Byline of Today: Saying Yes to the Dress
Alright, before you say it, yes I know, 5 comes after 1. So that means there are four days in sequential order that I am missing. (I did catch four flights and two bus rides in two days if that counts as an explanation of some kind. . . a lame explanation though, I know. . .) Thank you in advance for your patience as I post these live logs, there are kinks to logistics I am working out that I hope smooth themselves out.
So I’ll post ASAP in order to keep up with the back log, while also posting what’s current as the countdown for Midsommar begins. For photos and video footage, follow me on Facebook, or on Instagram under my handle of theroadstaken23 for more.
Until Midsommar: Two days and counting ahhhh.
But first. . .the tea.
. . .
2:04pm – Wednesday June 21
Ah, the joys of unfettered, wanderlusting travel. But for those both lucky and seasoned enough to have crossed multiple country borders, crossing time zones comes with it. And with that, the inevitable jetlag is sure to follow.
The term is from the condition concerning interrupted circadian rhythm, which is influenced by exposure to the sun. Similarly, animal coats grow and shed corresponding to their exposure to light. Which is why if horse trainers don’t want their thoroughbreds to grow thick coats for aesthetic purposes, they keep them stabled with certain lights to manipulate its natural occurrence.
Which is also why I was up in the middle of the night, unable to sleep.
It is here the story of Day 5 truly begins.
But first, you must know: before Sandro Cavazza, Joshua Jackson has been and will forever be my original celebrity crush. What started in grade school adoring team captain Charlie Conway of The Mighty Ducks became Pacey Witter of Dawson’s Creek. Peter Bishop of Fringe followed, and it didn’t help that even in one of my favorite movies of all time (see my previous movie review of “One Day with One Week”) he is the titular role. Which is why I know he is married to Jodie Turner-Smith, and happily so at that, based on the stories they share with each other in interviews. But more than that, you can tell by how they look at each other in public, or touch each other’s hands or hair when you can tell it’s automatic. Which is why I have a photo of them on my laptop photo under the title “couple goals.” He has said on more than one occasion that they both experienced love at first sight, took each other home, and the rest as they say is history.
This is the long way of explaining why there is a photo of them on my desktop, which was randomly chosen as the background as per my laptop settings of randomizing background photos.
You must be wondering – This is a travel blog, right? About going to amazing places and meeting amazing people and seeing amazing sights. But part of it is, and always will be, at the end of the day, no matter if you travel with one or one hundred other people, at the end of the day, you still always have the companionship of you and you alone. Traveling brings that realization to the surface like no other. I know that by having peace with myself, I have solace indeed.
I promise this ties in. But first, back to the hostel: I woke up in my six mixed dormitory bed, unable to fall back asleep. Because I didn’t want to scramble in the dark for my phone, I grabbed my laptop case and made for the common room. The hostel, City Backpackers, is a famous one, garnering rave reviews online for its vintage chic aesthetic, plentiful labyrinthine common rooms, and cleanliness. And I have to agree to all of them, especially the labyrinthine one – you can tell who’s newly arrived because, judging by their confused expressions, they never seem to know where the hell they are.
It was 5:05am, according to the clock in the hallway. (If you’ve read the initial post explaining these logs, that should sound familiar. . .) I was in the flow state writing and finally figuring my itinerary for Midsommar (more on that later). Four hours had easily slipped away, as belied by my laptop clock reading 9:00am. So I made my way to the kitchen, ready to start breakfast and get a head start of getting dressed.
It was here toasting bread that fellow hostel-dweller Andrew found me. He carried the standard large pack and a backpack. Brushing his teeth near the kitchen sink, I correctly deduced he was on his way out.
“Would you like some toast? For the road?” I offered, nodding to the bread and cheese before me. I was spreading copious amounts of lingonberry jam on the ham because, let’s face it, the Swedes were on to something with that stuff. No wonder IKEA drives such a crowd to its meatball-phile masses.
He politely declined. He was on his way to Malmo having just been around Finland and then Sweden. We chatted about where we were from, which we could tell from our identical accents we were both from the States.
