I have arrived. The Brickebacken moped mafia told me so. They said more, but when I shrugged, put my hands up, and sheepishly explained “English,” that was the response I got: “You are here,” with some smiles and not wholly unfriendly laughter.
Brickebacken (pr: Brickyabacken) is my neighbourhood in Orebro, Sweden. It’s a wooded area on the one hill in the city, just 5k from downtown. The university is up here, and apart from that there isn’t much but strange architecture, bike paths, huge slugs, and trees. Many, many, many large trees. I quite like it so far, as it has a hodge-podgy international vibe, full of wanderlust, activity, and interest.
Brickebacken seems the student and immigrant mecca, which might explain the atmosphere: we’ve all chosen to uproot ourselves, we’re all learning, we’re all exploring. Last night, as I meandered the bike paths, everyone was young or foreign and smiling, and they all gave me the Swedish “Hej Hej!”
Lena, who took me shopping and dropped me off, said that most Swedes don’t care to live up here. I don’t understand that. Up here, the roads give way to pedestrian and bike paths, and the inexpensive architecture is quirky and captivating. Just down the path from my building is the strangest little cluster of housing– built from storage units (yes, really). It was built years ago to accommodate an influx of University students and was meant to be temporary, but as the growth continued, they stuck and are now just super cheap, super strange apartments that look something like piles of multi-coloured shoeboxes with stairs.
I feel I’m living in some international hub in the woods. Everyone has a different skin colour, different attire, and even the smells are a feast unto themselves. I’m pretty sure most people I pass are speaking another language entirely—though my green ears may just not recognize Swedish on different tongues yet. Time will tell. Either way, it makes for interesting fare and keeps me feeling part of some international festival—which is far better than feeling a lone stranger in a strange land.
Which brings me to the journey. That stupid cliché reminds us that life is a journey, not a destination, and to me that has been the most important part of my move. It is now Saturday evening in Orebro, and I am thinking back to Thursday morning in Vermont. My poor mother bore witness to my inevitable breakdown as I prepared to head out the door, and I made her vow not to tell anyone of it– but now I will. Looking at my hugely overweight bag ( I won’t even admit the true weight of the thing) and thinking ahead to the trip, the beginning of school with no planning, and all of the inevitable changes and fears, I fell apart. I sat down on my parents’ kitchen floor and bawled, head in hands. “I can’t do this… I can’t do this…” It turned into my mantra. I cried much of the drive to Boston. I cried all through the airport, where they took me aside for “additional security screening.” I was terrified. I wanted to back out.
But traveling is good for that. Anyone who’s traveled overseas knows the timeless, surreal quality of a long journey in the hands of airlines, trains, and busses. I was removed from reality for a little over 24 hours, focused on nothing but the next step. That helps you to forget. Dazed and clueless, the only reality I had was rushing from one point to the next. It began with the ridiculous security screening in Boston, where they stuck me in some chamber and puffed air all over me, swabbed all of my belongings and tested them for heaven knows what, and made me turn on my computer to prove it wasn’t some type of explosive. That was followed by delay after delay, leaving me with impossibly short moments between each leg of the trip. Somehow I managed to make each change, and in the end the trip was a miraculous success. It really shouldn’t have been, but for once luck was on my side.
By the time the reality hit again, I was squinting out the window of a 747 at 41,000 feet. Below me were the mountains of Norway, reaching up with rocky crags and snow caps, full of glacial lakes that looked more like spilled teal paint than water. Shortly I found myself in Stockholm, removed from the fear and ready to explore a new life in a new land… If only my train ticket and all the signs had been willing to help me with a little English… But I found my way eventually, just as the train was leaving. There’s still some residual fear for my first teaching days, but most of it has been replaced with excitement.
If nothing else, the journey is good for redirecting your mindset. I have to assume the vast differences help as well. When I moved to Ontario last year, I believe my expectations were a little skewed… I had some sense that I was going home, and I didn’t expect to feel so lost and out of place. Here, I can’t help but feel totally lost, as I can’t even buy milk without investigating the package and guessing at its contents. On the other hand, the landscape looks hauntingly familiar… Ontario, with funny architecture.
So far I’m trying to settle in, but most of last night was spent wandering, searching for a payphone. With no real sleep in 48 hours, I walked about 8 miles (yes, really) before I gave up my search. My boss had actually given me a mobile, but it had some Swedish message I didn’t understand and wouldn’t work. I stopped into a gas station near my apartment and the girl working there ( a Kurdish immigrant herself) helped to “fix” the phone, and I finally called home. Today one of my fellow teachers (and neighbour!), Ida (pr: EEda), took me into the city and helped me spend all my money on power adaptors, bus cards, and other necessities.
The city is beautiful. Old and cobblestoned like most of Europe, the center is mostly pedestrian streets dominated by a Castle, rambling black river, and an enormous and beautiful park with elaborate gardens. Ida explained much to me today and kept me laughing. She’s Swedish by birth but was raised in Papua New Guinea and returned here 10 years ago. She’s been teaching in a refugee camp here for 4.5 years, and she’s lived in Orebro for 10 and seems to know everyone. I’d very much like to get to know her, as she seems very interesting and nice—besides, she does great stuff like mushroom and berry picking with friends then makes a feast of the loot. Today she gave up a crayfishing expedition to show me around, but tonight she’s headed to the crayfish party, which she says is pretty common and involves much cooking, drinking, and music… Me, I’ll be unpacking and sleeping. I ought to do that at some point, I guess.
I barely remember the wine and cheese party at the school, but I met about 30 people and promptly forgot their names. The school is large, housed in what was once a factory, then a bowling alley. I’ve only seen the lunchroom, but it’s quite beautiful, with a 150 gallon fish tank full of African Cichlids… We have a lunch cook who will apparently make me vegetarian meals, and all of the staff is quite young. In fact, I think my Mathematics Department Head may be younger than I. Either way, it seems a great international staff, and I’m really excited to get teaching and get to know them all.
And finally, the moped mafia. As I mentioned, we have mostly bike paths up here in Brickebacken, and they seem ruled by what my new friend Ida (pr: Eeda, by the way) called the moped mafia. Mostly Middle Eastern boys, they look a little rough and live a little loud, but their smiles betray their appearance. The teens mostly live at home but work, Ida told me, so they’re proud to ride their expensive Ferrari mopeds, and the younger ones (7 or 8 years, I’d say) drive the smaller, louder hand-me-downs. They race each other up and down the paths, stopping only for the cutest of teenage girls, or to tease their male friends relegated to (ugh) pedal bikes or (gasp) foot. They are adorable in their self-importance, and so far they make me smile.
So, there be the 1636 good words for the day. If you’ve read all the way to the bottom, you must either be a true friend or truly, truly bored. No really, thanks. I love you all.
God natt och lycka till, USA och Kanada.
