you're so old that your party's in Black in White!

I apologize for the lateness of this update.  Apparently free time is the worst time to get anything done.  All too often now, I feel like my days are efficiently unproductive and wonder where all the time goes.  I think I'll just maintain the theory that I'm still not used to the 7 hour time difference, but instead of a difference in time of day, I'll choose to believe it's a difference of the amount of time in a day.

I also got my first letters and packages from home this week.  Definitely a pleasant and delicious surprise.

the biggest birthday party you've had in years is planned by relative strangers.

Practically since I arrived in Sundsvall and started hanging out with people, the fact that my 21st birthday was sometime in February became common knowledge.  The typcial reactions (in order) were usually "you are so young!", "now you can finally drink...well, I guess that doesn't matter now", and "we should throw you a party."  The last response was the only one that had any particular interest to me, but nothing really came of it until about the first week of February.   I was hanging out with some of my friends after our weekly volleyball session when the normal birthday chain of responses came up.  My friend Tomáš mentioned his birthday would be the at the end of the same week as mine and that we should host a joint party together.  I was obviously a fan of this idea and over the next few days the two of us discussed possible themes, venues, and entertainment.

As some of you already now by way of the pictures that have already made it up to Facebook, we eventually decided on a Black and White theme and to have the party in the basement of my apartment building.  The basement as the venue ended up being a pretty big deal due to that fact it had been closed for the five months previous to the week of the party.  Apparently at some point last October-ish, some people that didn't live in the building came to a party in the basement (which is just a large room with a tv, some couches, and a small bar at one end) and gotten a little out of hand.  Push came to shove and the room was trashed both in terms of a hole in the wall and a large amount of empty alcohol containers with their contents coating the floor around them.  The basement had subsequently been closed, forcing the party scene to move to the kitchens of the various floors (the birth of the notorious kitchen parties) and making it impossible to host a party larger than 20 people comfortably.  Fortunately, some very insistent pressuring by a group of newly arrived renters convinced the landlady to actually make good on her sliding deadline promise to repair and re-open the basement only a few days before party.  With one of the residents volunteering to use his deck to dj and the promise of a laser light from one our mutual friends, our party was coming together and informally slotted as the basement's grand re-opening.     

It turned out to be one of the best parties I've had in a long, long time.  I arrived a little more than an hour late (which is some subconscious habit of mine with all parties, apparently even my own) and there were already about 20 people hanging out and helping the dj warm up the room.  Before long, we had close to 40 people between the main and side rooms, with the music and laser out in full force.  I had great time moving from group to group, talking to as many people as possible, enjoying the music, and being called by name and wished Happy Birthday by a lot of people I didn't know (and occasionally had never seen before).  Halfway through the night, my neighbors from my floor called me out into the hallway to give me a present and card signed by all of them.  Before I could really enjoy it however, the main room erupted in a loud chorus of Happy Birthday.  I walked in as they finished singing to Tomáš, and as soon as everyone realized I wasn't with him, moved me to the middle of the room, and started up again.  There was even a nutella heavy cake covered with candles for me to blow out.  It was really cool to have so many people there for my birthday.

Not too long afterward, a large group of friends from outside of Norrmalm arrrived, and I spent most of the rest of the party talking and spending time with them.  It was a great way to end the night. 

Also, my friend David made us another cake covered with cheesecake frosting and blueberries (which ended up in my fridge at the end of the night through a strange turn of events), and gave me a present that he said to save for a nice cut of steak. 
Mission accepted.

I was so grateful for all the presents, the people, and the party.

I plan to have the next post up in a couple of days (really, I do) and it will either be about ski slopes or something a little different. We'll see. I also plan to start mapping out my April Eurotrip this week.  Let me know if you have any suggestions about what I should try and go see.  The sky is basically the limit, and I'm getting more excited every day.



you're as American as Fried Chicken!

Before I get into the meaty goodness of this post, I wanted to take a moment to say thanks again for all of the birthday wishes.  I'm even grateful for the messages from the people I haven't spoken to in a long, long time.  It never ceases to amaze me the crazy assortment of people that always wish others Happy Birthday, even if it's been so long you can't quite remember where you left off.  Then again, birthdays are funny things.  Take surprise parties for example.  The one time of the year that anyone might expect a party in their honor, and their friends go out of their way to try and make it a surprise.  It's fun, but strange.

