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What gives?

Saturday, March 26th, 2011

If you’ve never read anything I’ve written before – like most people with the exception of four guys named Joe and a hamster that lives in Abilene, Texas – know this: my mouth tends to get me into trouble. A lot. Really, even nationally syndicated talk show hosts named Beck, Rush, or O’Reilly don’t get into trouble as often as I tend to.

That being said, I’d like to say that people in Sweden should not, under any circumstances, own a chihuahua.

Go ahead, call me a hack. Call me heartless. Call me other things which can’t exactly be printed. I don’t care. Because when you truly believe in something, you need to stand up for it.

Just think about this: where do chihuahuas come from? That’s right, the state of Chihuahua – Northern Mexico. The desert. Last I checked, Sweden doesn’t have any cactuses, scorpions, rattlesnakes, chupacabras, or Dia de los Muertos.

But for some reason, many young college students in Växjö seem to think they make a great pet. And I agree – if only you didn’t live in one of the coldest countries on earth. I know global warming is a problem, but I don’t think you can fry an egg on the hood of your car around here like you can in Mexico.

C’mon people: this is absurd. Sure, you can try to justify the whole “my dog won’t freeze to death” thing by putting your virtually hairless canine in a goofy sweater – usually featuring an image of Mickey Mouse or the rather puzzling word “juicy” – but it still doesn’t make up for the fact that your pet is more out of place than Christina Aguilera at a nunnery, or yours truly at a fancy hotel.

Granted, I’ve seen some weird things in my life (a raccoon in my kitchen, some guy selling art made out of pizza boxes, Legoland, and the Phillie Phanatic), but I can assure you that this is beyond surreal. Heck, it makes even less sense than Tom Cruise jumping the couch, or Indiana Jones nuking the fridge.

If you have to have a dog in Sweden, and a small one at that, then try something like a Lhasa Apso. You know, something that actually has fur. Or a Jämthund, which I assume would be used to cold weather considering they’re Swedish.

So there you have it: I’ve laid my soul bare. Let’s use common sense, people. Virtually hairless dogs in cold, snowy places = massive veterinary bill waiting to happen, potential emotional crisis flashpoint for human owner and the next edition of Real Men of Genius.

Maybe I don’t understand this whole owning a pet the size of a teacup phenomenon because I’m not Swedish, or because I usually prefer my dogs to be able to adequately defend themselves if they come face-to-face with a seagull. Or maybe it’s because I’m, quite honestly, more of a cat person anyway.

All I can say is, what gives?

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Tags: Ben Mack, blogs, chihuahua, culture, dog, Linnaeus University, Mexico, study abroad, Sweden, The Local, United States
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Uh, this is Sweden, right?

Friday, March 18th, 2011

Unless you’ve been living under a rock – or come from the strange and faraway land known as Oregon – you probably know that it’s Lent, regardless of whether you’re Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, another religion, non-religious, or worship the Flying Spaghetti Monster. While Lent may mean more different things than the Barry Bonds steroid investigation, the day before it begins – called “Fettisdagen” in Swedish – is usually seen as a time to celebrate, with parades, dancing, and drinking way too much. In other words, it’s Thomas S. Monson’s worst nightmare, or Paris Hilton’s dream.

Although New Orleans is much closer than Växjö, I’ve never actually experienced the pageantry of Mardi Gras until I came across the Atlantic. I know: in 21 years I have never worn a single pair of cheap plastic beads. Until now.

And I’ll be honest: I learned a lot. Among the more important revelations:

1. For some strange reason, many foreigners and Swedes seem to think that anything involving the word “party” means they should dress up in Halloween costumes. And when everyone else dresses up, you tend to do the same.

2. Semla buns are addictive. Really addictive. Hell, they’re even more addictive than my grandma’s peanut butter cookies, something which I previously thought was impossible.

3. The more alcohol Swedes consume the more they speak Swenglish, a hodge-podge reminiscent of the Mets pitching staff. If you ask melancholy linguistic experts, it’s the reason why Swedish will become a dead language.

Okay, so I’ve heard that the global culture is spreading, that thanks to innovations like the Internet and Rice Krispies you can now find anything, anywhere. But when you celebrate an originally Italian holiday by wearing a Nigerian costume while eating Swedish and Mexican food on plates made in Hungary with silverware from China while partying with Germans, Dutch, French, Finns, Koreans, Norwegians, Swedes, Canadians, and Romanians, you know it’s true.

