Yet another try at perfection

The new year is fast approaching and I am in a high state of planning out my perfection that I hope, as I do every year, will magically transpire at midnight. I fell short of nearly all of my 2012 resolutions, but nonetheless feel inspired to resolve once again to be more balanced, more mature, and above all else, more glamorous. So here are my goals for 2013: 

1. I resolve to regain a balance in my eating and exercising habits. Only three out of the last 12 months were spent getting fit, and this has provided prime opportunities of self-loathing. For me it’s not so much a weight issue as it is a discipline issue. It’s no secret that I love food (I blame my Italian genes), but seriously, if it’s in front of me, I eat it, regardless of whether I’m hungry or not. This would not be problematic if I exercised regularly, but too often I yield to laziness, and that’s just not acceptable. It’s time I get a grip. 

2. Last year, I resolved to learn more about three specific subjects: photography, the Italian language and wine. I did buy a nice camera and used it at a few strategic moments throughout the year, but I am no closer to having a clue about how the thing actually works. And despite the best of intentions, I ignored the Italian language as much as I ignored my workout dvd’s. The trip to Italy that was to spur my motivation didn’t happen and I let the dream die all too easily. But I have added a few Italian grammar books to my collection, so I’m hoping that the motivation, as well as the trip, will experience a resurrection. Happily, I did get halfway through my ”Wine for Dummies” book, but unhappily, I cannot remember 98% of what I read. The adjectives alone are too much to absorb: tannic, mineral, woodsy (seriously, who do winos think they are?). However, I did manage to learn that the Pacific Northwest's Yakima and Willamette Valleys produce a mean Pinot Noir, so now I can sound learned next time I find myself sitting at my favorite restaurant in Portland. (Saucebox, if you were wondering.) 

The coming year’s self-education topics are art history and the Cold War. If I could do the college thing all over again, I would probably choose a major in art history. My impatience and inattention to detail aside, I think I would have really enjoyed working in art restoration. I imagine a life spent traveling the world, restoring beautiful cathedrals, temples, palaces and paintings.... And the Cold War is a point of fascination for me mostly because I don’t know anything about it. Every history class I’ve ever taken hasn’t proceeded beyond Vietnam. It’s just one big gaping hole in my understanding of the world I live in. 

3. In an effort to subdue my own consumerism, I have vowed to not buy any new clothes for six months. This is going to be a challenge because I genuinely love clothes and experience great joy in buying new things to wear. However, I look in my closet and see so many items that I hardly ever use, and not because I don’t like them. So the other day I ransacked my wardrobe, packed about a third of it into plastic bags and gave it to Second Hand. Between January 1 and June 30 I will have to be content with what I have.  

4. Journaling is something I wish I were better at, but I am lazy. Blogging has become my new system of recording my thoughts about different things, but there are so many other things that I act upon, think about and react to on a daily basis that I never write down. And these are things I know I will appreciate reading about five years from now. To be reminded, amazed, amused and challenged. So I resolve to journal my way through 2013.

5. And finally, the part where I resolve to ”grow.” I want to be more authentic. In my head, I am bold, provocative, eloquent, and unafraid to say exactly what I mean. In reality I can be timid, lame, awkward and a bit circular in my communication in an effort to be diplomatic (which is just not a characteristic I have, so why do I insist on trying?). I don’t remember if I’ve always been this way, but I’ve definitely become this way in my efforts to adapt to varying cultural norms. My backbone has turned to cartilage. This makes me disappointed in and upset with myself, because I know that in my core, I am not that way. I can be bold, I can be provocative, I can be direct. (I’m from New York for Christ’s sake!) But I’ve been away for too long and strongly desire to find my way back to being feisty, frank, honest and straightforward. I once heard in a song the phrase ”Live in New York once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in LA once, but leave before it makes you soft.” That’s very true. So it’s no more miss nice girl from now on. I will be kind, fair and loving. But I will also be straight up, uncompromising in my conviction and unafraid to step on toes if I have to. Watch out y'all. 

So that’s how my year is going to look. Ask me in March how I’m doing.....

The Fear Factor

I was sorting through some boxes the other day when I came across a letter my dad wrote to me in 1992. He had written it from his hotel room outside Washington D.C. on one of his many trips. It was dated August 1. I didn’t receive it until 2000, on the day I left for Argentina to be an exchange student for a year. The date happened to be August 1. He had been waiting for the right moment to give it to me, and exactly eight years later the moment came. 

When I read the letter on the plane, I understood why that moment was so appropriate. I was feeling nervous and apprehensive about the year ahead of me. I had no idea then that I would experience possibly the most difficult year of my life. I didn’t know that I would live with four different families instead of one; I didn’t know that I would experience psychological oppression, verbal abuse and manipulation at the hands of my various host parents; I didn’t know that I would feel betrayed more than once by people I considered to be my friends; and I didn’t know that I would fall in love for the first time. The letter was, to say the least, timely. 

”I wish we could have had a video of what we went through with you and your newly acquired skill of swimming! You have to learn how to face new situations and learning new things. Sometimes you put up such a fight and you give way to fear.”

That summer in 1992, my mom, who is as meticulous as she is patient, taught me how to swim. I had a perfect breaststroke but I refused to swim in the deep end of the pool because I didn’t trust myself to be able to float. I had this unreasonable fear of sinking and it caused me to dig my heels in and refuse to jump. All of the other kids were having a blast around me, diving and somersaulting from the board as if it was the easiest thing, and here I was, crippled and in a foul mood. I stood there on the edge of the pool screaming at my exasperated mother who was in the water trying to get me to jump when suddenly my dad picked me up and threw me in without warning. I didn’t have time to protest or react, I just relied on my instinct and started swimming. 

