The city is beautiful, the people are friendly (although very quiet), the food is good, but the climate is just terribly cold. It snowed a couple of times Monday and yesterday, and judging from the new snow on cars outside the hotel, apparently last night as well. Blue sky here in the winter is what snow is back home: rare and worthy of note.

I was in the office all day yesterday, and I hung out with coworkers the whole time. On the street, the Swedes are quiet and poker-faced, but met in the office, they’re talkative and smiling. On a personal level, I could easily live with Swedes.

When some of us got in a car to go off, I explained the concept of “shotgun” — calling shotgun and riding shotgun. I’ve mentioned before how I got my Swedish counterpart to say “Y’all,” and yesterday I got my British colleague to say it. Yep, I’m a regular ambassador.

I was so damned tired last night. I finished dinner at 7:00, and returned to my room where if I dropped unconscious, I might could manage to fall on the bed. I hoped to stay awake till 9:00, but I’d settle for 8:00.

I did manage to stay awake till 9:00, but I never saw 9:01. The damnedest thing about this jet lag is once my body gets used to this time difference, I’ll be heading home to have to adjust back to my home time.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

I had yesterday free, so I explored Malmö extensively (on foot). Here are some of the sights:

New and old

A town square

Maybe town hall?

Today’s my first day in the Sweden office, in Lund. Being alone in a foreign country, I don’t know what I’d do for another day if I didn’t have work to go to.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

After getting settled into my room at the hotel, I went out on the Malmö streets to explore a bit.

Most everyone in Sweden can speak English — it’s a required subject in school from 3rd grade — so I’ve no difficulty communicating. The hotel staff, my taxi driver, and a random stranger on the train (whom I asked about the next stop) all spoke clear English. Hearing them made me a bit self conscious about my own spoken English.

In the airport, about half the signs were in English, but in the city, the percentage is much less. Because all the streets look the same to me (brick instead of asphalt — cool), and all the signs are in Swedish, it would be easy to get lost if I didn’t keep looking behind me and noting landmarks for reference.

This is the entrance to my hotel:

This looks just like any of a dozen entrances along this street — no obvious sign or other identifier.

After exploring, I retired to my room to get some work done (my work, not work work) and make phone calls. At one point, I turned on the TV and surfed the channels. I found this almost immediately:

Star Wars! (Note the subtitles in Swedish.) What a welcome this was. I felt like Sweden knew I was coming and broadcast this just to make me feel at home.

I went to bed at 8:00 p.m. and slept solidly through to 6:00 a.m. I stayed in bed watching Swedish TV. About half the channels this hotel TV gets, that aren’t pay-to-view movie channels, are in English — American or British shows (with Swedish subtitles). But I’m most taken by what looks like some kind of Swedish national morning news and talk show; something like a “Good Morning Sweden.” I find the woman anchor fascinating — the Swedish language sounds so masculine, not at all feminine, and listening and watching this woman speak it is just mesmerizing.

I wanted so bad to call home and talk with my family. I wanted to say good morning to Cowgrit. (I wish she was here, to experience all this with me.) But when I considered calling, I had to calculate out the time back home: 8:00 a.m. here = 3:00 a.m. at home. <sigh> It’ll be noon here before the family is awake back home.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

My fight for Chicago was supposed to leave at 4:30, but all flights bound for the Windy City were delayed — mine till 6:00. This made me thankful for a five-hour layover before my next flight.

I was told passengers are supposed to get to the airport two hours before an international flight, so I had gotten there at 2:30. So I ended up just waiting around, reading a book, walking about, and wasting time for three and a half hours. Eventually, they called for my flight to board. It was a small airplane for this less than two hours flight, so the jetway took us outside where we had to walk outside and board the plane from the tarmac — instead of the tunnel leading directly onto the plane.

It was a clear, warm day down South, so I had on loose work-out pants and a t-shirt. I knew my final destination would be colder, so I carried my coat in my arm. My laptop computer bag was slung over my other shoulder.

The flight to Chicago was smooth, and I listened to music on my cell phone. I had a window seat, and I usually like watching the earth go by under the plane, but this time I saw almost nothing but white clouds below. There was one surprising moment when another plane passed under us. I was just looking out the window, daydreaming to my music, and a red and white plane passed under our wing going the opposite direction. It was probably only a 1,000 feet away, and although I didn’t fear a collision (didn’t have time to even think about it), it passed much closer than any plane I’ve ever seen while flying.

Finally coming in over Chicago, as the sun was setting, I could see the white snow and ice on the ground, buildings, and lake. I and the man, with a blond ponytail, next to me had conversed a little during the flight, so we both knew where the other was heading (he to Oregon). We were both looking out the window as the plane made its approach to O’Hare, and I commented, “Seeing all that snow is making me cold.”

He chuckled and said, “Dude, you’re headed to Sweden. If you’re cold now . . .”

To leave the plane, we again had to step down onto the tarmac and walk over to the terminal entrance. I was indeed as cold in reality as it felt in my imagination.

* * *

Chicago O’Hare airport is freakin’ huge. Five terminals, with the international flights working out of the fifth. I first stopped at the airport Chili’s restaurant for dinner, and then I went hunting Butch O’Hare’s Wildcat — World War II fighter plane. I had seen the full-size display a couple times over the past few years when I flew through the airport, but I had never taken a picture — I never carried a camera on business trips. I sought out the plane again, and used my cell phone to take a picture this time.

Getting to terminal 5 is a feat for the uninitiated. It requires leaving the main series of terminals, boarding a shuttle train and riding for a few minutes. I had to ask a couple airport workers to find out where I was supposed to go, and then I learned I shouldn’t try to predict where corridors and tunnels lead — I found that if I just followed the signs, regardless of how illogical the pointed directions seemed, I would eventually end up where I was supposed to go.

I eventually arrived at my next gate and sat down to wait for the last two hours for my flight to start. I used the time to write up my blog up to this point. I would have loved to go ahead and post what I’ve experienced and written so far, but the wireless connection in the airport was not free.

* * *

The flight to Copenhagen was about nine hours from boarding the plane to deboarding the plane. This was my first time flying “business class” — read “first class” apparently. The first thing the flight attendant ask me when I got to my seat: “Would you like some champagne?”

The seat was plenty big, the leg space more than I needed, and the service was spectacular. I was floored by the whole “business class” experience. Since the flight was over night (midnight to 9:00 a.m. by my home time), I passed on the 1:00 a.m. dinner to go to sleep. I managed to sleep from 1:00 to 6:00, waking briefly only a couple of times. The seats recline fully flat for sleeping, and doing so does not infringe of the space of the person behind you. I had breakfast at around 7:30, and watched for the ground until we reached Denmark.

When we landed, it was 2:00 in the afternoon local time. I took a train across the channel to Sweden, then a taxi to my hotel.

What I’ve seen of Sweden so far is very interesting. The architecture is classic old world design, and though the people are similar to Americans, they are just enough different for me to stand out as obviously not one of them.

I had heard that Swedes preferred black or dark clothing (at least in the winter), but seeing how true that statement is surprises me. Let me just say: American teenage goths have nothing on the average Swede. Everyone wears black, and the women wear tall boots. And when I say “everyone,” I mean 90% or more. I saw hundreds of people between getting off my flight to arriving at my hotel, and I saw less than six people wearing something lighter than black or maybe an earthy brown.

I was wearing white and blue sneakers, as is my norm for comfort, but I saw only two other people wearing such. My winter coat is dark blue and green, but I felt mis-dressed walking down the street. I’m not kidding — everyone wears black coats.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com