Though I should probably repent one of these days for all I’ve done in my life, exposing myself to new cultures doesn’t quite make the list. Besides, if it wasn’t for global culture and Frommer’s Travel Guides I’d probably still think that all Swedes eat herring, listen to ABBA, and only smile at a funeral. And Swedes, likewise, would never have gotten their semla in the first place.

I’m sure that won’t earn me any brownie points from Svenska Motståndsrörelsen.

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Tags: Ben Mack, blogs, culture, Fettisdagen, Lent, Linnaeus University, semla, study abroad, Sweden, The Local, United States
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Why Swedes say F$%#! on television

Wednesday, March 9th, 2011

BENJAMIN MACK/THE LOCAL - Compared to its American counterpart, Swedish television features less censorship. Some foreigners find this shocking for a country which until 2011 had the world's oldest film censorship laws, dating back to 1897.

Think back to the most shocking thing you’ve ever seen or heard in your life. Before you decide you finally should call your lawyer about that column written by a certain Idaho college student, let me share my experiences with Swedish television, possibly the most shocking thing since Plaxico Burress decided to bring a gun to a nightclub.

Though I tend to consume media with the voracity of Scooby-Doo at a Hostess factory, anyone who knows me can attest that I’ve never exactly been a big TV guy. But it was one of those lazy Sundays – you know, the kind where you should be doing something productive like studying or trying to replace a carburetor – and I really didn’t feel like doing anything. Even getting up to microwave a bowl of popcorn was too much.

So there I was, mindlessly flipping through all seven channels offered on Swedish analog TV. Within a few short minutes, I realized that anything that had been popular in the U.S. three years ago is now all the rage in Scandinavia. The lineup consisted of – I kid you not – such one-hit wonders as “Top Chef” that are now relegated to late-night premium cable.

I finally settled on “Family Guy,” deciding it was a little better than watching brightly dressed people ski down a mountain, British people with an eerie resemblance to Roger Moore debate the meaning of life, or even some Swedish guy salt fish by a lake.

Despite my best efforts to keep up with cartoon irreverence, I found myself falling asleep. Just trying to read the Swedish subtitles at the bottom of the screen was too exhausting. I was fading faster than the New York Giants defense in the fourth quarter.

But suddenly something caught my attention. Or rather, a single word. It was four letters long, and started with an F. I leaped to attention.

I’d worked with student radio back at Boise State, and remembered being told on my very first day that such an utterance would immediately elicit a fine of several thousand dollars, and the eternal hatred of the semi-secret society known as the FCC.

Maybe I was just hearing things, I thought. There was simply no way profanity on TV would be allowed in such a “polite” society as Sweden. It had to be my body’s way of telling me I needed coffee.

But a few minutes later I heard it again. I hadn’t imagined it. They actually cursed on television. I was stunned.

I decided to investigate this phenomenon further. If I were back in high school, my parents would have killed me.

My investigation revealed the following results: cursing, nudity, and virtually all other forms of otherwise indecent behavior are perfectly acceptable on Swedish TV. Heck, even the occasional racial slur is alright. You know, the kind that got Don Imus yanked off the radio.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is downright shocking – especially in a country which, until this year, had the world’s oldest film censorship laws (dating back to 1897).

Yeah, it takes some getting used to. But then again, so did the Internet, Frank Sinatra’s death, and $3 a gallon gas. It’s just the way things are.

So to all foreign visitors to Sweden, let me say this: watch some TV. It’ll definitely keep you on your toes. Or at least give new meaning to the word “uncensored.”

Who needs Cinemax?

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Tags: Ben Mack, blogs, culture, Linnaeus University, media, study abroad, Sweden, television, The Local, United States
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Ice and death

Wednesday, March 2nd, 2011

Ever since I was a child I’ve had a penchant for over-dramatizing things, making even the most ordinary days sound like they came straight from one of the “Die Hard” movies. And since I’ve been in Sweden, I’ll admit that I’ve sometimes made things sound much more extraordinary than they really are.

But when I say jumping into a frozen lake recently was one of the dumbest things I’ve ever done, I’m not kidding.