”Once you were in the water we couldn’t even get you out - you were so excited about swimming in the deep end and jumping off the board!!! Something I will never forget is what you said to me after this. You said this to me from the bottom of your heart - ‘Thanks for throwing me in the pool.’ ”

This incident has since become a metaphor for my life. That pool was the first of many, and even though it wasn’t my dad who threw me in each time, there was always Someone nudging me in. I grew up in a loving and stable home and I consider myself to have been a well-adjusted child who later transitioned into a relatively peaceful adolescent. I don’t think I was insecure in the way most people interpret the word, but I was often shy and scared, especially when confronted with new things. There are lots of things I didn’t do or try out for because I was scared of being bad at them. I played it safe all through high school and college, relying on my ability to get good grades to provide me with whatever affirmation I needed.  

”You know Annika, there will be many new and scary things you will be thrown into in this life and you need to know God will never let you go under - you will always rise above as you trust in Him and don’t give in to fear.....I wanted to share this with you because I think you will benefit from this in the future.”  

My dad had no idea then how prophetic his words were. Or maybe he did. I was seven when he wrote the letter, 15 when I received it, and now at 27 I find myself crying as I read it again. The past six, seven years have pushed me out of my comfort zone time and time again and as I look back, I can’t believe all the situations I’ve thrown myself into, head-first. 

I’ve interned at an NGO in Ghana; moved to Spain; put up with all manners of ill behaved adults and dysfunctional work environments; bought a business; gone bankrupt; moved to Sweden; stepped in mid-term as a high school teacher without any experience; traveled with students by bus, train and airplane; been invited to speak at various seminars on topics I am not wholly familiar with, and the list goes on. 

So the question struck me: When did the transition from shy, scared girl to extroverted go-getter happen? There is no exact moment in time; it’s been a process. But somewhere along the line I stopped being cautious and started being impulsive. I started raising my hand and saying yes to things without thinking through, because if I did give myself time to ponder, I would yield to fear and self-doubt and back away. So far, this modus operandi has worked well for me. Once I say yes and commit to something, I’m forced to rise to the occasion, and I have yet to fall flat on my face. Instead, I’ve grown and matured, experienced tremendous things, met fantastic people, and received inspiration and vision for the future. 

The friends I have now sometimes wonder at my impulsiveness and my propensity to grow restless and pack up and move someplace new. Most of them don’t understand my reasons, but they have also never known the shy and scared version of me. They just see who I am now and are puzzled. Truthfully though, I still struggle with fear. There are still things that I am absurdly reticent about doing, and for no good reason. Things that would be no-brainers for most people. The self-confident go-getter is still very much the shy and scared girl at times, but thankfully I serve a God who is faithful to complete the good work He started. So there is hope for me yet. 

A walk down Genesee Street.

The thing about being back in central New York, where I consider whatever roots I have to be, is that I immediately feel nostalgic about everything. Utica was once a lovely city, back in its glory days, but it has been reduced to a ghetto, rife with drugs, violence and prostitution. For the first time in my memory I was told not to go out after dark. But I felt at home anyway. I don’t know if it was the fresh bagels I ate for breakfast, the homemade lasagna I ate for lunch, the (real!) pizza I ate for dinner or the rich (but not too heavy!) cannole and tiramisú from Florentine’s that I ate for dessert, but it felt like I was home again after a very long trip. 

During my stay at the hospice, I took a walk down Genesee Street with my grandpa. He’s a simple man who spent 55 years being married to a complex woman, and he’s still not one to be expressive about his feelings. But during our walk, he talked the whole time. Genesee Street is his turf, his and Gramma’s. He volunteered for many years at the food pantry just up a block, and she taught Sunday school at St. Francis, the local parish. As we walked, he pointed out all the places he used to frequent, and I remembered quite a few of them from when I was a little girl. I have fond memories of visiting him at the food pantry and helping him hand out stuffed grocery bags to the poor. It’s something I haven’t thought about in many many years, but the memories came flooding back. And I thought, gosh, my background and my heritage are so much richer than I realize. 

My dad was born into a pure-blooded Italian-American family that stems from Calabria, Italy. My ancestors emigrated to central New York state at the start of the 20th century and most of their offspring have stayed in the area since then. Within the Trunfio clan (Gramma’s maiden name was Nancy Trunfio) there is the family restaurant (started by Gramma’s brother Mike), the gangster (Gramma’s dad, who sat in jail on two separate occasions for his penchant for boot-legging, ”But,” as Gramma always made sure to point out, ”he did it for his family.”), and the eccentric aunt (Gramma’s sister, a millionaire who looks like a homeless person). I come from these people. And I think it’s wonderful. We’re eccentric and dysfunctional, and we have enough quirks to feed the script for a family sitcom (”Everybody loves Nancy” anyone?). 

I grew up as a third-culture kid. My dad is Italian-American, my mom is Swedish, and we lived in the United States until I was 22. My parents raised me on the road, so to speak. We traveled a lot and it’s now become my identity, the moving around, the traveling. I can’t conceive what it would be like to stay in one place. I haven’t lived more than three years in the same town/country since I was 16, and I love my transient life. So here comes my confession: I’ve kind of categorized my extended Italian-American family as small-town, simple folk. Like I said before, they grew up in central New York and have stayed put for three generations. But now I’m beginning to see that they stayed put so that I could roam free. They grew roots so that I could grow wings. They provided depth so that I could have breadth. That, my friend, is richness. And all this from taking a walk down Genesee Street....