A few last things about birthdays (or at least mine, including this year for both).
1.) There has been some form of wintry accumulation I think 7 of my last 10 birthdays.
2.) I have had a large paper, project, or test the day after my birthday 5 of the last 7 years.
3.) I'm going to have a sweet black and white party tomorrow night with my good friend Tomáš to celebrate both of our birthdays.

Americans don't eat vegetables

One of the first days I was on campus here in Sundsvall, I had the chance to meet the only other American students studying at Mid-Sweden on exchange.  Coincidentally, they are all from the same college and all live in the same apartment complex, which is nowhere close to me.  With them being from "the South," we inevitably got to talking about food and what we especially missed from home.  So just like any good Americans who are always looking for an excuse to eat, we subsequently decided to plan an All-American dinner sometime in the near future.  Each of us agreed to bring something to share and invite a few European friends over to try some traditional American food.

I was in charge of baking the cornbread, and after a successful trial run, felt confident to try it on human subjects.  On the night of the dinner, I made a large pan so that everyone could have several pieces of the best cornbread in Sundsvall, thinking there would only be a handful of us.  I loaded into a large canvas bag wrapped in a towel and proceeded to the nearby bus station, opting to pay the $2.50 to save me a 40 minute walk.  Swedish buses (and by default I will assume most European buses) are nicer quality than stereotypical American buses.  Maybe it is their more honest (less pretentious) committment to sustainability and reduced carbon emissions, but a lot of people in Sundsvall ride the bus on a regular basis.  Yet, despite all of the use, they are always clean and devoid of a live-in homeless person.  I actually enjoy riding the bus around town, and even though it may be because of the novelty, this bus ride was no different.  I will tell you though, if you want to ever see something funny on a bus, bake something incredibly aromatically delicious and place it just out of sight in a nondescript canvas bag.  People will be looking all over the place and sniffing, trying to understand why the bus is suspciously making them hungry.   

After exiting the bus full of agitated stomachs, I wandered around in the foreign apartment complex, which was much larger than I imagined, until I finally found the right building.  I climbed the stairs up to the sixth floor, knocked on the apartment door, and entered a room absolutely full of people.  Counting me, there were close to 15 people, much more than the 7 or 8 I was planning for.  Even now I can't believe I didn't consider the uncanny draw of free food on college kids.  Fortunately though, we had enough for everyone.  The main course was naturally Fried Chicken and it was complimented by cornbread, cream corn, baked mac 'n cheese, and sweet potatos.  As expected by the chefs, the group's response was very positive and inevitably gave way to the required lethargy that accompanies all soul food.  Toward the end of the meal, one of the Dutch girls sitting next to me scooted her chair back while holding her stomach and said something to the effect of "Don't Americans eat any vegetables?"  I leaned over to her and politely said, "Of course we do.  Take these sweet potatos for examples," as I added an equal serving of marshmallow fluff onto my plate.  

everyone comes together around the dinner table

Living here for over a month has allowed me to see quite a number of different cultures and people, and while I tell myself and my parents that everything's normal, the differences are sometimes hard to get away from.  I have to admit that a couple of times during the first few weeks of my stay there were days when I just didn't want to deal with weird cultural hang ups and non-native English speakers.  I know that's a little pessimistic, but it's true and I know for a fact that most of the people here feel something similar from time to time.  A couple of us have decided it has to do with being out of your comfort zone for so long, that sometimes you just get worn out from the difference.  Fortunately, the longer I stay here the more comfortable I am and the better it gets.  I think what helps more than anything else are the nights that the people in my hall hang out and just do things to show us how much we have in common.  One night we listened to music, another night was youtube videos, and there are always the famous kitchen parties.  I have to admit one of my favorites though was last night when we all came together for a multi cultural dinner.

The idea was that every person would bring something traditional from their home country, and we'd all meet together to share.  Seeing as how I had already made cornbread for my neighbors once before, I wanted to branch out to another American delicacy.  After thinking about what characterized American food, I knew it had to be fried and finger friendly.  The answer was simple and turned out delicious.  Homemade chicken nuggets.