In my usual flair for theatrics, I thought leaping into an ice-coated body of water wearing only a bathing suit would be a great thing to write about. While that’s debatable, one thing I can say is I have never known cold like the waters of Lake Helgasjön.

And mind you, I’ve dealt with below-zero temperatures on more than a few occasions.

Nothing has ever come close to the cold I had to endure, a numbing of the body so intense it even made my last breakup – which caught me so much by surprise I had just gotten out of the shower when it happened – seem enjoyable by comparison.

But I also have a weakness for not being able to say no to things. Some friends wanted to travel to Yellowstone for Spring Break, spending a week with nothing but freezing temperatures and grizzly bears. I said yes. When Girl Scouts appeared at my door last summer selling cookies, of course I bought some. And when my host family, the Nordmarks, invited me to their “summer” house for the day, I couldn’t refuse.

With the exception of trying to retrieve the head of a drill used to make holes in ice that had fallen into the lake – by ingeniously attaching a magnet on the end of a string – most of the day was going pretty normally by Swedish standards.

We were sitting in the sauna my host father Lennart had built several years earlier, losing large amounts of weight in temperatures well above 100 Celsius, when he proposed something radical: a dip into the lake. I laughed; there was no way he was serious.

But then I saw his face. He wasn’t joking. In that instant I knew this wasn’t going to end well, like my last visit to the barbershop.

Crazy as it was, I couldn’t exactly say no. I often crave attention, and this would definitely get me more than just a little of it. Plus, I didn’t want to give the impression that Americans were wimps. The hopes of a nation of over 300 million people were riding on me. It was my patriotic duty to do this. For some reason I suddenly had images of the fall of the Roman Empire.

I slipped on some flip-flops, threw on my bathrobe, and plunged into the blinding light shining through the open door and out into the subarctic air.

Lennart took the lead, sprinting to the hole we had sawed earlier in 40 centimeter-thick ice. He hopped in without missing a beat. Within seconds, he was out.

Now it was my turn. I said a silent prayer.

“You don’t have a heart problem do you?” Lennart asked through chattering teeth, breath more visible than Charlie Sheen’s alcoholism.

For perhaps the first time in human history, I actually wished I did.

I disrobed, already shivering. I threw off my flip-flops, and leaped in. I was genuinely surprised my life didn’t flash before my eyes, or think about that within a couple of seconds I might very well find out if there’s an afterlife.

The cold hit me with the equivalent force of a Lawrence Taylor sack. Blasting, penetrating, all-encompassing. “Bone-chilling” didn’t even begin to describe it.

My body was shutting down. I needed to get out faster than Pete Rose at the Four Seasons.

Summoning my last reserves of strength, I exploded out of the water. For the first time in my life I actually saw what the benefits of being on swim teams for more than 10 years were.

Almost slipping on the ice, I threw on my robe, grabbed my shoes and ran back to the sauna. If only the Guinness World Records people had been on hand.

Feeling was just beginning to return to my body after near-death encounter No. 413 of my life when Lennart walked in.

“It’s cold, isn’t it?” he said of the lake.

“Not as cold as I thought it would be,” I lied.

If Pinocchio had been in my place, his nose would have reached all the way to Norway.

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Tags: Ben Mack, blogs, culture, ice, Linnaeus University, sauna, study abroad, summer house, Sweden, The Local, United States
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Reindeer, boxes, and an Ambassador

Tuesday, February 15th, 2011

All I could see was a box.

I was sitting with United States Ambassador to Sweden Matthew Barzun at Stortorget – the Växjö residence of Kronoberg County Governor Kristina Alsér – and was staring at a large paper box in front of me.

“We’re here to think outside the box,” Barzun said to an assembled group of about 15 Swedish high school and university students, all dressed like they had been posing for a Calvin Klein campaign. The Ambassador had just stressed the need for Swedish and American businesses to think creatively, but all I could think of was the lunch sitting inside that box. I swore then and there I would never eat just a banana and Pop-Tarts for breakfast again.

With a sweep of his bear-like hands, the Ambassador indicated that it was time to eat. He also said something else, but I was too famished to notice.

Inside the box was a sandwich wrap. It didn’t look like much, but I tucked into it merrily nonetheless. I bit into it, and suddenly realized it wasn’t beef: it was reindeer. Santa Claus would have been outraged.