“What are you doing up?” he asked, adding to the friendly chat.
“Couldn’t sleep. Jetlag,” I explained, adding I was from Utah.
“That makes sense.”
I asked him what he meant. Because remember folks, I may live in Utah, but I grew up all over. That of course I kept to myself, curious as to his response.
“My brother knows people from Utah, and they’re pretty upbeat, too. Because how the hell else could you seem so happy so early in the morning.”
That got me to chuckle. “I mean, it’s only what, 9:30am? I woke up at 5:00, but that’s not too nuts considering.” I wasn’t surprised the kitchen or adjoining common rooms were empty; hostel-dwellers are notorious for going out and thus waking late.
Andrew blinked. “Um, it’s 5:00am right now. That means you’ve been up since 1:00.”
I swear he could hear my train of thought come screeching to a halt. I backtracked in my head. No, the clock in the hall added up with my laptop time signature, which couldn’t have been wrong. . .yeah. About that. When I was done, I checked the hall clock, still reading 5:00am. And my laptop? Still on Utah time. So it was indeed 9:30. In the pm. And me, in my jetlag-addled brain, hadn’t noticed the discrepancy. I did, however, notice the irony in the hall and laptop clocks both reading the same erroneous time when I first checked them both by chance.
I bid farewell to Andrew, on his way to do research and get reimbursed in his travels by some mysterious grant from a professor benefactor back home in Iowa. He seemed embarrassed to explain more about it, but I for one would love a mysterious benefactor to reimburse my travels with perpetual grant funds. But I’m also embarrassed by my nose so to each his own, I suppose.
That was a roundabout way of introducing how I began my actual day, six hours later after a nap: contemplating Joshua Jackson’s photo of he and his wife, and consequently love at first sight. Now, if you were to ask if I’d experienced love at first sight for someone, the answer would be a something between a chortle and suppressed giggle. Followed by a resounding No. Attraction at first sight? Of course. Despisement? Less often, but also yes. But that can’t eat, can’t sleep, true love, knock it outta the park, world series kinda stuff?
Nope.
Now, if you were to ask me the same question about a dress. . .well, that’s a whole ‘nother ballgame. Before leaving Utah, I rushed over to the Walmart on University Parkway, the one not too far away from the Orem station. I needed a memory card for a camera, one I was unwilling to scour Stockholm for it, especially without the convenience of a Walmart. (Say what you want about the franchise, but heck if it doesn’t consolidate so many disparate things in one easy-to-find store location.) Passing through the clothing section, I saw it: a white dress with little blue flowers. I checked the tag – on sale for $9. I snatched it up, the solution for what to wear on Midsommar Eve now solved.
There’s a part in the novel Ellen Foster that has come to mind at such times. Ellen was a girl who had to look out for herself, using her resourcefulness and determination to get by in difficult family situations. There are perhaps more moments that serve as a dramatic climax in her perilous journey, but to me, the pivotal moment occurs at an unassuming clothing store: used to scraping by, she was one for practicality. But in the store a dress caught her eye, and she knew, she just knew her luck was changing, and that dress? It was just her size, and on sale, like it was waiting for her. It was the kind of sign she could recognize, a practical one, and it was there to let her know that whatever happened, it was all gonna work out alright.
I am worried about money. So is Ana. So are all who work and provide and do it all again the next day. But I have to believe I won’t have to save and scrape in order to experience the world one week or month at a time only when my employer says I can. I have to believe my fate can be changed. And that there is something out there that favors the bold in asking new questions of the status quo.
I’ll write more about Day 1 and Fate, but for now I’ll say this: The Bible talks about signs. About signs proven after you believe, after the fiery trial of faith. And I believe that’s true.
And yet.