Feelings, family and food.

My grandmother died a week ago today and her recent passing has set in motion a lot of different thoughts and feelings regarding family, my own cultural identity and the role of food in my grieving process. When I arrived on the scene, Gramma was already pretty out of it. She was on a steady stream of morphine and wasn’t as communicative as she had been the week before when my brother and cousins were there. The disappointment at not having a final ”moment” with her was something I had to digest, which led to an odd emotional detachment on my part during the course of my week-long stay. But I did hold her hand and sing James Taylor’s ”You can close your eyes” the night I arrived, which will have to count as our ”moment.” I didn’t notice a visible reaction from her, but I think she appreciated it. 

It’s odd to sit around and wait for someone’s death, but that’s the only thing we (me, my grandpa, aunt, uncle and dad) could do. And so we did as any Italian family would: We ate and talked and cried at uneven intervals (I must say though that the eating was done at very even intervals). Friday night was spent on the couch listening to my dad and his siblings sort through their complex relationship with their mother. The struggle between letting all of the past conflicts go and holding on to relational wounds colored our last moments with her. There are so many relational dynamics in my family that it would be impossible to enlighten the uninitiated, but one of the main themes was our inherited need to control a situation. That’s the one ALL of us have in common. Other elements were envy, worry over money, and the ever hovering catholic-protestant tension. As my uncle points out, the Reformation happened in his family and it’s something that has consistently been one of the elephants in the room ever since my dad and his siblings left the Catholic church in favor of a more ”radical” relationship with their Creator, much to the disappointment of their pious mother. 

But on the topic of elephants in the room, I have meditated a lot on how important it is to leave no unfinished business behind when you or someone you know dies. My Italian family is dysfunctional and chaotic, but their relationships are surprisingly healthy in comparison to my mom’s side of the family. The thing about Italian families is that nobody can keep their mouth shut. This is as much a pain as it is a blessing. Yes, we get mad, yell, argue and guilt trip because we find it impossible to keep our feelings to ourselves. But I’d rather have it that way. Volcanic eruptions occur on a regular basis and conflicts are  expected. But that’s okay, because when the ash cloud blows over, we’re still talking to each other. Because we love each other. And mostly because we can’t shut up. 

This is not the Swedish way. My mother comes from true nordic blood (heck, her family tree stems back to the first Viking king of Sweden, Gustav Wasa). This means of course that I grew up half and half, and this bi-polar heritage has caused somewhat of an inner conflict that I still can’t define, categorize or solve. My entire life I’ve been told that I’m Italian on the inside and Swedish on the outside.  Spending time with my dad’s side of the family only served to elevate my awareness of how emotional I am. Yet I felt detached almost the entire time I was there. I feel everything so deeply, yet I can’t put words to those feelings like my relatives can. Normally I cry at the turn of a hat, but I didn’t shed a tear all week except at the very end.

Gramma passed away exactly 30 minutes before I had to leave to catch the train and make my way back to Sweden. She had seen all of her children, she had seen all of her siblings, she had seen her best friend of 70 years. She had seen her nieces and nephews.  And she had seen her grandchildren. Hundreds of people came to her wake and funeral to pay their respects. She was a complex woman, one who incited a lot of arguments and hurt feelings, but she really did love her family, and all of us felt it. 

All of the hospice nurses remarked time and again what a wonderful family we are, but the irony is that we’ve always thought that we make the people around us miserable. So I remarked back: "We Greco’s are better together than we are apart." And that’s the truth. 

If you’re reading this, call your mother and tell her that you love her. Forgive your father for disappointing you. Forgive your brother for outshining you. Forgive your sister for criticizing you. In the light of eternity, grievances don’t matter. Relationships are the only legacy you will leave behind, so make sure they are worth every tear you’ve shed. As the Sade song goes, ”Love is stronger than pride.” 

Back from Bosnia (part 2)

Sarajevo is a city that is captivating and haunting and many other adjectives I can’t put my finger on. My first time around, I was fascinated with the city, but not as taken with it as I was with the people I met there. This time however, I fell in love. I wouldn’t say that it feels like home, but I definitely feel at home in it. There’s a plethora of charming hole-in-the-wall cafés (my favorite thing about any city) and in certain parts I feel like I’m strolling through a medieval town. But in the middle of all that, there are glaring reminders of a horrific war. A war that anyone over the age of 20 remembers and one the locals use as a ”before and after” reference point. I haven’t succeeded in learning much about the ”during” except that it’s when smoking became a national pastime. But I did succeed in getting a better grasp of what makes this place so special. And it has little to do with the cafés and everything to do with the people sitting in the cafés. 