“We need to be open to engagement [with other countries],” said Barzun, seemingly unconcerned by the perplexed looks shared by the students. “America is an idea, and we need to keep that idea in people’s minds.”

Makes sense, I thought. Engage local populations to let them ask questions and voice their concerns about U.S. policy. The program that brought the Ambassador to Växjö on this surprisingly warm February day, dubbed the “U.S. Embassy in a Box Roadshow,” was definitely proof of that.

As I dug into a dessert of lingonberry mousse, the Ambassador fielded questions about U.S. policy and business. Much of the conversation focused on environmental responsibility and green energy, a topic that I – admittedly – knew much too little about. Fortunately, Barzun was able to offer a crash-course on the subject.

But then disaster struck. Without warning, a tall man with an earpiece walked in, apologizing for having to whisk the Ambassador away for his next engagement, a question-and-answer session at the local university. Barzun bade us farewell, and with that any hopes I had of getting more of a story disintegrated instantly. Or so I thought.

I was left with Public Affairs Officer Christopher Dunnett, an equally bearish man who – I soon found out – was more than capable of answering any and all questions.

“Stereotypes are dangerous and destructive powers,” Dunnett explained, elaborating on Barzun’s emphasis on the need for increased Swedish-American cooperation. “We need to have a more balanced economic system – namely less trade barriers – which has been a focus of President Obama and Secretary [of State Hillary] Clinton.”

Dunnett emphasized the Swedish-American Green Alliance (SAGA) – a “sustainability exchange” for Swedish and American researchers, entrepreneurs, policy makers, journalists, activists, academics, and NGOs – as evidence of increased cooperation. To date, SAGA has resulted in millions of dollars in investment in both the American and Swedish economies.

That was O.K., but I still wasn’t entirely impressed. I had to test the guy, see if he could think creatively. They wanted me to think outside the box? I was going to think outside the box.

I asked the hardest – and possibly most loaded – question I could think of:

ME: Could you comment on the differences between the American and Swedish political systems? What are some particular challenges you face as an embassy here in Sweden?

He answered almost instantly.

DUNNETT: Americans and Swedes have a fundamentally different view of the role of government. The question we have to ask is, “what’s the proper relationship between government and the citizens?”

To say I was impressed was an understatement. In that moment, I realized this guy was both smarter and cooler than I probably ever would be, even if I had paid attention in civics.

So what, dear reader, is the point of this story? Am I going somewhere with this, or have I – once again – had one too many Irish coffees?

The lesson here is that things are not always what they seem. In the span of less than 90 minutes, I met the most important government official I’d ever met in my life, saw my plans for an awesome story completely fall apart, asked questions with no real reason why, “discovered” an entirely new story, and realized that guys in suits can actually be cool. Oh, and PM & Vänner makes a pretty mean reindeer wrap.

Even when it comes in a box.

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Tags: Ben Mack, blogs, culture, food, Linnaeus University, Matthew Barzun, reindeer, study abroad, The Local, U.S. Ambassador, U.S. Embassy, United States
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Breaking down Benjamin

Monday, February 7th, 2011

PHOTO COURTESY HANS JOHANSSON - Writer's block can afflict anyone. No one knows for sure how to beat it, but ice skating sometimes helps.

I decided to give up my freedom two weeks ago, letting a friend move into my student flat here in Växjö. We spent much of the day moving all three pieces of furniture he owned. Hey, sometimes a guy needs to take his time with things. What’s the harm of missing a lecture or two? By noon both of us already had second thoughts.

Maybe Abbey thought that living with an American would mean we’d be shooting Nerf hoops before throwing a massive toga party, watching football every night, spending most of our money on nachos and popcorn, and debating the finer points of hip hop history.

Uh, nope.

So far, it’s been a lot of conversations like this:

HIM: Ben, what are you doing now?

ME: Planning my next column.

HIM: With your eyes closed?

ME: Yes.

HIM: Lying on your bed?

ME: Yes.

HIM: How long does it take to write a column?

ME: About two hours.

HIM: And you only do one a week?

ME: Yes.

HIM: What do you do with the rest of your time?

ME: Worry about those two hours.

HIM: Do you get paid?

ME: I wish.