I believe signs are also a bit like breadcrumbs. Letting us know we’re going the right way or not give up, encouraging us is simple or practical images we understand. Some post on Instagram, a line from a book, or piece of visual art that moves me – it’s all connected. That white and blue floral dress? I believe it was a sign. That Midsommar has been waiting for me, and that dress has been, too. That despite my anxieties of finances and the unknown, despite what others say is foolish, there has to be a way to live and travel and to continue to live fulfilled in that way. And I know I’m no the only one – so many I have met in airports or in hostels feel the same way. That’s why we seek our sanctuary on the Open Road – to us who do not belong in traditional ways, it offers solace, possibility, freedom, even understanding.
. . .
This morning was a rush. I woke up for real at 11:00am. Hostels like unto hotels have checkout times, and while I was booked at City Backpackers for another night, it was in another room. Which meant I was an hour late to vacating my bed so another could check in.
I gathered my pack and crap, running downstairs to empty my section of the fridge. If I had stopped and thought about it, I would have realized the fridge stuff just needed to be relocated to its adjacent fridge, but that’s neither here nor there.
I was bedless, yes, though not exactly homeless: I could have stayed in the hostel, but this is summer in Stockholm we’re talking about – the sun was shining, and the ambient noise from the busy boulevards was inviting. The screech of seagulls can be heard from the nearby river, and a humid though cooling salty breeze wafts in from the waterfront. Maybe it’s the Swedes’ commitment to recycling and environmental protection, because the waterways don’t have that fishy stale stench I associate with certain spots of Virginia Beach, even worse at Utah Lake. (The Salt Lake Basin is another stench entirely from which it emits the very brimstone of hell itself, but that’s another thing entirely. . .)
For lack of a better activity, and to get my day going, I set out with my computer bag, scouting for a place to write while taking in the fresh air. I was in gym pants and a souvenir Calgary black long sleeve shirt, jandals on feet, no makeup and hair in a messy bun. I wasn’t looking to impress anyone; I was looking to find a spot to write and work.
Remember how I love Walmart? The People of Walmart memes are memes for reasons, mind you. One is not being expected to dress up in order to shop or go outside. A friend of mine years ago noted in her travels to Paris that she didn’t dare go outside without being fully dressed.
“Because that’s how it is,” she replied. It took me until today to fully understand what she meant.
In the travel autobiography Eat, Pray, Love, the author Elizabeth Gilbert talks about words describing cities. I think of the places I go in terms of aesthetics or dogs. There are usually patterns to how people look, what they wear, and dogs they favor, all as a cultural conglomerate of a people. For example, in Morocco, I noticed men either wore jeans with plain-colored T-shirts, or jeans with sweaters and button-down shirts underneath. In Utah, right now baggy pants and baggy T-shirts ticked in the front are all the rage. On the streets of Stockholm, it’s dresses and straight-cut loose slacks with tank top and rectangular sunglasses. A lot of whites and natural tans in the pants, the dresses floral and short. White sneakers are everywhere, though white sneakers have been and are “in” in a lot of places that I’ve seen everywhere. The Swedish men spirt business slacks, button-down shirts and jackets, and crisp and clean-cut. In short, the streets of the shopping blocks and even just around the city in general, are filled with well-dressed models.
. . .The there’s me.
I’m not a willowy model. I’m a curvy short girl who likes good food a little too much. I do not think I am romantic, sexy, alluring, or attractive most of the time anyway, but especially backpacking. Then I’m sporting jandals and a messy bun, practical shirts and plain sweatpants.
I caught myself reflected in the glass outside a store. Did I go outside looking like I just rolled out of bed 90% of the day? Likely. Did I also look and feel a little homeless? More than likely. I’m in a beautiful city with beautiful people, and I am not one of them, I thought. And I’m not one of them, I’m not Swedish, but I’m certainly not beautiful, I’m ugly.
This is a real thought I had, and whether not it is true who knows, but I have struggled with positive body image my whole life, and who knows, maybe always will. Maybe it’s because I have never really looked like anyone else and always have this sense of not belonging, aesthetically or otherwise.
To a large extent, I don’t care what others think. As a religious person who attends an unpopular Christian church, if you care what others think of you, it leaves little room for you to have an opinion of yourself. And if I don’t care about myself, and what I think of myself, I can’t rely on anyone else to either.
It was somewhere in those thoughts that I saw the sign.
