My First...

My First Gay Kiss?

       

        I go to a really fun dance class on Wednesday nights, Wet Wednesdays, and will sometimes find myself at Bar Stella afterwords for a well deserved drink. This particular night, a couple of months ago now, I couldn't get the bartender's attention, even in the skimpy top I was wearing, so I suppose I bitched about it a bit. Out loud. Because let's face it, there's nothing more surprising and frustrating than being a blonde in a low cut top and not get what you want. 

        A charming young gentleman leaned in and explained that the bartender was gay and offered to help me out. He winked, got some attention and shortly thereafter, I had my beverage. Not surprising, I quickly became best friends with my knight in shining armor, who was adorable, outrageously entertaining, in his early twenties, and also gay. 

        When you're single at a bar, everything is always about sex, and I guess I don't usually mind but this was a nice change. He didn't want to have sex with me and I didn't want to have sex with him. So the pressure was off, and I wasn't afraid to throw the harsh verbal punches I've been told not to throw men, (because it's not feminine or enticing). So it was a night of harsh jargon and hilarious banter and at the end of the night, we exchanged phone numbers so we could hang out again. 

        We texted a lot and I got excited everytime he texted me because he was so funny and so was I. I was with my friend Maya one day when I got a text from him, and as I beamed while writing a witty response, she rolled her eyes at me, and said something like, "you know he's not gay, right?" Her argument was that no single gay man in their right mind would spend their day texting me or asking me to have drinks. I was so offended. "Well, why not? I'm fun. I can be a great friend to someone gay." Maya said, "Mmm-hmm," and shook her head. 

        A week or so later, we met for drinks, this time at Covell, which is my "home" bar for a myriad of reasons. The cool design gives it a great vibe without being too hipster, the staff is super attractive and doesn't make you feel stupid about wine. Of course, the most important reason, (no, not the wine) is that it's exactly two blocks from my place, which makes things way easier when you are are a light weight. 

Did I mention he was blonde too?

        It was another great night with my new gay BFF. We got to know each other better, and the witty banter was there right away. I made fun of him for ordering the "tulip beer" from the board (that's the glass some beers are served in) and he made fun of me for something, which I can't remember, but I laughed like a hyena because it was funny and also because I was on my second glass of wine. Did I mention one and a half is my hard limit?

        He walked me home and after we talked about seeing each other again, he gave me a hug and kissed me on the lips like a good gay BFF. Then he stuck his tongue in my mouth. It took me a beat to figure out what was happening. My drunken mind couldn't compute, and started to throw random thoughts at me. "What?"  "Wait!"  "Is he or isn't he?" "Could he be gay AND be French kissing me right now?" "Did I make up the whole gay thing?" And then of course,  "What do I do right now?"

        I opted to not pull away like a scared animal, because that would be rude, but to swiftly finish what he had started, and a bit more gracefully, if I may say so. Then I walked into my apartment and started laughing. Not at him, but at the situation because I suppose this is what happens when you decide something about someone, which may or may not be true. I laughed at myself and how completely checked out I am sometimes. 

         In hindsight, there were signs, other than Maya's opinion, and I suppose I was about as oblivious and clueless to those as I am when straight men are hitting on me. Which I guess is what this really was. Or was it? 

        I guess I should have known when he talked about watching "the game" and drinking beer every Sunday, although I know gay guys who do that. I guess I should have known when we played "Fuck, kill or marry," and he looked completely flabbergasted when I pointed to Shaughn the bartender, and two male patrons to choose from. I guess I should have known when Ellen, another bartender, whispered "You're on a date, right?" as he went to the bathroom. 

       In my defense I was pretty drunk. So drunk that when I woke up the next day I discovered that the "wrap" I had carried home was in fact not my wrap, but one of Covell's cloth napkins. A wrap for really tiny people. Thinking back and trying to remember the things he did say that made him gay to me, I can't think of a single thing, other than he got the bartender's attention at Bar Stella that night. Which doesn't really make him gay at all. I guess I just had a blonde moment that lasted for a couple of weeks... 

