sake! But this dress was a designer dress from Stockholm, and I had just succeeded at winning a challenge that would keep me in Sweden for at least two more filming day’s worth of stipends. I hadn’t indulged in many sit-down meals, opting for take-out or lentil chips and hummus from Coop, a nearby grocery store. “Could you tell me more about this dress?” I asked. Katarina scrolled through her phone and showed me the price, 3000 K. But today — half off. “I will have it!” I exclaimed.
During my time in the shop, the buzz spread among the women gathered about why I was in Sweden. Their curiosity lightened the atmosphere and soon we were all giggling about the travails of age and what nuggets of news might tickle their ears about my adventure. I spoke with filtered abandon, vague enough to be true to my contractual agreements with the network and spicy enough to keep the curious satisfied. What fun! I thought, revealing so little about myself but holding them captive like bees in a comb.
“Any ideas about how I should spend the day tomorrow?” I asked the small crowd, trusting a group of locals would be full of ideas for my off-duty Friday. Before I departed, I was given an ambitious plan, complete with a hand drawn map and detailed notes in English. “I’ll see you again,” I assured them all as I left with a wave, “Hejdå!”
The next morning, I followed the map to the harbor where I located the Cinderella, a passenger ferry that would sail for two glorious hours through the Stockholm Archipelago on what would be the first day of sun after a week of rain. As the boat pushed eastward toward the Baltic Sea and Sandhamn,
I would sit on the deck, center aft, directly behind the Swedish flag, watching its yellow and blue all billowy and bold taking front and center against a backdrop of islands, waves, and sky. On the 67-acre, car-less island, I would enjoy a meal, hike to a beach and visits with local shopkeepers. I would board the return boat in time to get an outside seat to the mainland certain that I was a descendant of the vapor around me.
As the ferry sailed through the blue and the yellow sun dipped toward a cloudy horizon, I fell into a Swedish trance. What mysteries shaped my bones? What choices and losses carved a notch for every time the world fell out from under the tree of my DNA? The decisions of others still linger on the breath of my dreams, their views of the world still cling to my lashes when I wake, their hands still wring over wrongs caused and forgiven, their footprints still fall before mine to keep me true to the direction that came from the stone and the sea in their bones. As a woman settling into her final years, I felt questions of inheritance bubble to life. What lived in me from those who came before? And what would I send on to those who come after?
I was in the most beautiful country I’d ever seen — the greens greener, the water purer, the designs cleaner, the sky closer, the air kinder, the introspection keener. My wealth had increased and my inner resources had received a message direct from the Divine:
This, dear one, is where you began. . . .the you who hopes and dreams, who gazes toward the horizon, the you who stands tall and may walk without speaking for a long time, the you who seeks the sun on her cheeks and the wind in her hair, the one who sees a poem in the ducks pecking at the grass and hears a song in the clicks of bicycles gliding past, the one who avoids conflict and likes the welcome of harbors and the treasures of family, the comfort of coffee with friends, and the sense of belonging to something stronger and older and deeper than she ever knew or imagined.
This piece concludes the Min Otroliga Svenska Resa aka My Incredible Swedish Journey series, but I can assure you that my inner Swede will reappear in future posts.