After filling my kitchen with smoke saturated with fried goodness, I made my way down the hall to the other kitchen with nuggets in one hand and homemade honey mustard in the other.  The table was set full of people and food from all across Europe.  There were numerous casseroles and potato dishes courtesy of the Germans, ground brocolli soup and lasagna with a sweet brocolli cream also from Germany, my chicken nuggets and sauce, mixed vegetables and pasta from Canada, sugar coated chocolate balls with either rum or whiskey mixed into the batter from Sweden, and a Dutch apple pie.  Even with a full table, we made dinner last for a couple of hours, people continually asking for seconds and thirds.  It was great just talking and enjoying each other's culture and cooking.  Honestly, I think that every United Nations meeting should begin with a potluck; a lot more would get done.

Last thing for this week, my Swedish language course actually started on Monday, so I've had a couple of cracks at the silly language.  The best part I think is when my teacher will write a sentence on the board and says "this is how it is written," proceeds to cross off at least one letter per word, "and this is how it is said."

Vi ses på nästa torsdag.  (pronounced 'vee ses po neirshta tooshtah')

you're a red pants wearin man!

You believe Swedish children are born on skis...

Two weeks into my stay in Sundsvall, I was once again sitting in my Corporate Culture class at Mid-Sweden and being told about American business practices, having to verify from time to time if all American companies would sell their employees for cash or explain the phrase "rugged Individualism."  Near the end of the lecture when we we finally began discussing Swedish culture, it became apparent that only two people in the room including the professor had actually been skiing.  "What kind of culture course does not encourage the students to experience a vital part of the local culture," expressed my professor.  "What if I asked you all to read the material for the next lecture on your own this weekend and on Monday we took a class trip to one of the local slopes?"  Seeing a chance to get out of class experience something new and exciting, the decision to go skiing was unanimous.

After a fun filled weekend involving schnitzel and absinthe, I donned my brand new, police-light red snow pants and was tromping across a frozen lake on my way to the nearest ski slope.  We had decided to arrive at 5 o'clock to avoid the rush, which turned out to be the right choice because we had to rent all of the necessary equipment (skis, poles, boots, and helmets).  After getting sized up and geared up, we made our way out to the little clearing between the ski shop, the lift, and the bottom of the slope.  My teacher believed this mostly flat area would be a good chance for us to get used to the feeling of skis and cheered us all on with the encouraging words, "Don't worry when you fall, I completely expect you to be absolutely awful at this."  Ah, the invaluable honesty of Swedes.

I'm now going to simply share the following stream of thoughts that I believe captures the sheer raw wonderfulness of this learning experience.

Okay she said it was like skating and you've done plenty of that back home when you were younger and they played backstreet boys over the loudspeakers. Keep moving your legs back and worth, use the poles! they're there for a reason.  Stop, whoa whoa stop, plant the poles to keep yourself from sliding back any further.  Why is it so hard to just move five feet?  How's everyone else doing?  Good,  just as bad.  Oh what the crap?  That kid doesn't even come up to my waist, he's probably missing more teeth than are in his mouth right now and he's moving faster than me, he doesn't even use poles! Are these people genetically engineered for this kind of stuff? Follow him, follow him! Casually stumble up to the lift and go to the top like you aren't terrible at this.  Let's be real, you're definitely not get any better down here, try and salvage some pride by being the first one out of the rest of them to get the nerve to go down the mountain.

Okay, where do you get on?  No benches, what kind of lift is- oh grab that thing coming around the bend, um, maybe if you just, lean against it and...okay.  We're good, we're good................. Well this is nice.......You can do this, you'll just get to the top and slowly make your way down.  No problem.  You pick up on things fast anyway and you might be really good at this.  Oh shoot, time to get off, steady and...okay.  Whoa! keep from doing the splits, you'll definitely feel that tomorrow.  Easy now, slide up to the edge of the hill and....shoot.  Can I do this? I barely know how to stop and that looks way steeper than before.  Why did I have to learn on this hill?  Oh there go some more little kids, with no hestiation whatsoever.  Come on, man up, the only way down is down.  And...go!  Okay, okay, so far so- ughaf! Pleh, well that's one.  Again.  Plow, plow, change directions, don't even out too much! Fall before you crash. Ofhh-ow... Line the skis up, get up. Again.

