Thai Basil Pesto / It Didn't Grow Legs & Walk Away
Well, seems I caught some sort of Viking Virus in Iceland. I am just now feeling like a human again. I tried to write before and it looked like a drunk toddler got ahold of my computer so I thought it best to take a short break from the blog to become a coherent human being again.
———
To continue my first adventures in the great Nordic world (see last post,) we get to my arrival in Sweden. Being young I had made the decision to dress cute instead of comfortable for the flight. One beautiful part of getting older is knowing that no man is worth eight hours on a plane with only a sundress and strappy sandals to depend on for comfort. Now if a man expects me off a plane in anything else but stretched out yoga pants and well worn Adidas, he should probably just stay at home. Instead of being cute I looked like the before pictures in the Calgon commercials. I exited the plane in a wrinkled dress with various stains sprinkled across it and to cap off my “too cute for Sweden look,” my strappy sandaled feet now looked like someone had wrapped dental floss around a freshly risen pound of dough. I tried to save what I could in the tuna can size bathroom but I knew in my heart of hearts it was a lost cause.
All I wanted was a cocktail and decent food. The boyfriend became third on my list of requirements. Our reunion made and my money exchanged we head to a local cafe. My first stop in Sweden was a local restaurant, which unbeknownst to me was the first in many steps to the slow destruction of my relationship and proof that my lucky star had long been fading and listing to the left. I saddled up to the bar, cocktail in hand, I finally started to feel like a human again. As the drinks and conversation flowed I became friends my fellow patrons and the owner.
It was like I hadn’t left home. And just like home I should have learned to be aware of my surroundings. Properly fed and sedated I reached down for my purse but all I found was a sad empty hook where my purse once called home. Yup! You guessed it - second dummy purse stolen in two days. I, of course, initially panicked and started rooting around the floor on hands and knees. Seems an American crawling on the floor mumbling, “"Oh no, Oh No” to herself will garner some attention. As what seems to be the entire restaurant including the owner circle around me it becomes very apparent that this is no mistake and I have officially been robbed, again.
What was strange is how I accepted my fate but the Swedish were just not having it. They couldn’t believe that someone had been stolen from. What was the norm in New Orleans was definitely not normal in Sweden. Even when the police officer showed up he seemed to be in disbelief. He kept asking me if I was sure. Also, the Swedish police seem to have the same lack of sense of humor as New Orleans officers - so at least there is some commonality. My joke, “I don’t think it grew legs and walked away” was not greeted with a smile but more of an aggravated sneer reaction. In this alternate world everybody apologized profusely, the owner, the officer and the fellow guests just kept telling me how sorry the were, like it was their fault. It was like they as a country were ashamed of this negative behavior. This was a first for me, people I barely knew trying to make up for a stranger’s crime. Once the all the buzz had died down and there was nothing left to be done but head home, I noticed him…
(To be continued)