My First Hangover

        We had been planning it for almost a week. The getting drunk part, not the hangover. I don't even think I knew what a hangover was, but supposedly getting drunk was fun so that's what we were going for. I'm not sure exactly who was in and who was out, but I was around 15 or so, which means the girls were most likely one or more of the stellar group of girls I hung out with in junior high school - Tessan, Lulle, Missan, Åsa BT, Tendai and Åsa Karlsson.

Missan and her brother

        Tessan was the super happy one, who loved to sing and dance, Lulle was more advanced than any of us and already smoked and had boyfriends, Missan was who I was the closest with, as we ended up in the same class in both junior high school and high school. Åsa BT and Tendai were inseparable and Åsa Karlsson lived in the row of houses right behind me. 

        There was a dance at the school's after hours youth center, which I think was called "Ringen," ("The Ring") and I had already gotten into an argument with my parents over what bus to take home. The dance was over at midnight, so naturally I wanted to take the 12:20am bus, so I could be there for when the lights went up, and walk to the bus stop with everyone else that lived where I lived. My parents insisted on the 11:50pm bus, which would have me miss the end-of-night excitment, having to leave the dance early. The issue was resolved when I sneakily obtained permission to sleep over at Missan's, who of course had a much later curfew. 

"Witch Mix"

        My parents had a cabinet well stocked with alcohol at all times, which was perfect as the most popular - and clearly most idiotic - beverage at this time was called "witch mix." Witch mix was basically when you took a bunch of different alcoholic beverages and mixed them in a smaller bottle. It was easy enough to take just a little bit from each bottle in the cabinet without fearing discovery, and I knew better then to add water to any of the bottles. 

        There was no soda, juice or water added, just a mix of hard liqor, which sounds completely disgusting, but back then, in the eighties, it wasn't about enjoying the taste, it was about reaching teenage intoxication, three years before we were legally allowed to drink. I don't know who's bright idea it was to smuggle the alcohol into the dance, as opposed to drinking it beforehand, but somehow I ended up with the actual carrying of it into the dance. Bags were searched, so I had wrapped the bottle in tissue, then in a shoe box that I covered in gift wrap and a bow.

        Once we got to the front of the line, the doorman searched my back pack and naturally found the "package." He asked what it was, and I replied that it was a birthday present for one of our friends inside. He commented on its heavy weight and asked me what was inside, to which I replied "a clock radio," adding, "our friend is always late for school." Satisfied with our response, or perhaps just amused by the sheer idiocy, and gusto it took to concoct such a bizarre story, we were let in with our bottle of witch mix. 

        We headed straight for the bathroom where a few of us took turns drinking the mix in a tiny stall. Not surprising, it was not delicious at all. I mean, who in their right mind drinks a mix of rum, Campari, vodka and whiskey straight up like that? Obviously, we got drunk pretty quickly and I remember feeling like I was on a boat, because everything moved all around me even though I was completely still. I don't remember much more, like if any of us had any fun, if we danced and socialized, or if we were just all nauseous and sat around. 

        At some point, towards the end of the dance, we must have sobered up enough to walk to Missan's house, where her older brother showed up, delighted to hear about our drunken adventure. He was a few years older, so legally drunk, and definitely enjoying our somewhat confusing evening. I remember waking up the next day, not sure what had happened to the inside of my mouth, my head or my stomach, but feeling cool and accomplished.

        Missan's parents, who were supercool and laid back, often enlivened by alcohol themselves, seemed to understand what had taken place the night before, but didn't make a big fuss about it. Her mom made us breakfast, and her brother insisted milk would solve everything, and poured us tall glasses of it, which we gulped down quickly. Then Missan walked me to the bus, and we re-capped the adventures of the night before while giggling.

        I threw up on the walk from the bus stop to my house, proving that the Swedish "Milk Cures Hangovers" theory and myth of the 80's had some flaws. Turns out milk doesn't magically take away the alcohol in your stomach, it just makes you throw it all up. Not a problem for me, as it ultimately made me feel well enough to face my non-suspecting parents and tell them all about the "fun" night at the dance...