After about an hour of that, he was going out of his mind, so I told him he could wade through my unopened emails.

HIM: Why do some of these people say they think you’re wrong?

ME: I guess they’re teaching computer skills nowadays at the mental health center.

HIM: What does this mean, “If I ever see you, run?”

ME: Uh, that’s from my jogging partner.

After a while, he called all his friends, emailed all his friends, and text-messaged all his friends – all in a language I didn’t understand a word of. It definitely wasn’t Swedish.

HIM: What are you doing now?

ME: Planning my next column.

HIM: Is it going to be about coffee?

ME: No.

HIM: Then why are you drinking?

ME: It helps me think.

HIM: Has it helped so far?

ME: No.

Nothing was coming to me, so I went for a run around the lake. I asked him to answer my phone while I was gone. When I came back, he was beaming.

HIM: Hey, a girl called.

ME: Really?!

HIM: Yeah, she said she’s busy tonight but still thinks you’re a good friend.

ME: $&@#! I mean, O.K.

He’s a lot better at math than me, so I asked if he’d like a crack at balancing my checkbook.

HIM: “Taxi to church, 150 SEK.” But you said it would take an army to drag you to church.

ME: O.K., it was the pool hall. But people were praying.

After alphabetizing my books, rearranging my refrigerated ketchup packets and trying on all my hats, he sighed and said, “What are you doing tonight?”

ME: Well, Leonardo DiCaprio is probably going to be doing the same thing I am, lying around and maybe deciding to pee sometime. And Tiger Woods will turn to his friends and say, “O.K., you stay in the parking lot, and I’ll meet you in a few hours.” And whatever Lindsay Lohan is doing, it probably involves cocaine and/or martinis.

Finally, my friend Martin came by and asked how everything was going. We both groaned.

ABBEY: I don’t think Ben is having a very good time.

MARTIN: Why?

ABBEY: He said he has something called writer’s block.

I leaped up and started typing furiously.

ABBEY: Did you get an idea?

ME: No, but I’m writing anyway.

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Tags: apartments, Ben Mack, blogs, coffee, culture, Linnaeus University, study abroad, Sweden, The Local, United States
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Amazed and confused

Tuesday, February 1st, 2011

PUBLIC DOMAIN - Despite the stereotype, Swedish women are typically not attracted to pale, skinny American guys with about as much fashion sense as a Yellow-Billed Cardinal, though Greta Garbo (left) might disagree.

Ask any expatriate, exchange student, fellow traveler, or even the guy selling newspapers in front of Wal-Mart, and they’ll all tell you the same thing: Swedish women are confusing, even more so than Chad Ochocinco’s decision to change his name to, well, Ochocinco.

And you know what? I agree. I’ve gone on a few dates here in Sweden, and every time found myself more and more perplexed. Christ, even O.J. Simpson’s police chase makes more sense.

Let’s save ourselves a lot of time here and just come out and say Swedish women are incredibly attractive. They have terrific personalities, million-dollar smiles, and are more in shape than Jon Stewart is self-indulgent. They’re well-educated, know exactly what they want in life, and usually speak with an accent that makes most men melt every time we hear it. Oh, and did I mention almost all of them look like they should be modeling somewhere? Seriously, Tyra Banks has nothing on them.

But damn, they are enigmatic. Allow me to illustrate by sharing my personal experiences.

I’ll admit I’ve always been a little nervous courting the opposite sex, probably due to watching – as God is my witness – more romantic comedies than quite possibly any other heterosexual male on earth. But I held firmly to the stereotype that Swedish women are crazy for American guys, and let my friends do the rest to inflate my ego to levels perhaps only rivaled by Muhammad Ali. I was young, I was in good shape, and I was American: when I arrived in Sweden, the ladies wouldn’t stand a chance.

But as the weeks went by, I gaped in paralyzed horror as my self-esteem was quickly ground into a semi-liquid goo. Not only did all my previously held notions turn out to be totally wrong, but it seemed the opposite was true; compared to the endless number of good-looking, well-muscled, and much better dressed Swedish guys, it seemed no woman was interested in a pale, skinny American with about as much fashion sense as a Canadian goose.

Eventually, however, I drummed up enough courage to ask a girl from one of my classes for a fika in Teleborgs Slott. We talked, laughed, and I somehow managed to pay for her – something many Swedish women, I knew, were not used to. We hung out a few more times and, in my mind, there was no way I could fail.

