Because flights are never easy things for us to manage, this trip began with a bang. It's a truth universally acknowledged: J usually plans our trips so that we arrive at the airport with moments to spare. Each time we've flown out of Frankfurt-Hahn, we've found ourselves pulling into the parking lot just as the free shuttle is pulling away from the curb. This time was no different except that missing that shuttle caused us to check-in after the baggage train had left. Translation: we couldn't check our bags. Panicking because my bag was filled with perfume, shampoos, lotions, and face creams, J tries to placate me by telling me he'll put my belongings that fall in the over three ounces category in a storage locker. Except that the lockers expire after 24 hours. Instead, he BURIES my things in the snow by the lockers. I begin telling myself, "It's okay, we could have missed the plane. I can replace my things but we can't be late to pick-up the car. Except that now my face will be dry because my moisturizer is buried in the snow. My hair will be frizzy because my styling cream is buried in the snow. And I will have scaly, alligator skin because we're flying to frigid Sweden and my lotion is buried in the snow. I'm going to look a hot mess. And I'm going to stink because my perfume is buried in the snow." An airline employee came to pull us through security and onto the plane where we're greeted by stony-faced passengers who've been forced to wait on us while my husband was burying cosmetics the way a dog buries its bones.
*Upon our return, we found my cosmetics bagged, untouched, where J had buried it. It was no worse for the wear.
Because we boarded late, there were not five seats together which forced us to split up. I sat with Littlest who talked the entire flight. The French lady with whom we sat was highly entertained; my ears were bleeding. Littlest also noted that the emergency landing scenarios were posted on the back of the head rests and had many questions. Our conversation pertaining to the emergency slide went along these lines:
L: Mama, why is there a picture of a bouncy slide?
M: In case we have to land suddenly where no one has the special stairs on wheels, we'll slide down the slide to the ground.
L: Why is there a "no" sign on earrings, glasses and shoes?
M: Maybe the flight attendants worry that earrings, glasses and high-heeled shoes could pop the slide.
L: So, you're just supposed to leave your jewelry and shoes on the plane?
M: Sweet pea, if there was emergency where you had to use a slide to get to the ground, I'm not sure you'd really care about your jewelry and shoes.
L: Yes I would! You know what I'd do, Mama? I'd go to the edge of the slide and throw my jewelry and shoes to the ground and then slide down. I'm not leaving my shoes and jewelry on a plane to burn up!
This girl will be high maintenance.
Once we arrived in Sweden, we were met by a limo sent for us by Volvo. Not limo in the prom sense, but limo in the Swagger Wagon sense. We arrived at the factory and were promptly met by Diana, a Swede schooled in English by a Kentucky native. Apparently, southern twang cancels out Swedish and results in Midwestern newscaster speech! Lief then greeted us, reviewed our paperwork and introduced to our car, Sven. Though we're fond of our BMW, Dieter, Sven is a snow beast and we love him!
After meeting Sven, Volvo treated us to a wonderful lunch (the kids loved the Swedish meatballs and lingonberries). With full stomachs, we boarded a tram and were given a tour of the factory. Log was mesmerized by the machines/robots who do quite a bit of the work.
We spent the remainder of the day in Sweden visiting the local Christmas market. Unlike the German markets, the Swedes like to hold their markets in amusement parks and encourage you to gamble on Wheel of Fortune spin-the-wheel type games where you could walk away with a 20 pound Toblerone. We didn't gamble, but we did plant ourselves in front of every fire pit that we came across!
The upshot to markets in Sweden is that you can gorge yourself on grogg, reindeer and pickled herring.
You can also look at the 5 million lights reported to be strung round the market.
And you can eat jam. Lots and lots of the most palatable cherry jam whose taste isn't diminished by the white gelatinous blob that your husband shoves in your mouth. In fact, the delectable jam makes it possible for you to swallow said blob even after the Swedish man tells you it's made from the first milk a cow gives after birthing. Normally, my knee-jerk reaction to that kind of information is gagging, but the jam was just that good.
Because if it hadn't been, I could've always gorged on a hot dog covered in mounds of mashed potatoes to settle my tummy :) I was also amused by #5; in all my time in France, I've NEVER seen such a thing! J thinks it was an obvious kind of slander.
Sweden was fun. Sweden was cold. Swedes were nice. Our Swedish car was filled with jam and pickled herring. Next time we travel to Scandinavia, I'll be sure it's in the summer time!
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