I have to admit that after the first time down, which took me about 20 minutes, I was pretty discoruaged.  I must have fallen close to ten times and felt no more confident my second time up the lift.  But things got better.  I only fell three times during round two, and only once on rounds three and four (when I tried to stop at the bottom).  By the fifth time, I was be no means a master but actually started enjoying myself.

I went down a couple more times, dodging x-games-esqu munchkins, and ended up having a great time.  I realized that there is a "feel" to skiing that you can't really explain to someone who's learning, no matter how red their pants are.  I'm definitely looking forward to my next attempt at skiing though, which if I'm lucky will be Saturday with all of the nice snow today's blizzard brought in.

your grill site is somewhere beneath 3 meters of snow.

One evening while enjoying some Chile con Carne prepared by my neighbors, I was invited to a German barbecue that upcoming weekend.  Now, I sometimes feel a little silly about this obsession I have with barbecue, but I promise it's not an exaggeration.  I said goodbye to two of my best friends before leaving by enjoying some good KC barbecue with them.  Although it may be the cause, I never cease to count myself lucky to have grown up in a barbecue city.  I've learned that if I don't devour a respectable amount of barbecue (and I mean good barbecue- I'm looking at you Iowa) I start to have pervasive barbecue cravings.  There are times when I'm sitting at my computer, or running, or just hanging out with friends when I can't get the hauntingly delicious image of ribs and pulled pork out my mind/stomach.  So when the word barbecue reached my ears, I was automatically lost in a daydream of burnt ends and onion rings.  I came back to earth when I learned the primary food at a German barbecue was, of course, bratwurst.  I have to admit, I was a little disappointed, but I quickly wiped the drool that had suspiciously formed around my lips and accepted the invitation.  I even said I could bring something for the barbecue, maybe to counter balance all of the sausage.

The day of the German barbecue came, and I made my way to the store still a little unsure of what to bring.  I knew there would be copious amounts of meat, so that was out of the question.  And I feel like everyone in my hall has potatoes at least every 4th meal, so I wasn't too jazzed for potato salad either.  I ended up deciding on grilled bananas.  They're easy, delicious, and would do fine with being carried around in the cold while we walked in the snow to the grill site.  I got back to Norrmalm at 3 o'clock thinking that I had some time to eat and prepare the bananas, but when I walked into the hallway, I realized that everyone was already ready to go.  The sleds brimming with pale, uncooked bratwurst that filled the hallway gave it away.  I rushed into my room, put my other groceries away, pulled on my awesome red pants, and went into the kitchen with my ingredients.  Some of my friends who were waiting for the last stragglers like myself came over to help, and we assembly lined the bananas with honey, sugar, and brown sugar.  By 3:30, we were heading up the mountain with full sleds and empty stomachs.

We eventually made it to the top of the mountain and turned to look out on the city.  It was a beautiful site.

There was just one problem.  Do you see that snow mound in the foreground of the picture?  Imagine a grill buried somewhere in there, most likely about 7 feet down at a minimum.  The decision by the grill masters was that the expedition would continue on in search of a more suitable site.  We found one about 10 minutes away on the outskirts of a park.  We dug out one of the slightly buried (but still visible!) grills using the sleds, and before long, we had a nice firing going.  We immediately began cooking up the bratwurst, and no

German event is complete without beer, so we opened those too.  I'd like to think I've learned a lot about my German friends in my short time here, but one thing has stuck out more than anything else.  You must always have a beer in your hand.  It isn't an overwhelming alcoholism, but more of a sign of fellowship and just the modus operandi of every social situation.  And they are incredibly generous among friends, congenially thrusting a new beer into your hand as soon as you dispose of your last one.  I have to say, you learn to pace yourself or before the end of the night, you're past 7 or 8 and wondering how it happened.