But then disaster struck. I asked her to dinner, assuming the answer would be an automatic “yes.” Instead, I received a text message explaining that dinner would feel “too much like a date.”

I was more confused than when I heard LeBron James was taking his talents to South Beach. Would feel too much like a date? Really? I mean, c’mon, we had coffee at a freaking castle! Apparently, I still had a lot to learn.

In one swift blow, my self-esteem returned to its liquidous state. A few weeks later, it evaporated entirely when, after getting the phone number of a girl I had warmed up to, she rejected me by flat-out saying I wasn’t her “type.” Looking back on it, I probably asked her out for the wrong reasons anyway, but if I had known what I know now I could’ve gotten a lot more sleep.

And now there’s another girl. Unlike the others, she’s the one who took the initiative of “first contact.” A hopeful sign? Perhaps. But then again, I’m pretty sure I’m not psychic.

I think she likes me, and of course I’m crazy about her. But if I’ve learned one thing from my time in Sweden so far, it’s that I don’t know anything.

So expatriates, exchange students, and tourists everywhere, I’m with you: I’m just as clueless as you are. If there’s a Confused Guys Anonymous meeting coming up soon, stop by and let me know. My flat is located right at the intersection of Main and Absurdity.

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Tags: Ben Mack, blogs, culture, dating, Linnaeus University, O.J. Simpson, relationships, study abroad, Sweden, The Local, United States
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An open letter to ferrets everywhere

Saturday, January 22nd, 2011

Before I go any further, let me say this: I’ve never issued a public apology before, so please bear with me. That being said, I would like to apologize to all ferrets everywhere.

I believe this apology requires some explanation. Back in October, I was first assaulted on campus at Linnaeus University by what I assumed to be a ferret; it looked like a ferret, walked like a ferret, and certainly smelled like one. And when I was attacked again a few weeks later, I realized that the devil had taken the form of a ferret.

But over Christmas break, I had an epiphany. It was one of my last days back in the US, and as usual my best friend and I were perusing the innumerable bookstores of Portland, Ore. with more enthusiasm than Brazilian soccer fans. I came across a book called “Animals of the Arctic,” and soon made a discovery more shocking than when I found out the Jerry Springer Show wasn’t real.

My nemesis is not a ferret. It is, in fact, an ermine, a creature indigenous to Sweden described as having “the appearance of a weasel but the temperament of a wolverine.”

Damn. I haven’t been so wrong about something since I thought Swedish Fish were actually from, well, Sweden.

So I hereby issue an apology. It’s never a good thing to make accusations without having all of the information. Calling this creature a ferret was wrong.

I’m sure I’ll probably take some flak for this, but hey, sometimes you just have to eat crow. I know if I were part of a group that had been wrongly pigeonholed publicly, I’d want the person responsible to apologize.

So ferrets worldwide, I’m sorry. Hopefully, we can learn from this incident, and usher in a new era of peaceful relations between our two species. It is my wish that we learn to trust and respect one another, and I hope that is your goal also.

As for you, ermine, I’ll say this: I know a great therapist who could help you out.

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Tags: Ben Mack, blogs, culture, ermine, ferret, Linnaeus University, study abroad, Sweden, The Local, United States
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Hide the herring

Thursday, January 13th, 2011

BENJAMIN MACK/THE LOCAL - Teleborgs Slott, the castle located on Linnaeus University's campus, glistens in the December snow.

Studded with gently sloping hills and blanketed by lush forests, Oregon is relatively fertile in comparison to the rest of the Western United States. Between the Cascade Mountains, the Pacific Ocean and countless other natural wonders, I can safely say that people from this state –“Oregonians” for the uninformed – are spoiled. There’s a city (Portland) that’s roughly the size of Gothenburg (and almost as trendy), and California is just a few hours’ drive South. Oh, and did I mention that the average winter temperature is around seven degrees Celsius? That may not sound like much, but compared to Sweden it’s downright tropical.

But my home state has problems, too. For one, despite a population of about 3.5 million, there are quite possibly more cows than people. Second, it rains so much that I’m surprised that, after 152 years of statehood, building an ark isn’t mandatory (seriously, rainfall averages more than 100 centimeters a year). And then there’s the never-ending odyssey that is my life.