As an American, one gets used to being verbally spat upon when traveling outside of the western world, so I usually just say I’m Swedish until I get a sense of how the person feels about the US (or until they realize my English is too good to be anything but home grown). However, when you go to Bosnia, saying that you are Swedish does not always warrant a positive reaction. Sweden played a very active role in the Balkans during and after the war, but depending on who you talk to, it’s not always remembered with generosity of spirit. Dusko Basic, a good-natured man I met back in March, works as a consultant for business and infrastructure at Novi Grad city hall, and he remarked, ”Asking Carl Bildt to fix Bosnia’s situation after the war was like assigning a 5-star Michelin chef to solve the hunger crisis in Somalia.” According to Dusko, what Bildt ended up doing in Bosnia after the war can be likened to taking Hitler out of Nazi Germany, but leaving the Nazi party to continue governing without him. When confronted with this, we Swedes tend to steer the topic of conversation to Zlatan Ibrahimovic, which usually works to lighten the mood. After all, football is almost always a happier subject of conversation than politics. But truth be told, it’s insane for an outsider to come in and create order out of that kind of chaos and expect it to work. I asked my friend Zoran what started the war, and he compared it to a marriage gone awry. The husband and wife just stopped getting along, and then the in-laws interfered which made everything worse. And then the marriage counselor tried to intervene, but how to pacify decades of resentment and hostility without a major undoing? Good luck. 

It’s amazing to me how people can still talk to each other after what has happened. Sure, it’s been nearly 20 years, but if the evident lack of remodeling of the physical structures around town is any reflection of the emotional scars that people still carry around, then I deem it a miracle. But I have never experienced war and therefore have no right to speculate. It’s just something I’ve thought about. Ironically, it’s in Sarajevo that I feel most inspired about...well....everything. The people I’ve come in contact with are truly amazing individuals and stellar examples of what it is to hope. 

Take Eldar Balta as one example. A medical student and project coordinator for Mozaik (www.mozaik.ba), Eldar is quickly becoming one of my favorite people. He’s smart, genuine, frank, and has a soft heart despite having survived communism, a war, and the not-so-smooth transition into a capitalistic democracy. He is now committed to bringing change to the dysfunctional aftermath that is Bosnia. He’s very honest about his frustrations with his own people, but I still perceive him to be unflinchingly optimistic about the future. He’s very proud of his city and loves to show it off. When asked why he is so fond of Sarajevo, he answers: ”It’s a city that allows for imagination. I can create my own world here. For example, the streets of Sarajevo transform into New York City during November’s annual Jazz Fest. It’s a city of paradoxes. The place that loves art and culture is the same place where people were killing each other just two decades ago.” He showed us the islamic burial grounds located in the middle of town where former president Alija Izetbegovic is buried along with hundreds, if not thousands of people who were killed in 1995. There was something eerie about walking through the white monument-like headstones and seeing the same year of death on all of them. Most of the buried were young too, in their 20’s and 30’s. It kind of brought me to a halt. But in the spirit of paradox, we later went to a quaint hole-in-the-wall café called The Goldfish to drink pivo (beer) and reminisce. It was like entering a cluttered attic that no one had touched in 150 years. Antique photos and relics covered every square inch of the place. Definitely a new favorite spot.

Zoran Puljic is another one I’ve come to admire. This man joined the Bosnian army at the age of 18, even though his father was a Serb and his mother a Croat. Two years and three wounds later, he fled to Germany (it took him three weeks to get there) where he lived for two and a half years before returning to Bosnia (via Spain). He is now the director of Mozaik, an incredible organization that funds and manages development projects around Bosnia (currently 279 of them!). He is über educated, travels all over the world on a regular basis, was awarded the Schwab Foundation’s Regional Social Entrepreneur of the Year in 2010 and is definitely the kind of person that I feel extremely lucky to have met, and even more so now that we have become friends. Hearing him talk about his work, I would never guess that he was once a scared soldier carrying a gun. He, like Eldar, speaks about the future with hope. He’s not afraid to dream big and he’s got a vision for his country that inspires me to think bigger about my own role in the world. I’m trying to persuade him to write a memoir, because his story is absolutely the kind I want to read. 

Danka is a petite, brusque, chain-smoking and very lovable English teacher at the Gimnazija Dobrinja (a high school) where my students just did a week-long exchange. She never married and never had kids (she has enough at school, she says) and she too has led quite an incredible life. During the 1980’s she worked as a translator in Baghdad and remembers it as being quite a beautiful city. Not the shell-shocked place it is now. I can imagine she likens Baghdad to what Sarajevo was before the war, and the place it is now. Sarajevo was once a lovely and vibrant European city if the pictures from before WWI are telling the truth. An eclectic mix of Austro-Hungarian, Moorish and Ottoman architecture, it is a city where one can find an orthodox church, a synagogue, a catholic church and a mosque within the same neighborhood. It’s enough to walk a few blocks downtown to notice the extreme religious diversity. Before the war, people of these faiths had co-existed rather peaceably for centuries. It’s tragic what war will do to people’s faith. Jonathan Swift once said, ”We have just enough religion to make us hate, and not enough to love one another.” Zoran says that he lost a lot of faith in organized religion during the war. When people start grabbing their guns, religious rhetoric gets thrown out the window and people turn into monsters. All pretty thoughts of peace and love are forgotten. I think it’s a shame that people commit such atrocities in the name of God. I often imagine Him looking down at us and sadly shaking his head as if to say, ”You guys have totally missed the point.” 

I’ve been back in Sweden for a few days now, but my head is still in Sarajevo. I was unprepared for the way it’s burrowed itself so deeply in my mind and heart. The more I see, the more I realize I don’t know anything. I don’t understand what drives us to kill each other. I don’t understand how we can recover from such moral depravity. But somehow we pick ourselves up and keep walking. The soul is resilient, but it’s also fragile. I wonder if the lack of ”cosmetic surgery” around Sarajevo isn’t so much due to lack of funding as it is an honest acknowledgement that the bullet holes on people’s hearts aren’t going away, so neither should the ones on the buildings. 

