Day 1

I thought I was ready. Friday morning was going to be as simple as throwing my toiletries in my suitcase and heading out the door. My first clue should have come when I had trouble getting the suitcase off the bed. It was waaaay over the weight limit. So Dan got out a carry-on and we started the dance - move things from suitcase to carry on, close the suitcase, Dan hoists it off the bed and stands on the scale with it, I crawl under it to read the scale, back to the bed, repeat. My sweetie was so patient with me.

It was my own fault. I overpacked like nobody's business. In my defense, it looked like the weather was going to be cold and rainy, and I would need casual (attend an outdoor soccer match, forage for mushrooms) attire, more formal (work at the school, give a presentation to the parents) attire, and in between (fika with the students, shopping in Goteberg with Lena) attire. I would need my whole closet, right? (You're with me here ladies, aren't you?)

Dan tried hard not to criticize ("Why do you need TWO pairs of black pants?" "One is JEANS and the other is DRESSY, duh.") and I tried hard to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. When we finally had what was left divided between the two bags, and the big one seemed to tip the scale at just under 50 pounds, we realized that I couldn't use the small one as carry-on because it had things in it that wouldn't go through security (homemade jam, shampoo, mayonnaise...) and we couldn't figure out how to reshuffle and still make the weight limit.

In addition, try as I might, I had not been able to complete the check-in process on the airline website. I had emailed the travel agent in Sweden the day before, asking if perhaps the reservation number had changed or something. The email I received from her the next morning had the tone of an exasperated teacher explaining a simple concept to a not-too-bright child. No, nothing had changed, the reservation number was STILL ....

A call to the airline had "Gerald" in India informing me that the travel agent had mistakenly added my middle name to my last name. I guess that's understandable since my middle name used to be a last name, but it meant that all my paperwork now had me listed as Lisa Vanderbeach which doesn't match my passport. "Nothing can be done about it now, Ms. Beach, but it should not be a problem."

Out the door, a quick stop to get coffee and say goodbye to little Em, and a smooth ride to the airport. Scan my passport at the check-in counter and see "You are not listed as traveling today." Pick up the little black phone and talk to someone who puts me on hold for 5 minutes then tells me I have to get in a different line. Get yelled at by the clerk who is "losing my voice because I have to keep yelling for people to come to my station when they're next it in line!" Clerk has to consult with his supervisor because, "You know, the name on your travel documents doesn't match your passport." Uhuh. When he comes back he has bad news and scary news. The bad news is that he can't cancel and reissue the tickets under the correct name because the flights are full and it wouldn't let allow me to purchase new tickets. The scary news was, "You should be able to travel with the documents the way they are, but we can't promise the passport authorities in the other countries won't have a problem with it." Now I'm really nervous. Where had my "easy" morning gone?

As I was boarding my flight to Chicago, I thought I saw a familiar face. You know how it is when you see someone out of context? I called his name, not quite positive it was him, but sure enough the son of our good friend, Jill, was getting on my flight. Adam was a sight for sore eyes as I was still a little shaky. A warm smile and a nice hug and I was feeling much better. Turns out Adam was traveling to Chicago as a champion Diplomacy player for the final round of play this weekend.

I had forgotten how big the Chicago airport was! After two conflicting sets of directions to the International terminal (2 security guys rolling their eyes at each others' versions) Adam pointed me to the right elevator. A train ride to a parking lot in Canada (it felt that way) and then back a ways because a conversation with a fellow traveler distracted me from my stop. An arm-and-leg sandwich dinner because the ticket said we would be getting only a continental breakfast, and then on to the plane to Copenhagen.

We were immediately served dinner on the plane. I was still glad I'd had the sandwich in the airport as the food was typical airline bluck. My neighbor introduced himself as a young man who works in IT for the Danish government, and had been traveling all over the U.S. for the last 2 months on holiday. We chatted geekspeak for awhile. He still had a month left of this paid holiday, but had decided to go home and spend it with friends there. Inside I'm wondering why it is that the rest of the world seems to understand the need for such downtime from work while in the U.S. a boss would look at you suspiciously if you asked for 2 weeks off at one time, and probably fire you if you asked for more.

The nice young couple in the center bulkhead area had a cherubic-faced baby girl who happily cooed and made eyes at us as we ate and settled in. Until she had had enough, and began screeching at top volume. All night. Nearly without stop. You would just be dozing off, and there it was again. That sound like old brakes on a slick highway. I don't think anyone slept more than an hour or so on that 8 1/2-hour flight.

Bleary-eyed I made my way through the Copenhagen airport, stopping to admire some interesting (must be Danish?) Christmas decorations. I only had half an hour to get to my next flight and was nervous about the security/paperwork issue. As it turned out, my passport was only glanced at and stamped (yay - a Kobenhavn stamp!) and I was through the gate. Out to the tarmac in a drizzling rain. No one but the pilot bothered to attempt English on this flight to Goteberg, and I got to hear the lovely hurdy gurdy of Swedish, trying to pick out the few words I had learned.

Pär (pear) picked me up at the little Goteberg (yottaberry) airport and drove me home in his wolwo. I just love Pär. We laughed and caught up with news of each others' lives as we drove the 1/2 hour to his house just outside of Borås (bore-ohus) where we were greeted by his lovely wife, Lena. I felt like I was home. Pastel colors, nice artwork on the walls, interesting books on the shelves, delicious smells from the kitchen. These are my kind of people. I managed to stay awake through a delightful dinner of pork tenderloin with pesto and mushrooms, potato salad, tzaziki, kalamatas, and homemade Swedish cheesecake baked with crunchy almonds and served with fresh berries and cream. A quick unpack and I was asleep in no time. As it happens, I've now been awake since 3 a.m. but eventually my body will figure out the time zone. Maybe before I have to return home???