Yes, I know I oftentimes have an overly dry sense of humor, as several readers have remarked in the past. And yes, I do sometimes have a tendency to exaggerate things in the same way that Rosanne Barr indulges in cake and ice cream. But when I say that I’ll be in pure, total (albeit frozen) bliss by this time next week, I mean it.

Sure, Sweden may seem to be a strange, oftentimes confusing place with a national cuisine that would make all but the least health-conscious cringe. About five months ago, I came to Växjö a lost, confused, seriously jet-lagged, and scared foreigner. I could barely speak a word of the language, and was anything but functional. The monsoon-like conditions on the first day I arrived, coupled with the overwhelming amount of information and the fact that it was my first time outside the United States, left me with quite a case of culture shock.

But as time went on, I became used to the culture and made new friends that, beyond the shadow of a doubt, helped me survive the semester. Along the way, I found myself lost in the woods, accosted by soccer hooligans, so cold it hurt to move, seriously underdressed on several occasions, stuck in an airport overnight, and assaulted by a ferret (twice).

But I’m coming back for more. Like a stubborn mule – or Brett Favre – I sometimes just don’t know when to quit.

Back in the early 20^th century, the Spanish poet Federico García Lorca wrote the following:

Black pony, large moon,

and olives in my saddlebag.

Although I know the roads,

I will never reach Córdoba.

Granted, Lorca was talking about the famed Spanish city, but really, I think it sucks to be the narrator of that poem. Why? Because I have reached Córdoba. Well, my Córdoba anyway. It’s called Växjö, and if it doesn’t mean “Heaven,” then I’m calling the dictionary people.

When you’re in love with something, you go back to it; you stay committed (as long as you don’t live in Hollywood).

So as I say goodbye to my family and friends (again), say farewell to the cats, and leave my family’s horses behind (yes, my parents live on horse property; no they do not own a John Deere tractor), I can smile and say “hello, beautiful.”

Because Växjö, I’m coming back.

Hide the herring.

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Tags: Ben Mack, blogs, culture, Linnaeus University, Oregon, study abroad, Sweden, The Local, United States
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Wanted: workable wisdom

Wednesday, January 5th, 2011

BENJAMIN MACK/THE LOCAL - Located about an hour from Portland, Oceanside, Ore. is a popular destination for tourists, known for its large sandy beaches and moderate temperatures.

I know a lot of you may already have reached this conclusion, so I’ll just go ahead and say it: I’m not exactly the smartest person to have ever lived. Rather, far from it – the fact that I barely survived pre-calculus notwithstanding.

I have made a few smart choices in my life (staying in school, keeping away from drugs, betting on Zlatan Ibrahimovic to avoid clarity in interviews like Perez Hilton does diet and exercise), which I suppose have helped me to survive up to this point. But right now I’m facing a dilemma.

I love Sweden. Too much. In fact, though I’m back on my parents’ farm until Jan. 14 – a place that technically I should call “home” – I don’t feel like I’m home. I know it’s only a little more than a week until I return to Växjö, but the wait is becoming excruciatingly painful, even more so than having my wisdom teeth removed two years ago.

Dear science: please invent a time machine. Because I want to go a few days into the future, where I’ll find myself braving minus 20-degree weather, becoming confounded by a language I have only a basic understanding of, and eating a bizarre prokaryote called “herring” regularly.

I need to cope, to find a way to pass the time until I go back, but right now that seems harder than riding a unicycle blindfolded. Even Frodo Baggins had an easier time.

Sure, my family and best friend may be here, but this whole exercise feels way too much like a vacation. It’s supposed to be the other way around, but I guess something about the land of ABBA, meatballs and blondes has penetrated my soul.

It’s said that “home is where your heart is.” And right now, my heart is in Sweden.

That being said, I think a trip to the beach is in order: when the Pacific Ocean is only an hour away, you tend to take advantage of it – if only to emphasize the vacation aspect of your current state of being.

Besides, the water in Sweden tends to be a little chilly this time of year.

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Tags: Ben Mack, blogs, culture, Linnaeus University, Oregon, Perez Hilton, study abroad, Sweden, The Local, United States, Zlatan Ibrahimovic
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