These boots were made for walking

Who am I and what do I want? Two questions I’ve been pondering lately (as a kind of precursor to that ever looming mid-life crisis...?). Anyway, the ideas I had when I was 19 are not at all the ideas I have now and I like to think that it’s because I am maturing, but I doubt it. I think it’s simply due to the fact that the more places I live and the more people I meet, the more I realize what I don’t want to be. 

In two years I turn 30. THIR-TY. And I’m already freaking out. I don’t think it’s because I’m afraid of aging (although further reflection on that subject might prove me wrong). I think it’s more of a realization that my life does not fit the model of stability I consider the age of 30 to demand. I don’t have a permanent job position, I don’t know how long I want to live in my current geographical location, and I am not in a committed relationship. I am essentially living one year at a time, which does little to create the stability that I desire and avoid simultaneously. I mean, if I really wanted to be ”stable”, I would resign myself to pursuing a teaching degree so that I could stay on at the school and job that I (currently) love. I would also settle into a more ”permanent” living situation (in other words, get rid of all the second-hand furniture I bought almost two years ago when I first moved here and invest in stuff I actually like). But every time I think about doing this, something in me vetoes the idea. As much as the uncertainty about the future irks me, the idea of settling down and living a ”normal” life is about as appealing to me as becoming a vegetarian. Just not something I want to do. 

So who am I and what do I want? The picture keeps changing, but here’s what I’ve understood so far: 

I am a big picture, give-me-the-headlines kind of girl. Details stress me out. I like simple and uncomplicated. I don’t follow trends, I don’t like clutter and I hate reading user manuals. I don’t want to own a bunch of stuff, because the more stuff you own, the more money you have to dish out on insuring the stuff you own, and I’d rather travel. The gadgets that my friends are going crazy for right now (think Apple) may make life easier on some level, but they absorb your time and mental energy in a really unsettling way and I don’t want to lose my appreciation for things like face to face communication, pen and paper, and that every elusive attention span. I can understand it’s fun to have toys, but the way I see it, those things just trick you into staying mentally in the same place. 

I like throwing things away. I scour my closet a few times a month hoping to find something I can get rid of (a habit I cultivated in my late teens, much to my parents’ despair. They couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to keep my old dance trophies...). But it’s proved very useful when moving. Less stuff to pack. I want to stay mobile. I think I’d be happy with renting an apartment for the rest of my life. The beauty of renting is that it allows for the freedom to up and leave whenever you want. And that, my friends, is what I call quality of life. As the famous French essayist, Michel de Montaigne, once wrote, ”One should always have one’s boots on and be ready to leave.” Amen I say.* 

(* I should add a sidebar here and say that I do dream about living in a spacious villa by a lake, somewhere in Italy. This would be one of very few allowable exceptions to my rule of hassle-free, scaled-down living. The house would of course be accompanied by a red Mini Cooper and a Vespa.)

I realize that on some level I’ve ruined it for myself by moving around. By not staying in the same place for more than three years, I don’t allow myself to cultivate friendships that last a lifetime. I’ve grown used to being the new girl and always feeling out of the loop. No matter how comfortable I am with the locals and the language, there will always be cultural things that I don’t get, jokes I don’t consider funny, and history between friends that I will never be able to compete with. I will also never fully be able to express what I want to say in the exact way I want to say it in any language other than English. Since I left the States five years ago, I feel like I’ve lost nuances to my personality. I used to be the girl who dished out sarcastic comments all the time and made my friends and co-workers laugh. Now I have to work really hard at being funny, and most of the time I end up being lame instead (I have had occasional moments of brilliance, but very few and far between). It’s extremely frustrating and at times disheartening, but it is one of the unfortunate side-effects to the life I’ve chosen. I just have to resign myself to the fact that I will never be intellectually stunning or have sharp presence of mind. I’ve become terribly two-dimensional, but I do have a lot of heart, which I hope makes up for the lack of all that other ”color.” 

One thing I have been thinking a lot about is the thought of having children. Although I’m open to changing my mind, right now I really can’t reconcile myself to the idea. Nothing about being pregnant, giving birth and taking care of an infant appeals to me.  Whenever my friends who have kids describe the experience, they get all ”aw” and I get all ”ew”. I literally squirm in my seat. But I am a realist, so I do understand that if and when I do get married, I will most likely want to have a family with the lucky guy. But then I prefer to adopt. As I am not a sentimental person, I don’t feel the need or desire to produce my own offspring, but I am a practical person and since there are so many children who don’t have parents who want them, why not be a little efficient with our resources? It’s a shame the process is so freaking expensive and drawn out. Maybe I should put myself on a waiting list now so that when I really am ready, like 10 years down the road, everything will be set. 

When I was 19, I dreamt of a dashing career in TV journalism. When I was 20, I realized that wasn’t what I wanted at all. I’ve had time to change my mind several times over since then and just this week I think I’ve finally defined what my life project is going to be. But I don’t want to voice the idea here until I’ve made the first move. The thing is, I want a job that allows me to travel, one that challenges my mind and emotions and makes use of my life experience. Teaching has thus far done that, but like with everything else, I don’t want to do it for long lest I get bored, grow frustrated and/or lose focus. I am a passionate person, but I have yet to find something that I am truly passionate about, something that would compel me to commit long-term. But like I said, I think I’ve got something in the works...

