Falling Off the Wagon

I used to have something interesting to write about. But my travels are over for the summer, which I've already made clear by changing my "current city" on Facebook. So it's been harder and harder for me to summon up the spunk necessary for a good post. Not that I don't have anything to say-- far from it. It's just that I don't feel like my ordinary life is worth writing about. Hence the falling off the wagon.

I know, I know. I am a member of a narcissistic generation, where it has become customary for girls (and quite a few boys) to take photos of themselves with their smartphones, to contort their features and their body in the bathroom mirror, and then to upload those photos for others to leave comments like: "OMG you look so hawt!" or "Ur lookin' good babe!" Oh yes, compliment fishing has gone high-tech.

My last photo upload was a picture of pasta salad I'd just made, tagging my brother in the midst of its mayonnaise-y goodness so he knew exactly what he was missing. Oh yes, sibling teasing has also gone high-tech. And it probably tells you a little bit about my priorities. And why, despite the current cultural acceptance of egotism, I have a hard time coming up with a blog post I deem worthy for publication. Not that things have been completely boring. As I write, Hurricane Irene is blowing my area a kiss goodbye. And last week, an earthquake hit the East Coast, sending people into an unnecessary panic. For my part, I wondered if my mom's new dryer was already acting up. Thankfully, it wasn't.

I've also been finishing up my final errands before my final year of undergrad begins. Repairing the car, buying new clothes, packing my suitcases, etc. etc. It's actually been fun, shopping, considering I've lost over 20 pounds since the end of January. (Fulfilling one of my goals in my first entry, as a matter of fact.) I mean, it's still a work in progress, like my novel, but progress is progress.

So, I head back to GR and to student life. Back to books, Meijer runs, and fending for myself. And I'm ready to go back, if only for some sort of routine. I even copied down 30+ of my mom's recipes in the hopes of expanding my culinary repertoire this year. We'll see how the balance of inanity and insanity works out; knowing me, it will probably skew towards the insanity, but isn't that more fun?

Coming to America

It's been ten days since my grand summer adventure ended. I was hoping to have a deep breath, a chance to recover. And so far, it's been that. On the other hand, I've entered a new adventure for the time being. My parents have moved into a new house, and it's theirs. My mom spent my month away painting: her bedroom is blue (but she thinks it's green), the den is (actually) green, and my bedroom is a purple-gray. And she has plans for more. We've also spray painted my old desk, a chair, and a lamp. Let's just say that I won't be the next big street artist.

We've also received our last shipment from storage, which has been a trip down memory lane. We put all this stuff in storage in Georgia, so we haven't seen it in three years. And, frankly, we really haven't missed most of it all that much. My mom is cleaning out, and our garage has taken on the feel of a cosmopolitan secondhand store. Twenty-eight years of moving around has left us with quite a kooky collection of odds and ends, and Mom is weeding it all out. I've stepped in to save a few things from the pile, including a plate that commemorated birthdays when I was a kid.

Mom (confused): "You really want to save this?"
Me: *sniff* "Yes."

To be honest, I hadn't thought about in years. But when she brought in a pile of plates to keep, it hit me that one was missing. Honestly, I don't know why it's so important to me, but when she pulled it out of all the bric-a-brac for me, I knew that it had to be saved. I guess it's the tradition. For the Sheppard family, tradition has kind of been an elusive concept. I didn't realize how odd my family was until my first year in Georgia. We had to talk about our family's Thanksgiving traditions, or, if we didn't have one, we had to tell the class about our last Thanksgiving. I had to take Option #2. After five years overseas, Thanksgiving traditions had fallen by the wayside (if they'd ever existed at all).

But Option #2 wasn't great, either. Because on Thanksgiving 2003, three of the Sheppards were on a flight from Tokyo to Hong Kong to meet Sheppard #4, who was serving on the USS Kittyhawk. As the only forward deployed aircraft carrier, the Kittyhawk was gone a lot, so we seized the chance to see my dad. My Thanksgiving feast was an airplane meal (and if my thirteen-year-old self is anything like my twenty-one-year-old self, she didn't actually eat it). When everyone else talked about how they went to one set of grandparents for lunch and the other for dinner, I reminded them how essentially different my upbringing was. Cue the crickets for dramatic effect.

So, to condense the moral of the story, tradition isn't exactly our thing. But we do have little things: the red plate for birthdays, hiding the pickle ornament in the Christmas tree, and frosting sugar cookies in odd colors (my favorite has always been purple). My mother gives me stranger looks each year as I insist on following those childish traditions, but they also get more important to me each year. Traditions are constant, even when location isn't.

And yes, I will be eating my twenty-second birthday dinner off of that red plate.

A Week of Firsts

"You've had a lot of firsts this week, haven't you?" Sanna commented. This astute observation came after I said, for the umpteenth time, "I've never done [insert activity here] before!" And it's true. I've done a lot of things most people my age haven't. But there are a lot of things that I haven't done. So...my week of firsts in Sweden:

I went to Sweden.

