king 5 news: That Hard Swedish Shell, by Paul Shirley

So, in a little bit, everyone?s going to clear out of here and go home and when that happens, well, what do you think about you and me ? just you and me ? getting a drink somewhere?

The stunning girl I?ve been talking to for the past two hours looks at me, considering the question that hangs like a poorly-inflated balloon in the wine-soaked air of Muggen, a semi-crowded, upscale bar in the Sodermalm in Stockholm, Sweden. She looks down at her hands and a smile creeps across her face.

***

Twenty years ago, my mother became interested in the genealogy of her family. I think her interest came about because my father was interested in the genealogy of his family and wanted a way to get my mother to listen to the dull stories he would tell about Culps in Tennessee and Murphys in Illinois (or maybe it?s the other way around). As a byproduct of this marital brinksmanship, my mother figured out that her great-grandfather, Anders Kjall (or Kall, or Kjell, depending on whether you are Swedish or a lazy clerk on Ellis Island) came to the US from somewhere near Tidaholm, Sweden.

My mother resolved, when she learned all of this, that she would one day go to Sweden to see where her ancestors had come from.

In the meantime, she wrote letters to all the Kjalls she could find near Tidaholm. Eventually, one of them answered.

I met that man, whose name is Lars, on a quiet residential street in Hjo (which is pronounced You, and which has inspired many a T-shirt that states something along the lines of ?I Love Hjo?) when my mother and my brothers pulled up in the Opel Astra station wagon we?d rented in Gothenburg.

The reception we got far exceeded the reception we expected after the limited enthusiasm our relatives had shown when my mother told them what was going on.

What was going on was that my father ? twenty years after my mother made the discovery of our Swedish ancestry ? had woken up one day this spring and, my brothers and I surmise, realized that he had more money in his saving account than he thought, and decided he would send his entire family to Sweden to track down the fruits of the family tree. He also decided that he wouldn?t come with us. At first, we thought this was a joke. It wasn?t, but a digression into the idosyncrasies of my family could fill a novel ? and someday might ? so I?ll leave it at this: my father didn?t come on the trip he financed.

We met eighteen Kjalls or Kjells or Kalls during our two days in central Sweden. Lars and his wife hosted us for lunch on our first day. Then all eighteen of us took what seemed to be a nine-mile walk to Lake Vattern. Then we begged out of dinner because we hadn?t yet checked into the Comfort Hotel in Jonkoping (that K is pronounced as an SH, we learned). The next day, the onslaught continued: a trip to a traditional Swedish village preserved from the time when our ancestors left, lunch at the home of Karin who, I suppose, would be my fifth cousin, and another quaint, stilted discussion about our respective lives before my brothers and my mother and I left in order to find the old family farms (or rather, the farms our ancestors worked on, because you can be sure that they wouldn?t have if they?d owned the farms).

The discussions we had with the Kjalls (that?s the ?shells?, in case you?re interested) were stilted because not many of them spoke English. The broken communication that resulted was not their fault, per se, as it could hardly be said that we went out of our way to learn Swedish in time for the trip, but because we are American and because we expect everyone to cater to each of our whims, we were predisposed to think, from time to time, ?Come on, Lars. Give me one word in English.?

Lars didn?t. Give us one word in English, that is. Much of his family followed his lead. Nonetheless, by the end of our visit, it was clear that the Kjalls were thrilled that we had come to Sweden to visit them. When, after our last meal together, we said that we should probably get going, it was as if someone had removed the oxygen from the air. They wanted more time with us! This, from a group of people my mother could hardly get to answer an email prior to our trip.

This paradox ? the Swedish exterior vs. the Swedish interior ? was something I?d noticed before. I dated, for a long time, a European girl who had a Swedish roommate. Before I met the Swedish roommate, my then-girlfriend would say that there was something strange ? something ?cold? ? about her roommate. At the time, I chalked her evaluation up to exaggeration. But then I met her roommate. Later, I met other Swedish people. It turns out that my ex-girlfriend was right. Sort of.

It?s not that Swedish people are cold, exactly, but it is that they aren?t what anyone would call warm.

***

My brothers and I had come to the Sodermalm?s Muggen mostly at my behest. Matt had protested any nightlife hijinkery because he was tired; Dan doesn?t much care because he has a heavy girlfriend (not heavy like she?s fat; heavy like it?s serious). Tom was up for whatever because Tom is 21. But Tom was willing to be convinced not to be up for whatever because Matt is probably cooler than I am and, when in doubt, 21-year-olds will side with cool.

The problem, I told Matt, with going back to our hotel with our mother, was that we would probably never again be in Stockholm, Sweden, the capital of the country that produced not only some of our ancestors and the relatives they have begotten, but also the best-looking women I?ve ever seen.

Swedish girls are famous for being beautiful, so much so that, before coming to Sweden, I had ruled that stereotype as too obvious, in no small part because I lived in Russia for a time and Holy Shit Are Russian Girls Gorgeous. Plus, the Swedish girls I?d met while living in Europe, while attractive, hadn?t blown the doors off the bank safe of my eyes. But, upon arrival in Sweden, and presented with girls working at McDonald?s who make some of the runway models I?ve seen look decidedly pedestrian, I felt like a bear in a shallow pool filled with the biggest, most-delicious salmon he?d ever seen.

Of course, and to continue this simile to an unnecessary degree, I was like a bear with neither claws nor mouth. No mouth because, well, my mother was on the trip, and no claws for two reasons (perhaps reflecting the two claws): 1. While I would like to be a ladykiller, I am not. And 2. When my family and I left the country, I was two weeks out of a year-and-a-half relationship. And, as anyone who?s ever talked to strange girls knows, talking to strange girls is difficult when you?ve forgotten everything you?ve learned about talking to strange girls, no matter how insignificant everything you?ve learned might be.