 

 

My First Date

        There was probably a time when I was very young, and did something date-like with a boy in Sweden, but since I didn't really understand or participate in the concept of dating until I arrived in the United States, I thought I should write about what I consider my first official American date. And yeah, it was pretty official as far as dates go.

        To give you some background, Sweden is one of those countries where you tend to melt in and out of relationships without the formality of a date, or a series of them. You meet with or without friends, go out and have drinks and dinner just like on an American date, but it tends to be a bit more relaxed than here. Then you're in a relationship for a while, and it's good until it isn't, at which time you melt out, and melt into something else with someone else. Swedish (and most European) men are charming, polite and behave like gentlemen, and in my opinion, it comes out a bit more natural than it does with American men, because that official date element isn't there. 

        I had just moved to California when Richie asked me out on a date. I think he even used the word date in the actual asking, to make it clear. I wasn't sure how I felt about Richie, who was a cute, all-American, Jewish guy around my age, but was told that's what dates are about, figuring out one's feelings, so I said yes, and he got tickets to a Dodger game. Another first. My First Baseball Game. 

        Before we get to the actual date, let me say a few words about my relationship to baseball. I don't get it. And when I say I don't get it, let me make clear that I understand the rules and objective of the game, but having grown up without baseball and its long standing rivalries, I don't get into it like real Americans do. I think it's a lot of hours spent for little to no action. Especially if you compare it to ice-hockey, which is a quick, and sometimes deliciously violent sport that Sweden is great at. I can get quite passionate and riled up during a world cup game of ice-hockey, but baseball just isn't in my slightly chilled, Swedish blood.

        I'm now realizing that I'm going to come across as an impossible-to-please, bitchy girl in this post, and I hate that. Especially because I'm fairly easy to please in reality. I have made it clear in life (and in previous posts) that I believe in gender roles, and that I think men should be men, take charge, and treat women like women.

        I'm not necessarily contradicting that now, but I am saying that it's not just about doing the right thing, and taking charge on a date, but it's how you do it. It's all in the nuance. And perhaps a bit in the wrist. And the bulk of the Americans I've dated, have unfortunately made up for their lack of that natural, easy "je ne sais quoi," with an overly confident and sometimes boastful edge. Sigh.

        Richie picked me up and opened the passenger door for me and this is where it all went wrong. I know he was just 23 or so, but this perfectly appropriate and sweet gesture was done in such an overly "datey" and showy way, that it made me a bit uncomfortable. I had certainly had doors opened for me before, but in this case, it didn't feel like I was spending time with a new friend, who had gently opened my door, instead, it felt overly stiff and official. 

          We got to Dodger Stadium and found our seats. I don't remember who the Dodgers played that day. Or any of the players. Or if they won or lost. I remember that Richie asked me what snacks I wanted, and then went and got them, while I was to stay in our seats. I remember that Richie got up to escort me to the bathroom when I needed to go, and I subsequently told him to sit down because I was fine going on my own.

        I remember that I made a big mistake on my way back from the bathroom. I had declined a soda when Richie offered earlier, but walking by the concession stand, I found myself wanting one, so I got a Coke on my way back to our seats. Richie got visibly upset and asked why I hadn't told him I wanted a soda earlier. I know, I know...he was a perfect gentleman, eager to please and willing to make my first Dodger experience the best one ever, but it was in a way that seemed so awkward, and unnatural, perhaps even controlling at times.

        I remember that Richie tried his best to explain the game, the purpose of the 7th inning stretch, and other baseball related facts I probably should have been interested in. But I was 22 and this was all really boring to me. Conversation didn't flow easily and I tried to infuse it with a joke here and there about some of the things going on at the game, but that wasn't appreciated. At some point, when I understood we were going to be there for a few hours, I remember wondering if it was obligatory to stay for the whole game, but definitely understanding that it wasn't really appropriate to ask. 

                                 

Buy me some peanuts and cracker jacks...I DON'T CARE IF I NEVER GO BACK.

