Flight of My Life

by Carrie Pålsson

It was only six days after 9/11, but I didn't have time to think about terrorist attacks. I was moving to a new country, sight unseen. Death by terrorism was a remote fear compared to the culture shock I knew I would experience.

I'd read all the culture shock books. I'd spent my days lurking around an "Americans in Sweden" forum. I'd quizzed my boyfriend relentlessly. I thought I was prepared, even though I knew the adjustment wouldn't be easy. How different could life be? People still had to eat, didn't they? People still had to laugh and love. People still had to sleep. People were people. Or so I kept telling myself over and over.

Getting on the plane in Portland was pretty easy. It was full of Americans traveling to Chicago. I hadn't slept the night before so I was too tired to stress out on the first leg of the journey.

Then we landed in Chicago and things suddenly seemed much more complicated. I cashed in all my American money for Swedish kronors and it hit me - things would be infinitely different. The money was pink and yellow for heaven's sake! It was boxish. It was not real money, it was something stolen from a monopoly game.

Then I boarded the plane with a scattering of Swedes and realized I was not in Kansas anymore. I could glimpse magazines in gibberish and crossword puzzles that didn't look anything like an American crossword puzzle. The flight attendants spoke English and a strange language that might as well have been Greek. I was still in the United States, the Swedishness was already closing in.

I kept telling myself I could handle it and tried to keep my hysteria to a minimum. Was my mom right? Was this really the biggest mistake of my life? Who moves to a foreign country without even visiting first?

Shrek was on the mini-movie screen so that gave me a two-hour respite from my thoughts. But it wasn't long enough.

By the time the plane was ready to land I was ready to hyperventilate. I was eyeing the overhead storage bins with great interest, wondering just how well a fat lady would manage crammed up in one of them. An eight hour ride to Chicago in an overhead bin sounded very tempting compared to stepping off the plane and facing my new country. Unfortunately the flight attendants ruined that little plan when they started talking about their upcoming trip to Nairobi. A ride in an overhead storage bin to Nairobi didn't offer quite the same temptation.

I felt dizzy and nauseous as I deboarded the plane, stepping foot on foreign linoleum for the first time in my life. I had no idea what to do, so I did what any smart person does: follow the crowd. We made it through the passport check point but after that all was lost. What to do, what to do?

I had no idea. There were some other lost-looking folks, and we somehow managed to find each other. A large black man and a scroungy American teenager became my new best friends. My last link to America. We were all alone in Stockholm and had no clue what to do next. We somehow worked it out together and parted ways with a scared little wave.

I was all alone in my new country with one leg of the journey left to go.

I wandered all over Arlanda airport, trying to interpret the Swedish and British signs that didn't do an American much good. Who calls a bathroom a WC or an elevator a lift? The people who hang the signs in Arlanda, that's who.

Finally, finally, finally after 24 long hours of travel I was on the last plane. My nerves were so jangly that I couldn't sleep, even though my eyes felt about ready to pop out of my head.

I don't know if it was because I was so tired or because I was just incredibly American on a Swedish airline, but the food was beyond my ability to understand. There was some sort of chicken salad, a hard biscuit, a weird plastic-wrapped cube and a cardboard triangle of something quite mysterious. As soon as I opened the chicken salad the words of one of the cultural books came to mind: "Scandinavians love pickled herring and will eat it in any circumstance." I do not eat pickled herring. I do not eat fish. I do not eat anything that comes from the sea. Thus I did not eat the incredibly fishy goo that graced my plate.

Instead I turned my attention to the biscuit. There was no butter to be found, so I thought maybe the little plastic cube was some sort of spread. Wrong. It was sugar. I had no idea what the sugar could possibly be for, so I set it aside and concentrated on the weird triangular cardboard box. The only clue as to its contents was a picture of a cow surrounded by green polka dots. I'm a big fan of Laughing Cow cheese, so even though this cow wasn't cracking a smile I decided the container must be some spreadable cheese. I love spreadable cheese. I eagerly ripped open the little opening and stared in puzzlement. There was no way much cheese was going to come out of the little hole, but I was running on no sleep so did the only thing I could think of. Squeezed. Hard.

Milk went everywhere! All over my face, all over my hair, all over my shirt. There was no hiding. It was just dumb luck that there was no one near to see my humiliation.

Thus began my two year stint in Sweden. I couldn't even identify a little package of milk, though I certainly never made that mistake again.

If you ever travel in the Scandinavian countries, remember that they always serve coffee and tea after the main meal. Then you won't end up wearing Non-Smile-Cracking Milk (as opposed to Laughing Cow cheese) all over your chest.