Before long, all of the bratwurst and rolls were gone, and we were enjoying the bananas with melted chocolate or a little brandy on top.  We stayed until we had eaten and drank everything we brought and burned up all of our wood in a great bonfire.  It was great night, especially since a light snow had been falling since we left the apartment.  We all left satisfied and with full stomachs, racing down the mountain on our now empty sleds.

That's about it for now.  I'll leave you with a parting picture though.  Feel free to make up some wild explanations.  And yes, the brown parts are its wings.

you make great first impressions.

For Justine, who may be even better than me at making a lasting first impression.

...28 hours without sleep doesn't translate to German.

My tale of not intended first impressions begins on the night of my arrival.  I had landed in Stockholm at 8 a.m. after a red eye flight and spent the majority of the day traveling up the eastern coast of Sweden by bus.  Remembering the numerous people who gave the advice to not nap my first day in order to avoid jet lag, I stubbornly decided that I would not sleep in anything other than my new bed.  I did not sleep on the 10 hour flight, nor did I sleep on the first bus, in the bus station, or on the second bus that glided peacefully by the countryside.  Nope, I arrived in Sundsvall late in the evening, powering through my 28th hour without sleep.  It's as good a time as any to inform you that my hallway is populated mostly by Germans with a random Dutch or Swedish person thrown in for good measure.  I've come to really enjoy the company of my German friends, but will never forget how I met most of them.

In honor of Amanda moving out and my moving in, she convinced everyone that the Germans needed to finally teach her how to play Flunky Ball (flunky ball is a German drinking game traditionally played in the summer, but more on that in a second).  Everyone decided that this was a great idea, and after a quick trip to a grocery store for some extra beer and the creation of a ball out of knotted towels, we all tromped outside to play.  It is in this drinking game arena that I met the majority of my German neighbors.  During the beer run, the ball tying, and the division of teams, I introduced myself to nearly everyone, having high expectations placed on me because I was American.  Aside from that, I found everyone to be friendly, welcoming, and very capable of speaking clear English.  We only played one game because of the -15 degree temperatures, but it was a blast.  I was chosen to be the bottle returner for my team, knocked the bottle down myself three times, and was the second person out of everyone playing to finish my beer.  All in all, I thought it was an appropriate way to mark my entrance into my new community.

This game is definitely something that I think needs to come back to Coe with me, especially as its name is practically begging to be played sometime in April.  Here is a brief overview of the rules (with illustrations!) for my guys back on 4th East.

Object of the Game:

The ultimate goal of the game is to have each member of your team finish their beer (or normal sized drink- no shots) before the other team.  This is accomplished by throwing a ball (or anything you can ghetto rig into a ball) at a 2-liter bottled that has been partially weighted down by water (no other liquid is allowed).  If someone on your team knocks the middle bottle over, everyone on the team starts chugging.

Defense: 

Once the other team has knocked over the bottle, it is the responsibility of the two quickest people on your team to retrieve the ball and bottle.  The bottle must be returned to its upright and central position, and the ball must be carried across your side line.  Once the ball and the last person have reached your sideline, the team yells STOP!  At this point, the other team must put down their beers.

Particulars:  

1.) The sidelines are measured out by placing the bottle in a central location and having the tallest person playing take 10 long steps in each direction.

2.) If your beer gets knocked over at any time for any reason and spills, you are charged with a penalty of a second beer.

3.) You may not throw underhanded, always go for the win!

4.) You must let everyone throw.

To reiterate:

I'm looking forward to playing this with all of the guys when I get back.

...your powerstip smells like a firework.

I awoke to my first day in Sundsvall after collapsing into a 12 hour coma brought on by my severe sleep deprivation.  Realizing that my bags were in the same unpacked position near the front door I left them in last night, I decided to start putting my room in order.  I unpacked most of my clothes and the few odds and ends I brought to keep myself entertained.  After I finished, I set about getting my computer hooked up so that I could get in touch with people back home and tell them of my safe arrival.  Feeling completely prepared, I opened one of my two power converters/adapters, found the Northern European plug adapter, plugged it into the wall outlet, and then connected my computer chord.

Mennhhhhhzzzzzzmmennnnhzzzzzzz.