Like, I mean a literal sign, as in a sign for a shop. SALT, it read. Outside were dresses swaying in the breeze, the Kelly green bright in the sun. I hesitated. Remembering how I had carefully scrimped and saved, and hadn’t even made it to Midsommar’s Eve. I had yet to book a place to stay, and had sacrificed a place to stay Sunday night in order to make up for a reservation at the Veranda restaurant. So maybe I shouldn’t be shopping.
. . .But the dresses. They looked so light and airy, and the black on black I was wearing was great for Calgary, not so much for a seaside summer.
It was a man on the street who cemented my decision to step inside. Some rando behind me was talking to either his friend or on a phone.
“Salt,” he repeated to his friend. “It’s American for,” and past that I didn’t catch it. But funny he should read the name as soon as I had.
I stepped inside. One try couldn’t hurt.
Where on a Swede the dress would have been a mini, it was a midi on me. Where their busts would have been covered, mine showed through just a bit, but in a tasteful amount, resting on my waist quite nicely. While not a Kelly green, the softer mint green with white polka dots was playful and fun without being too loud or busy. It was just right.
And it was there. Just waiting for me.
You can guess where that lead. I bought the dress. Then shaved my legs. Then did my makeup. Then went out, got some shiz done, and felt happy doing it. I belonged in that city. My future was tenable and reachable, and maybe even true love and couple goals could be a reality for even someone as little and ugly as me. And that attitude change wasn’t even wholly external. But it was through the external thst caused a shift that was internal, and that made all the difference.
The dress had its desired effect. Within ten seconds of stepping onto the street, I spied a gentleman on the sidewalk nearby. He was speaking on the phone stop and gawk. He stared for a moment, up until the person on the phone with him had to repeat what they were saying, with the gentleman doing that universal thing of being like, “Sorry I couldn’t hear you, could you say that one more time?”
It was a nice feeling.
Maybe I do belong here, after all. And maybe the here is in my own skin.
. . .
3:09am
I checked the time – it’s actually correct this time around.
I just came back from the kitchen to make a working snack – toast with cheese and ham with lingonberry jam on top, oh my gosh, it will never get old – and ten sets of eyes met me on the way in. A group of hostel-dwellers were playing games earlier. At dinnertime when I was messenger video chatting with Ana, I had passed that same group of guys chatting in the game room. When I entered they quieted, continuing their conversation once I left. They were laughing about how they had posted about meeting up with people on the Hostelworld app, and nobody responded but other dudes.
Hostels might as well be their own dating service. Every encounter isn’t just a friendly greeting – it’s an opportunity to scope out a live profile Tinder swipe. With a constant influx of new occupants, there’s the allure of foreign girls of every flavor. That, combined with the no-strings-attached-vacation-station mindset, really anything is game.
Yet even guys know that a group of guys is a drag, and off-putting even to them. In the kitchen I overheard what must have been the leader of the pack approach some girls.
“. . .this group of degenerates is recruiting more, so you can come to drinks with us, too. . .”
Sure enough, at 3:00am there they all were, fast food bags in hand. There actually were a few girls with them, and it seems like they all had a fun night out. Whether or not one of them will get lucky? Well, that’s not for me to say, but I think all the girls actually went to sleep. For tonight, at least.
Which leaves me. This girl is still wide awake for now, and may sit out in the brightening courtyard. I’m really waiting for my Insta photos to load so I can photo dump more from the past few days, so stay tuned.
. . .
If you want someone to tell you no, do not come to me. I’m the friend that will tell you to buy the thing you’ve been wanting, to see the concert, or say yes to the dress on the rack you’ve been eyeing.
Let this be given with caution and wisdom. My father bought a boat. We did not live near the water. We hardly used that thing, and it became a heated point in my parents’ marriage, as well as a financial burden when it didn’t have to be. So let it be known I’m neither condoning nor encouraging gambling, debt, or anything that would be detrimental to your or others’ existence. If it’s causing suffering, that’s not what I mean. If it adds to your education and experience, if it is an investment to your soul, then it is worthwhile. And something’s value and worth means a sacrifice, or a cost. Sometimes it’s not money you pay with.
