The early morning rush of getting four children dressed, winter clothes put on, backpacks ready, snacks prepared and out the door is always hectic. It is my turn to take my oldest two boys and two neighbor girls (plus the toddler in the stroller) to school. I spent this time “encouraging” the kids to walk faster so that we wouldn’t miss the bus. On the bus, we plainly stand out. First, we look strange with all the kids tagging along with me. I don’t even look like a daycare or teacher because three of the children look so obviously like me. The kids chatter away in English as strangers pretend like they’re not listening to the conversation. I never feel Swedish on these mornings. Everything is strange out our little group so I don’t even try to blend in. Occasionally, I call out to the kids reminding them to stay seated or to stop fighting, etc.
After I’ve delivered the kids to school, everything changes. I have a whole day to spend in town. As it is early, the only shops open are the cafes and bakeries. My pace slows and I begin to feel more Swedish as I push the stroller and admire the new Christmas decorations and wonder over the strange configuration of bright orange manequins grouped on a circular platform.
I stop at a newstand, browsing the magazines and newspapers. I’m too tired to read Swedish, so I opt for a British magazine. The clerk doesn’t even blink at my choice and we chat, in Swedish, as I pay for the magazine. My main destination is the best bakery in town. It’s cozy, with a large selection of breads, Swedish pastries and warm drinks. I see a sign advertising “lussekatter” for 9 Swedish crowns. (Sweden does not use the Euro currency.) The smell of cinnamon, warm bread, and coffee fill my senses as I walk into the shop. Lussekatter and hot chocolate sound like a perfect relaxing “fika” for a cold morning. I find a table, give my daughter the warm saffron bun from which promptly picks off the raisins and settles down for a nice snack. Paging through my magazine, warming my hands on the mug of chocolate and savoring the lussekatt, I feel so Swedish, it’s not even funny. I even speak Swedish to my daughter, not wanting to stick out or to warrant looks. For a moment, I am just another Swedish mother on “mammaledig” enjoying fika with my daughter after dropping the other child off at dagis. I feel pleased that my accent is good enough that I don’t sound too much of a stranger.
After my lovely fika, I take the bus over to the International Preschool my youngest son attends. I conduct rehearsals for the piano and music recital on Tuesday. At the school, I feel comfortably part of the international community. Children from all nationalities work on learning English in a warm and safe environment. There is very much a sense of community as the families work together to make living abroad less frightening, overwhelming and complex.
In the afternoon, I take the bus again to pick up the oldest two boys from their international grade school. They are eating “mellis”–and afternoon snack with the other children staying in fritids–the after school care program. One of the teachers begs to let the boys stay and make lussekatter. Since this is their last time to make lussekatter in Sweden, I agree. The boys talk and laugh with their Swedish teachers as they participate in a very old Swedish tradition.
We then leave, walking on an old cobblestoned street to the bus. It’s four o’ clock and winter darkness has already descended, but the sparkling Christmas lights, entwined with evergreen greenery, make the town feel magical. The bus swings through the town and I see beautiful shop windows lit up with stars and candles and wonderful straw pigs. The main shopping street is busy, with people leisurely enjoying the evening magic of a Friday evening. In the main square, a large Christmas tree has been set up trimmed with lights. The lights sparkle on the temporary ice rink where children make lasting childhood Christmas memories.
I watch the scenes go by, feeling keenly a part of the action even though I sit on the bus. Tears well up as I realize that in fourteen days, I’ll leave it all behind for the brassy newness of America. A realisation hits me so hard that even though I really am a stranger here, this is my town. From the moment I stepped off the train platform, I have loved this place. It never stops charming me no matter how many times I wander the streets. Every corner reveals new delights and old favorites. This town beautifully displays all that is lovely and wonderful in Sweden: history and modernity, the importance of light in a northern country, clean streets, fresh Swedish faces, somber winter coats enlivened with beautiful scarves, and magic. And at times, I am a part of it. My heart will always carry a bit of Sweden with me, leaving me changed forever.
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A Stranger Here 