This is a noise that the little black box along your computer's charging chord should never make.  Wary of this evil sound and the growing heat coming from my chord, I decided to only have my laptop plugged in for about 15 minutes at a time.  I believed this to be the best plan to avoid computer death.  After about 6 hours of this annoying-ness, I became more courageous.  I thought, maybe it's the converter/adapter, so I switched.  Negatory.  Maybe its the outlet.  I am now confused by my reasoning as well, but that was also wrong.  With two strikes against me, I couldn't possible fail now.  I couldn't possibly make one the most obvious mistakes of power chords (again, my reasoning was not with it that day).  I decided to plug my power strip/surge protector into the converter/adapter to try and "tone things down".  So far so good, no weird noises from the power strip.  As I stood there with laptop chord in a hand, I had one moment of sanity in which I thought to test this little maneuver.  I got out a rechargeable battery charger and tentatively approached the power strip. 

BYYEOORRRRRZZ-KKHHHCK

Holy Marty McFly!  That was a bad sound.  And all the lights are out....great.  And what's that smell?...  What smells like the 4th of July?  Oh, it's my powerstrip; the one that is now burning my still tingling hand.  Perfect.  Better go out into the hall and try and despose of the evidence.  Oh, there are people out here....  Hey, my name is Jordan. Nice to meet you.  Oh, you're from Latvia?  I do know where that is, but you're the first person I've met from there.  Yeah, my lights just went out too.  There must be something wrong with the wiring.  Let me hide-I mean, finish something in my room, and I'll come back out so we can try and fix it.

It was unfortunate that the fuse box was possibly 50+ years old and ran on a weird type of fuse that neither I, nor my two German friends who took a look at it could figure out.  We must have messed with that thing for half an hour, unscrewing fuses, replacing them, flipping switches.  Eventually, we gave up, and I graciously volunteered to contact the landlady on behalf of my three neighbors who were also without overhead lights.  After two days living by lamp light, I admitted my guilt in passing to my neighbors who took the news well.  Nevertheless, I'm still the American who almost electrocuted himself the first day in his apartment.

...you were going for the ball.

The first person I met in Sundsvall was Peter.  (Yes, the first impression was a good one; he was laying on my bed when I arrived at my room.)  Peter gave me a grand tour of the city my first night and has helped me more than anyone else to adapt to living in Sweden.  He's an all around quality Swede.  About two weeks into my stay, Peter invited me to play volleyball with some of his friends.  Eager to go out and meet some new people, I agreed.  When he came by to pick me up that night, his friend Alex was in the front seat.  Alex introduced himself, and we were on our way.

Volleyball was a lot of fun.  We switched teams after every two games, and even though I was on a winning team only once, I thoroughly enjoyed myself.  Everyone I met was very friendly and a little older than the exchange students living in my building.  As the night went on, I didn't make any really bad mistakes and managed to pull off a couple of good kills and set ups.  I was just getting over my nervousness for being around such a large group when there was a 50-50 ball right over the net.  Alex was opposite of me on the other side, and we both went up for the ball.  Being a little taller, I didn't need to jump as high, and after getting a hand on the ball and directing it away, I landed first.  As Adam Becker will tell you, jump straight up.  Don't go into the net or you'll mess yourself up.  Knowing Adam Becker, my jump was safely out of the net.  Unfortunately for Alex, his jump took him into the net, and he landed awkwardly on my foot.  

Let me take this moment to say he took it extremely well.  His pain tolerance must be pretty high because he brushed himself off and limped off to the locker room without saying a word.  I'm pretty sure that I was the only one who really knew from that start that he had severely sprained his ankle, but when I looked up to say something Peter was giving me the thumbs up and telling me nice shot.  We quickly finished that game and called it a night.  By that time, Alex was sitting on the sideline, and everyone was gathering around to look at the ankle he appeared to have exchanged for a mango.  He made it a point to tell me that it wasn't my fault and he wasn't mad at all, which I was extremely grateful for.  I have had the opportunity to hang out with Alex and the rest of Peter's friends a couple of more times after that first encounter, but as many of them would tell me at the bar later that night, putting someone on the ground is one hell of a way to enter into a new group of friends.