Day 13 - Homeward Bound

Up at the crack of dawn. The ride to the Göteborg airport was bittersweet. I tried to burn into my memory all the sights I'd come to know along the way. A year from now I'll see them again, but will they fade before that? Checking in was smooth, though the baggage check situation was different. They wanted quite a bit more money for an extra bag on the return trip, so I decided to schlep it with me. No biggy.

Hard to say goodbye to Pär. But then it had been hard to say goodbye to both Lenas the day before, too. And the kids. And Åsa. And all the others. I hate this part.

Onto the plane. The sun was just up, and I had a window-seat view of Sweden as we flew towards Stockholm. The flight attendants didn't really try to speak anything but Swedish, but that was OK. I was content to eat my continental breakfast (muesli, plain yogurt, warm roll, flatbread, cheese, ham, juice and coffee) and look out the window.

At the Arvada airport in Stockholm I decided I had a whole 45 minutes to get to my connecting flight, so I stopped to pick up a few quick souvenirs. As I headed out of the shop, I started trying to locate the next terminal. It must just be around the next corner. No? OK, maybe the next one. No? Uh oh. My plenty-of-time was now less than 15 minutes and my strapless shoes would not allow me to run. I power-walked the last 10 minutes, arriving breathless and sweaty at my gate. The attendants had already closed off the boarding area, but they greeted me by name and ushered me onto the plane. Too close for comfort!

The flight was interminable, but a lack of crying babies allowed me to nod off for an hour or so. I watched the second movie in the Stieg Larson trilogy, a little uncomfortable with the graphic sexual scenes, especially since the guy next to me was also watching it. But it was a great movie. I can't wait for the American versions to come out. When it ended I went to use the restroom. As I exited, the woman in the next restroom poked her head out and started speaking to me in Swedish. My usual, "Sorry?" didn't phase her as she kept on entreating me (I could tell that much) in Swedish. I finally realized the problem; a careless flight attendant had parked a service cart in front of her bathroom door and she couldn't open it! Another woman came along and it took both of us to move the cart since I think they had locked the wheels and we didn't know how to unlock them. Poor thing. She thanked us profusely before hurrying back to her seat.

In Chicago I had to do the whole check in thing again. Each time I checked in I had to bypass the nice automated machine check-ins and wait to speak to an agent who could (hopefully) unravel my name debacle and let me on the next leg of my journey. I loved the way the African American women spoke to each other and to the passengers in Chicago. They were obviously having a good time. A young man came to stand behind me in the check-in line and a uniformed woman began a motherly lecture about using his cellphone while at the counter. "You dint hear nothin that agent told you, did you? Uh huh. I seen you talkin on that phone while she was explainin things to you. I'll bet you can't tell me nothin she said, can you? Uh huh. That's what I thought. You best be puttin that thing in your pocket when you get up to the counter again. And you listen to what the agent tells you. Understand? [yes ma'am] Uh huh." So good.

I sat on the floor near an electrical outlet to try to charge my mp3 player so I could listen to it on this last leg of my trip. People looked at me funny sitting between two posts behind the trash and recycling bins typing away on my computer, (responding to email.) Until a businessman spotted the empty outlet next to mine and sat down between the other two posts. Of course, as I was taking my final walk around the terminal to try to stave off random, fatal blood clots on the plane, I spotted a whole row of barstools facing a countertop and a wall full of outlets. Oh well.

There were apparently more Swedes and other non-Americans on my flight than Americans since my line was half that of the foreign passport line. A quick glance from a jovial customs guy and I was on my way to find my sweetie. Oh his face was so dear to me, spotting it on the other side of the security gate. I'm home, truly home just hugging him.

Thank you, friends and family, for reading this blog. It made me feel more connected to home, particularly, knowing that people there were reading my words. God willing, I'll be back next year!