Saturday, April 17, 2004

Home again Home again

For some reason, a lot of people are under the impression that I went to both Amsterdam and Sweden.

I went to the airport in Amsterdam, which is a really great airport, but I never once actually stepped on Dutch soil.

So, to make it clear, I did not:

1. Smoke dope
2. Eat dope cookies
3. Hook up with prostitutes while smoking dope
4. See any Van Gogh

Instead, I bought over-priced magazines, walked around a lot, looked at cheap perfume, ate a donut (a Dutch donut), smoked some cigarettes indoors, and got on the plane. I know, I'm such an international jetsetter.

No, my journey was to Sweden, not Amsterdam.

Sweden. My ancestral home. My fatherland. The land of Vikings and rotten fish in cans.

Turns out, our family might not even go all the way back to the Vikings. Instead, my paternal side came from poncy France and the maternal line is assumed to be totally Svensk.


I am trying to hold on to some kind of cultural identity here! Viking are cool and I want to be cool!

However, the trip was much fun. I lost an entire day to traveling and jet lag, but I ate plenty of really really good cheese to make up for it. Us Swedes, we don't like the Norse and thinks the Danes are just ok, but man will we eat their cheese. No one likes the Finns. They are really just Russians in disguise.

I am very quickly becoming the shortest member of my Svensk family. My cousin Henrik, who the last time I saw was a cute little boy, is now a very tall teenager. Of course, he is a Swedish teenager, so he is really nice, loves his mom, and listens to Lincoln Park.

His brother, Bjorn (I'm seriously not making that up, I am related to a Bjorn) is a preteen, so he is still small in that pre-puberty way, but since his brother is a giant, I highly doubt that he will stay small.

The only one left who is near my height is my darling Abuelita (we are Swedish and Latino. You work it out.) but she is shrinking, so maybe it doesn't really count.

Right now in Scandinavia, there are an obscene amount of people walking around with what I like to call the Fasho-Mullet. Its highly fashionable. Its daring and original, spiky and slicked back, held together with numerous cool European products and accessorized with the kind of clothes American Mods and Hipsters can only dream about.

But its long in the back and short in the front. It is, most definitely, a mullet.

This is what a strong Hockey influence does to a country. Thank good for football.