If you’re familiar with the story of Mary and Martha in the Bible, you’ll know that I’ve always been more the Martha type. I am a woman of action. I hate talking too much about something, because the more we talk, the more we over-analyze and complicate matters. But I do recognize that I need to improve in the area of small talk. I think I unintentionally come off as brusque and impersonal at times, simply because I lack the social graces of beating around the bush. I’d rather skip that awkward dance and get straight to the point: I don’t care about how you’re feeling right now, and no, I do not want to see pictures of your cat or hear about how cute your baby was this morning while eating his oatmeal. I just want an answer to my question. Does that sound cold to you? The truth is, I really do want to invest more time in people, actually be mentally present, and not be in such a hurry that I don’t have time to stop and chat with a friend I meet on my way to that meeting. I want to be more relaxed and live in the here and now. I’ve been so good at living in the future that I’ve forgotten to cherish the present. This is definitely an area I need to grow in, but I do think I’m getting better at it. 

So. In two years I turn 30. I guess I still have some time to get my act together. I say bring it on.  

Those who can't do, teach.

Sometimes funny things happen that make me reflect over certain aspects of my life. And recently, quite a lot of those things have spurred reflection over my as yet non-existent life partner. It occurred to me the other day that every guy I’ve dated or in some way been involved with has found the love of his life right after his relationship with me ended: 

My first boyfriend, Carlos, got back together with his ex-girlfriend about a year after he and I broke up and is now married to her and living in Madrid. And in true Argentinian fashion, she hates my guts. 

My second boyfriend, Renzo, met a charming Frenchwoman while working in Switzerland and is now married to her and living in Lima. Both of them are business people and are currently occupied with making lots of money. 

My third boyfriend, Martín, broke the news to me this week that he’s met this sweet American girl and is totally in love with her. And I mean crazy in love. I’ve never seen a guy swoon so stupidly over anyone. If her feelings for him are even a third of what his are for her, they’re headed for the altar. And soon. 

My first (and last) blind date met the girl of his dreams the week after he and I met up for coffee. He wrote to me a couple of weeks after our ”date”, more out of politeness than real interest, to see if I wanted to meet up again. When I said thanks but no thanks, he wrote back with almost euphoric relief because he had met a girl that he really clicked with and was wanting to pursue something with her but felt obligated to at least give me a second chance if I wanted it. I was all too happy to bow out. (Ironically, the girl he met turned out to be a good friend of mine who is currently studying in a town up north. She wrote to me a couple of days ago thanking me profusely for not falling for him.)

So it seems that I’ve established a pattern here, quite by accident I assure you. It would seem that I’m the girl who helps prep them for the real thing, the trampoline that helps launch them into the ocean, so to speak. I swear I’m not bitter in any way. It may sound like I’m feeling sorry for myself, but really I’m just bemused. All along I thought they were doing me the favor by letting me break up with them, but apparently I was the one doing them a favor.

The even greater irony is of course that I’m the one who is still single, while the men I found wanting have entered into the romantic bliss that is still so elusive to me. Poetic justice? Probably. Do I regret my choices? No. I still hold onto the hope that the best is yet to come. Who knows? Maybe there’s another ”trampoline girl” out there about to launch a guy in my direction. In which case, I thank her in advance. 

Back from Bosnia

It was only four days, but so much happened that I can’t quite grasp what it all means. The trip was inspiring, encouraging and, I suspect, life-defining.

At the beginning of the school year, a man from Lidköping’s municipality came to visit us at the Economics program to tell us about a project he was wanting to start in Sarajevo. It was called Enterprise Democracy and would center around the topic of social entrepreneurship. The point of this project was to help mobilize Bosnian young people to get out there and bring change to their communities. Social entrepreneurship is a phrase I’d heard before but never really reflected over. Consistent to my enthusiastically impulsive way, I raised my hand immediately to be part of this project because it sounded big and exciting. But it wasn’t until this past week that I came to understand what social entrepreneurship really is. It’s when a person identifies a problem in his/her society and creates a way to affect change. This is done by mobilizing people in the community, not necessarily by lobbying politicians. This mobilization can take the form of a small business or a non-profit organization, or even a social movement. A percentage of the profits are reinvested into the community and the larger goal is to bring about a positive social change, not just to make money. Social entrepreneurship is something that’s well-developed in both the US and UK and is starting to gain momentum in Western Europe but has not yet taken root in most developing nations, Eastern Europe included.

The purpose of this trip was to be part of a seminar that would kick-start this three-year project. Two teachers from my program were invited and I was one of them! Not because I knew so much about economics or social entrepreneurship, but because I speak English (thank God for that!). The month of February was spent feverishly putting together a Power Point presentation of how we work within our program and what our values are as educators. For example, we stressed the importance of allowing the students to take their own initiative, think creatively, and work responsibly and independently. We also emphasized the importance of having an open dialogue between students and the teacher. This way of looking at education is very normal here in Sweden, but not so normal in Bosnia.

Now on to the trip itself: I purposefully avoid having expectations when traveling to a new destination. I don’t really see the point in trying to picture what it’s going to be like since I really don’t know. But I must admit that I had some pre-existing notions of how the people would be: guarded, reserved, maybe a little stiff and skeptical (one would expect this after years of being live sniper targets). But I found quite the opposite to be true. They are warm, welcoming, service-minded, and, most surprisingly, visionary thinkers! In my very limited observation, it seems that the first thing to be rebuilt in a country that has survived war or economic depression are the buildings. Money is poured into restoration projects while the people remain mentally closed and emotionally scarred. However, in Sarajevo, the buildings look much the same as they did during the war (you can still see the bullet holes sprayed across the façades), but the people themselves have come a lot farther in the restoration process. Don’t get the wrong idea here; there are still some major issues between ethnic groups that need to be resolved, but the war didn’t succeed in quenching their spirit, their warmth, or their ability to be open, at least with outsiders.