Nonethefuckingless, when the tall, brown-haired (they?re not all blond, as they will tell you) epitome of the female form walked into Muggen, it was only a matter of time before I would talk to her, despite her location ? sitting, her back to me ? and the logistics ? she was with four friends, seated around a low table, and she was, well, Swedish.

My move was simple (and probably clumsy). After a guy who was sitting near her left, Matt and I sidled into the empty seats while I said ?Mind if we sit down?? and then, as I noticed that I had murdered the group?s conversation, segued into, ?So, maybe you can help us out ? we?re not from here and need to know where to go in this city??

It was at this point that the girl, whose name I soon learned was A____, turned and looked into my eyes. And it was at this point that I thought, I?LL STAY IN SWEDEN FOREVER IF YOU TELL ME TO.

When the conversation?s wake had settled, and when I could tell that Matt was holding his own with his side of the table (bless his heart), I cornered A____ and said that I had a confession to make ? that I had used our approach as an excuse to speak to her.

There are some who would question such directness. I would have been among them, at earlier stages in my life. But as I?ve grown older, I?ve learned that it is usually best to make one?s intentions clear, in case the girl thinks that, you know, I came over to actually FIND OUT WHERE TO GO IN THIS CITY or some equally inane shit that can?t possibly be true.

When I said what I said to A____, she blushed slightly and said, Oh That?s Quite A Compliment. Which caused me to think, WHEW. SHE DIDN?T SAY ANYTHING ABOUT A BOYFRIEND.

And away we went. Sort of. Because the thing about our conversation was that it wasn?t spectacular. It was good enough ? I found out that she had seen the Daily Show skit where Wyatt Cenac comes to Sweden (IS IT TOO SOON TO SAY THAT I LOVE YOU?) and that she rather likes the one-hour commute from the small town outside of Stockholm where she lives, a commute that takes her to her job working with developmentally-disabled children. (Because only in Sweden would A____ not be a model.)

But it wasn?t a great conversation. It was the sort of conversation you have with a girl who?s being cordial and who is interested in what you have to say and who is asking you enough questions that you think there?s a chance.

BUT PAUL, THERE?S ALL THAT EXPERIENCE YOU HAVE WITH YOUR EX?S ROOMMATE AND WITH OTHER SWEDISH PEOPLE AND, HELL, THE KJALLS! MY GOD, THE KJALLS! THEY LOVED HAVING YOU AROUND AND YOU NEVER WOULD?VE THOUGHT THAT BASED ON YOUR FIRST IMPRESSION?

So, in a little bit, everyone?s going to clear out of here and go home and when that happens, well, what do you think about you and me ? just you and me ? getting a drink somewhere?

***

In the moment my question hung in the air, I had time to fantasize about what A____ and I might do if I could get her out of the bar and alone. Sure, I only had a day left in Stockholm, and, sure, European girls, while rumored by the world to be sexually liberal, are actually not that. I mean, they are, once you are with them, but they aren?t, when it comes to hooking up at random, probably because they?re much more secure with themselves and/or live at home longer.

But still? arm-in-arm walking! A first kiss in a quiet bar! Walls! Cobblestones! Nooks! Make out sessions!

Then came her half-blush. Then came the smile. Then came her answer.

?Actually, I think that would be a bad idea. I mean, I think it would be a lot of fun, but it would be a bad idea.?

Gooooooooooddddddddddddddddaaaaaaaaaaammmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmiiiiiiiiiiiitttttttttt.

I swallowed. MAYBE THIS IS THE COLD SWEDISH EXTERIOR.

?Well, what about tomorrow night??

She smiled again.

?Tomorrow night, I?m going to go home to my boyfriend.?

I TOLD YOU WHY I CAME OVER HERE WHEN I CAME OVER HERE AND THAT WAS YOUR CHANCE TO TELL ME YOU HAVE A BOYFRIEND JESUS CHRIST WHAT?S WRONG WITH YOU, BETTER YET WHAT?S WRONG WITH ME?

?Ahh.?

And with that, my ?Ahh,? it was over. Oh sure, I gave her my email address, on a cute note that I wrote with the pen and notepad I always have around ? just in case, I wrote, on that same note ? but it was over. So my brothers and I said our goodbyes to A____ and her friends and my brothers and I missed the last train to our hotel by a minute and had to take a taxi that cost $45 for an eight-minute trip (because why wouldn?t it cost that much in this, the most expensive place I?ve ever been).

I won?t say that A____?s rejection was ?okay?, in the sense that I enjoyed it, because that wouldn?t be the truth. I would have liked nothing more than to have walked with her to some nearby bar and there, to sit and bask in the warmth of the gaze of a beautiful woman.

But it was okay in the sense that I tried.

My mother?s tracking down of her Swedish relatives could have gone badly. We could have been greeted with a cold cup of coffee and a vague ?Hei? on a front porch in Hjo. We could have failed to find the gorgeous farms, some of them so pretty they could have been models for Playmobil, that our ancestors once worked. We could have come to Sweden and left unfulfilled. None of those things happened, but they could have.

Even if those reverse negatives had come to pass, my mother would have been happy she tried.

I?m a little like my mother that way. Because I resolved something a long time ago, too. Not twenty years ago. More like ten. I didn?t resolve to track down my ancestors someday. I resolved only this: To not be afraid. And to not have any regrets. And while it will sound stupid and hokey and ?Eat, Pray, Love,? this is something of which I am quite proud.

I saw the beautiful girl. I talked to the beautiful girl. I was shot down by the beautiful girl.

But at least I tried.

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