I ate wild strawberries, rasberries, and blueberries.

I love rasberries.

And tried cloudberry and lingonberry jam.

Photo courtesy of Sanna. Cloudberry jam courtesy of her grandmother.

 I played darts.

I shopped in loppis (Swedish secondhand stores).

I went to a Swedish sing-a-long. I'm sure my pronunciation was horrific, but I gave it my best.

I helped rescue a bird.

And...I went fishing! I didn't catch anything, but it was still fishing, I think. I wouldn't know any better.

To Grandmother's House We Go

Exploring the garden.

Surprises everywhere.

Spoiling our appetite.

We finally pulled ourselves away from exploring the garden, as dinner waited within. We had pork pancakes (so delicious) with lingonberry and cloudberry jam.

With a fancy glass of milk to wash it down.

Sanna took this picture of her taking a picture. So meta.

Seeing my Swedie

I arrived in Umea late in the evening, tired after three (surprisingly stress-free) flights hopping from Rome to Paris to Stockholm to Umea. But I was immediately cheered to see a set of distinctive red bangs hovering at the top of the crowd, waiting for me. Sanna drove me from the airport to her family's apartment on the outskirts of the city. It was a very exciting experience, though that may have been the haze of exhaustion.

For my first day in Sweden, Sanna and I wandered around Umea, shopping and catching up. Not even a surprise rain shower could dampen our spirits, as we took shelter in a cafe for hot chocolate. When we returned to her apartment, I was introduced to my new favorite anime, Fairy Tail.

What otaku we are.

The next day, we walked down by the river and got snacks, enjoying the return of the sunshine.

We didn't stay out long, as my migraine attacks returned with the sunshine. Sanna was a particularly good nurse, putting me to bed right away and making me tea when I got up. She distracted me with Fairy Tail until my headache finally dissipated and made me pancakes when I felt well enough.

The next day, we prepared to go to the summer cottage. We were delayed, however, by an unexpected guest Sanna picked up in a local puddle. He called shotgun, tried to drive the car, made us pull over for snacks, and didn't even say "thank you" as he took his leave. Of course, we still don't know his name. Or whether he was a he or a she.

行きましょう！

Investigating the Vatican

The Vatican. I would like to say that my grand entrance into that bastion of Christendom was a graceful one.

But no. The Line A of the Rome Metro was in a tizzy, so I escaped from the underground for a bus and some fresh air. Crowding onto a bus with other tourists and some nuns, I bobbled about until, judging by the mass exodus of said nuns, I had reached the stop closest to St. Peter's. Bypassing semi-desperate tour guides in search of an audience, I proudly presented my reservation to the guard at the Vatican Museum. He was not impressed, but he did let me in, so I didn't quibble with him.

And then I got lost. Now, my ability to get positively turned about in a building has added numerous gray hairs to my venerable mother's head, particularly when she lost me in a massive Hobby Lobby. I was 16. Too confused to find a map, I just followed the signs and the tour groups.

This does NOT help with disorientation.

Somehow, it worked. Eventually I realized that I was, in fact, seeing everything I was supposed to. The Hall of Maps, the Laocoon group, the Raphael rooms, the Sistine Chapel, etc. etc. Being slightly lost made the whole experience like exploring, which was fun in a dizzying, confusing sort of way. I really enjoyed the museum. The Sistine Chapel was beautiful, though the security guards seemed to have been chosen for their anger management issues.

I got lost again finding the exit, but once again I followed my feet, and managed to stumble upon the Basilica. I went through metal detectors and under the inspection of the Vatican fashion police, on the lookout for spaghetti straps and miniskirts. I felt like I was back in private school, tugging down my skirt for a particularly strict teacher. Having been deemed suitable for entrance, I was set loose on the Basilica.

I spent most of my time craning my neck, trying to get a better glimpse of the beautiful ceilings, and the statuary placed at inconveniently high levels. St. Peter's is the product of centuries of decoration, and it was slightly overwhelming. I couldn't figure out where I was supposed to look, so I just kept looking. Even as I was leaving, I was turning around trying to catch a last glimpse of it all.

Returning to the sunshine, I accosted another tourist to take my photo.

Castel St. Angelo was closed, so I walked through the covered market before returning to the hostel. And yes, I got thoroughly lost. Domes, it seems, aren't particularly useful landmarks in a city full of them.

I got up early the next morning and trundled my suitcase back to the train station. It was a thoroughly uneventful trip, a pleasantly anticlimactic farewell to Italy. The flight from Rome left on time. The gate in Paris was near food and restrooms. (It was even the same exact gate for my flight from Paris to Rome last month.) I didn't get lost in the Arlanda airport. And, waiting for me in Umea, was my dear friend Sanna.