Check out the bullet holes:

There were so many inspirational moments during this trip that I’m having a hard time picking out one in particular to use as an example, but perhaps the most exciting thing was coming to a secondary school for IT students and sitting down with some of them and hearing them talk about their ideas for promoting social change. These guys were ON FIRE! And their teacher was so encouraging and really allowing them to take up space and discuss their vision for future projects. We came to give them ideas of what to do and how to get started, but I don’t think we really contributed that much to the discussion. They were already on a roll! I did get feedback though from one of the students afterwards who, in an email, expressed how grateful he was that we came and because of our encouragement, he now felt brave enough to advocate his cause with local school officials and politicians. He had been afraid to do so before because he was afraid of failing in his effort and he didn’t really know if there were people out there who thought the same way he did. His email was like icing on the cake. Imagine being able to, with just a few simple words of encouragement, lift a person and give them hope. That’s really all these young people need: someone to stand by them and encourage them to not give up. They have the ideas and the drive to get things done. They just need someone to believe in them.

So much happened in my own heart and mind during these few days, and it’s a bit hard to put into words, but basically I was just in a continuous state of awe at how God works (it feels like I’ve spent more than a year in this continuous state, but He just keeps surprising me). It’s like he was saying to me, ”Annika, I haven’t forgotten your dreams; the dreams that I have placed in your heart. And now that you’ve surrendered your will to me and committed yourself to the task I’ve placed before you, here’s a little added blessing on the side.” In 2006, while sitting at a desk in the office of ABANTU for Developent (the NGO I interned at in Accra, Ghana), I decided that I wanted to be the Secretary General of the United Nations. Crazy, insane, unrealistic - I know. But nonetheless my dream. And since that moment, I’ve tried to steer my life in the direction I thought would get me there. But God has placed detours in my life every step of the way. And it’s been frustrating, but only because I’ve been fighting Him. Now I’m living in a small town, working as a teacher, and committed to staying in my church for however long it takes to see change. How do I reconcile my reality with my dream? I smile, shrug my shoulders and say I'm not worried about it. For He's reminded me that if I am faithful in the small things, He will entrust me with greater things. All in His time....

Waiting for Boaz (a.k.a. Hey Bo! Get yo az over here!)

When I was in my late teens, I remember feeling sad for my friends who were in their mid to late twenties and still waiting for Mr. Right to come around. These were really spirited, strong and attractive women. Why wouldn’t guys be flocking? I myself just always assumed that I’d be married by the time I was 25. I didn’t have a reason for this assumption and neither did I reflect much over the possibility of not being married by then.

But now I’m on the other side of 25 and as it happens, I’m still waiting.

You know you’re on your way to becoming a spinster with three cats when your friends, work colleagues and students try to pair you off with three different men in the span of a week. Last Friday at our teachers’ party, I noticed a guy watching me pretty intently. I didn’t think much of it until one of my colleagues drew me aside and pointed it out to me. Apparently he’s a very nice, but very shy, math and chemistry teacher from the school’s science program. She’s now encouraging me to ”bump into” him sometime, because he’s obviously not going to make the first move. Yeah....no.

Yesterday my students went a little gaga over the ”special guest” I brought to class: a guy from Canada who’s here in Lidköping for three months playing hockey with the local team. ”You guys looked so cute up there together. You should hook up. We’re rooting for you.” Aww.

And today I got a call from my friend Maria who, totally excited, said she had found the ”man of my life”. Apparently she had asked a pastor friend of hers who lives in a neighboring town if he knew of any eligible young men in search of a life partner, since she has a friend who is also in need of one. And as luck would have it, he did have someone in mind. It turns out that Maria saw him in church a couple of weeks back and her initial impression of him was that he seemed like a good, stable, in-love-with-Jesus kind of guy. As she’s telling me this on the phone, I’m thinking to myself, ”Hmm, I wonder if she’s going to tell me that she’s inviting both of us over to her place for a 'coincidental' meeting.” But instead she proceeds to ask me if I wouldn’t mind going out on a blind date with him. WHAT?? My immediate response was no. Like, omg, awkward. But then I reverted to giving a noncommittal answer because I figured I'm at a point in my life where excuses to not go out on a blind date sound thin. I told her that if he makes the first move, I might consider it. But we’ll see. I’m not convinced.

So Boaz, if you’re out there, please holler back asap, because I’d really like to get out of going on blind dates with total strangers. And just in case you are unsure of whether or not you are the Boaz I’m looking for, I’m laying out my list of requirements here. Be warned that the standard is high. Like my dad wrote to me recently, I’m a pioneer, not a settler. So here’s the list of required awesomeness:

1. You must be crazy in love with Jesus. You need to love the church and you’ve got to be firmly rooted in the Word. Period. I am not compromising on this point. If you fit this description, then you may proceed to point number two:

2. I prefer that you be multilingual. French, Spanish, Swedish and Italian are all good options. English is a must. Still with me? Good. Move on to number three:

3. You need to be mobile, willing and able to live in a country (or countries) not your own. If this is you, move on to the next point:

4. You must love the following: a. travel, b. good food, c. good music. If we don’t share these interests, I really doubt that it would work between us. Sorry.

5. You need to have a job and a vision for you life. And when I say vision, I mean big vision. Why be mediocre when you can be awesome? You serve a big God, so get with His program.