There’s a balance in everything: emotionally, romantically, etc, but also financially. While some freely spend and reap the regrets later, some save and refuse to spend because they can’t afford it. As one who is in a constant state of near-poverty, I absolutely understand that. It has been my goa to graduate debt-free, and I did. I have an untouched credit card just in case – and honestly, I’m more than expecting to dig in to that puppy come August. Definitely not looking forward to it.
And yet. I am happy. I have enough, more than enough to make me smile and rejoice. And those things aren’t necessarily monetary, like appreciating bird songs, or babysitting my nephew.
And it’s nearing 6:30am, so I’ll draw these amblings to a close, because now even I’m losing track of what I mean to say.
But it comes to this:
It’s a balance. There is wisdom in withholding, and wisdom in spending. A season for everything, as the Bible recommends. If I hadn’t bought a concert ticket, I never would have the memories of seeing Sandro Cavazza perform his last concert as an performing artist. People, places, things – they are all transient. They do not last. So enjoy them while you can. Even the things money can buy. To take care of yourself. To build your own confidence so you can be and say and do the most mazing things in the world.
Say yes to your ever lovin’ dress. Whatever that dress, for you, and for your own self-love, may be.
Highlights of Today:
-Bought me a bang-a-rang summer dress. Figured I could buy it if I ate what supplies I had in my fridge. That, and skipping lodging for a night and maybe sleeping outside Midsommar Eve to kind of balance out the checkbook, ya know. . .
-Extolled the virtues of T-Mobile great international service to some cute Australian boys.
-Met a mother and daughter about to hike the Kungsleden trail on Northern Sweden, ending up in the arctic circle.
-Googled a discount store that’s the Swedish equivalent of Big Lots or Ross. Found neat stuff like Coca-Cola paraphernalia, as well as canned meatballs.
-I was re-orienting myself to directions on my phone when a guy on the street corner got my attention. He asked if I could sign a petition for environmental concerns, switching to perfect English to accommodate my perplexed expression. He started off his petition spiel with such enthusiasm, and I could see it die right there on his face. I could see the gears in his head a-turning when he trailed off mid-sentence and was like “. . .but you need to be a Swedish citizen. . .” as he voiced his thoughts out loud. He could tell from my accent I wasn’t from around here. “I’m not a citizen here, but I would sign your petition if I could,” I added brightly, before walking away from his devastated wake.
Meals today:
-Scarfed half a can of leftover canned goulash in the fridge whilst rushing in the checkout panic
–Godis (mixed candy weighed and bought in bulk, can be found it most f not all grocery stores)
-One godis was the exact size and shape of human dentures. Cute, but also, highly disturbing.
–Kottbullar aka meatballs for dinner, mixed in canned soup. It’s not a Swedish meal if meatballs aren’t present somewhere.
-A can of sparkling pomegranate water.
-Did not taste like pomegranate. But still good.
-snacking on a Marabou bar of drom krisp. Dunno what exactly it is, but it is blessed delicious.
Goals Tomorrow:
-Meet up with Andy. Sam is a many-splendored queen, and one of them of the aspects of her many kingdoms is that of networking. I’m going to fika with one of her American Stockholm friends. (Fika is a term for coffee break. It is a culturally accepted thing to take a coffee creak, get a snack, and meet up to chat with friends or family.)
-Obtain items for Midsommar Eve feast. And by feast, I mean items I can make and take in a plastic bin and then sneak into Skansen in order to save money and avoid lines on my own picnic I bought a candle and lighter along with plastic crystal plate and goblet to add some ghetto pizzazz.
-Scout for flowers for my flower crown. This broke b**** could pay for flowers from shops. . .or I could gather wildflowers I find in country pastures. This is, of course, a city we’re talking about. . .but if I gather my rosebuds while I may in the early dawn, maybe nobody will notice I borrowed some flowers from public street planters. . .
Current Location:
-City Backpackers Hostel, downtown Stockholm, Sweden