I have a nagging sense of guilt. As we cruise toward Denver, the first leg of this journey to the homeland, I know that strains of ABBA should be floating through my head. Instead, I keep hearing Shania Twain's personable country voice winking its way through If you want to touch her, Ask. So you can see why I would feel guilty.
Traveling to Sweden will be a 26 hour endurance test. I got up at about 4:00am local time in order to do the last bits of packing, checklist checking, home chores, and the boring 90 minute drive to the Spokane airport. I will arrive in Göteborg "tomorrow" at 3:30 pm Svensktid, which will be 6:30am home Pacific Time (I think).
On departure from Houston, I will reset my watch, and the laptop's clock: the first fun ritual of the trip.
Some of the pieces of this trip are already gathered. In the belly of this Boeing 737 is my andra klass ticket from Goteburg to Stockholm, selected, bought, and forwarded to me by my friend Anna-Karin. I have printed out my confirmation email from Scandinavium for the B&B concerts, with its cheerful advisory that I can pick them up on the 17th. Because I will then actually be standing on the ground in Sweden.
I have been practicing my introductory statement to her, when I pick up
those tickets. I am a coward. It will be: "Talar ni Engelska?"
For backup, I have my Berlitz phrase book, and 6 weeks of listening to
the 50 minute long tape. My father, who had a gift for languages
and spoke 6 of them more or less fluently, would get a kick out of my effort.
He is on my mind, now, as I fly, because in the Life section of today's
USA Today, there is a feature and book review of a new self help book titled,
I think, "Children of Controlling Parents." Uh-huh.