6. I want you to want to be a team with me. Much like my parents are. They’ve worked and ministered together all of their married lives, and although they are polar opposites, they complement one another well (by the grace of God, I should add). They have each other's back, and that's the way it's got to be with us. If you’re still with me, move on to the last point:

7. You’ve gotta be hot. You can call me vain and superficial all you want, but let’s not kid ourselves into thinking that looks don’t matter. You can fulfill all the aforementioned criteria, but if I’m not attracted to you, it just isn’t going to work. But don’t panic. There are a lot of types that I consider handsome, so you may have a good chance.

If you’re still there and not searching for the nearest exit, let me know you exist. Then maybe I can finally stop listening to J Lo’s ”What is love?” and feeling like I ”totally identify.” Thanks.

Home for the holidays

Words that bring nostalgic feelings about Christmas: Boston. Lasagna. Barack Obama.

So, you may think, Boston makes sense, lasagna I can understand, but Barack Obama? Let me explain.

After five years of not having seen my dad’s side of the family, I decided to invite myself over for Christmas. My head and heart were full of nostalgic feelings at the thought of spending a second Christmas in Boston. The big Italian family reunion, the New England cold, that old American something that I find so desirable yet can’t put a finger on.... My uncle and his family live in Boston while my grandparents live in upstate New York (otherwise known as God’s country, if you happen to be talking to my grandmother). I currently live in Sweden, which accounts for the five years of separation. My uncle Christopher and his wife Dorothy were gracious enough to say yes to my request, even though it meant hosting the entire family (Gramma and Grampa included). Anyone who comes from an Italian-American and/or otherwise dysfunctional family understands the full weight of this generosity. But I digress.

On to lasagna. Christmas would not be complete without Gramma’s lasagna. I grew up in a half Swedish half Italian-American home. Since it was my mother who was Swedish, the Christmas dinners at our house resembled those of her native country: crisp bread with butter and cheese, shrimp and marinated herring, meatballs and small potatoes, ham and lutfisk (which was once described by a family friend as the piece of cod that passes all understanding).* But whenever we spent Christmas with my dad’s family, there was lasagna. Turkey, stuffing and lasagna. Pusties, cannoles and lasagna. Italian sausage, meatballs and lasagna. My grandmother felt it was her personal duty to provide the partakers of Christmas dinner with lasagna. Even though there was already enough food on the table to feed all of Manhattan.

So, true to form, Gramma brought lasagna to Boston. And tomatoe pie. And pusties. And her fruitcake. The infamous fruitcake that she made every year and sent to her kids in the mail. Of course, it was almost petrified once it arrived in Portland, Oregon, where my family lived for 10 years. When my parents and I moved overseas to Europe, she gave up on sending it - a great relief to us all, especially to my dad who insisted on eating it out of guilt. He was the only one of us who would touch it.

Over this splendid dinner of lasagna and other delicacies, the inevitable topic of politics came up. My grandparents are both avid watchers of Fox news and equally avid supporters of Republican presidential candidates. My extended as well as immediate family have also historically voted Republican, but in the last election both my brother and uncle voted (gasp!) for Obama. This was of course unsettling to my grandparents who must have felt that they had failed somehow in raising their children right (pun intended). The topic was raised again when this time, my cousin Anthony, who recently turned 18, declared that he would vote for Obama in this next election. My grandfather subsequently went off on how Obama has spent so much money and been irresponsible with America’s economy, etc. His face turned red, his hands shook and his voice grew to a feverish pitch. He concluded his pleasant monologue with what became material for imitation during the rest of our time together: ”Anyone who votes for Obama is an idiot.” (If you say this in a loud voice and with an upstate New York accent, you will be getting close.) Being who he is though, my grandfather quickly cooled down to his normal temperature and was soon back to his jovial self. And after a few minutes, he was laughing at our imitations of him. My grandfather is too sweet to hold a grudge for long. My grandmother remained uncharacteristically silent during the whole speech, but then again, she has been more ”docile” since her stroke a couple of years ago....

The other topic of conversation was of course my (lacking) love life. My grandmother reminds me repeatedly that she lights a candle for me at every mass, so I was prepared for a barrage of helpful suggestions and questions over potential candidates, but I wasn’t prepared for her comment about my fabulously wide hips, ”great for giving birth”. I laugh, because I know she only says those kinds of things out of her great affection for me. But what did give me a slight twinge of despair is that she stated at one point that she’s almost given up hope that I will find someone. Once, several years ago, she told me to not be so ”damn particular” about men. I let it slide because I intend to be particular at all cost, even if it means ending up alone. But somehow that reprimand has stuck with me. Am I too particular? Or am I just aware of my own worth and unwilling to compromise on what I know would make me truly happy? I know the answer, of course, but still, it’s a question that I sometimes ponder during my weakest moments of wallowing in self-pity. But again, I digress.

All in all, the Christmas weekend spent in Boston was most definitely the highlight of my year. I got to play games with my cousins, stroll around the city, wax poetic about my desire to be wealthy, and, of course, avoid eating fruitcake.

Oh! I almost forgot the garish red satin blouse thing that I got from Grandma. She was so proud of it too. I gave her my usual cheerful and slightly louder than necessary ”Thank you, Gramma!” and silently vowed to leave the blouse for Dorothy to take to Goodwill. (She later informed me that they had tried to give the blouse away as a white elephant gift, but nobody wanted it.)

*This is funny if you are familiar with the Bible verse that says ”the peace of God that passes all understanding.”