        Finally, at the end, when Richie asked me if I wanted a program, I said something rude and sarcastic, and interestingly enough, I can't remember it now...I suppose my harsh edge came out as I just didn't get the point of having a program to a game that was already over. Richie mumbled something like "to remember your first baseball game," and I felt like an ass. (I told you I would come across as a bitch.)   

        Richie's only crime was to take a young "uninterested-in-baseball" Swedish girl to a Dodger game. Once there, he did do all the "right" things a young American man would do on a date, and any American girl would probably have been thrilled with the somewhat formal attention. I was being taken care of and adored, and even though I felt the manner lacked a bit of ease and playfulness, it was a true American date and in hindsight, I do appreciate it very much. 

        In conclusion, there are two things discussed in this blog I still do, with equal discomfort and reluctance;

Number 1. Go to Dodger Stadium and see a game every couple of years, and Number 2. Go on dates. Although I still don't see the real benefit in either, I've found something to look forward to in both. At the game it's the Dodger dogs...

My First Kiss...with a Girl

        I was twenty five years old when I made this new friend. I'm going to call her Sarah for the purpose of this story. We had seen each other at the gym a few times and ended up always talking, and before we knew it, we were spending almost every waking moment together. She had a boyfriend at the time, and preceded to introduce me to many of his super interesting and handsome friends, which I didn't mind at all.  

        Sarah was (and actually still is) smart as a whip, funny, charming, well educated and a good, honest, sweet friend. Almost every Sunday we would go to Kokomo, which was located in the Farmers Market at the time, close to my apartment on Hayworth. There we would talk about the previous evening's sometimes crazy adventures over Eggs Sardou and their delicious coffee cake, with a varied crowd of friends.

Twenty-five year old Marika at Kokomo (photo credit: Sarah)

        On this particular Sunday, it was Sarah and I, and a male friend of ours, who I'll call Mark. We had brunch as usual, and then drove Mark back to his apartment which was pretty close to the Farmers Market. Mark asked us if we wanted to come in and hang out for a bit, and since it was a lazy Sunday, we both said yes.

        What comes next is going to cause male readers of this blog to admire Mark greatly, as it took some skillful scheming to get two innocent twenty-five year old girls to make out. Ok, maybe not entirely innocent. Still, at the time, it didn't seem manipulative at all, and I think therein lies the talent that many men would dream to possess, or pay to acquire. It was one of those natural "one minute we're all hanging out and the next, we're all kissing" sort of situations.

Mark "suggested" we play a game... 

        Mark suggested we play a game. It was a kissing game that required  a blindfold, and as "luck" would have it, Mark had a scarf close by and off we went. Mark offered to go first and as he put the blindfold on, explained the rules of the game. He said the person who was blindfolded will get kissed by one of the "players", and has to guess who is kissing them. Simple enough. My mind didn't move ahead and think "well, there's just one boy, so how will it work when Sarah or I get blindfolded?"  

        Sarah and I took turns kissing Mark and he guessed right after "needing" a second round, after which, Sarah put the blindfold on, encouraged by Mark, of course. Mark proceeded to kiss her and I was still sort of in the dark about what was coming next, naively. She guessed that it was Mark which obviously was correct. Then Mark motioned for me to kiss Sarah. 

        I should stop here and say that if you were ever in a situation where you'd be presented with the opportunity or invitation to kiss a girl, as I was in this case, Sarah was the girl you'd want to try that sort of thing out with. She was, and still is, ridiculously beautiful. Tall, lean, and with coloring quite opposite from mine. A perfect body, beautiful hair, rosy cheeks, bright eyes, soft lips...you get the picture. And a free spirit without hang ups, like me. 

        I leaned in and kissed her. It's been a long time and I only vaguely remember the kiss itself, but I remember thinking I'd never felt anything so soft and magical, kissing wise. It was a gentle kiss, without the force and push that men tend to bring. More like soft, relaxed lips and tongues playing without an agenda. I was kind of tantalized by the whole thing. And was happy to be next up to be blindfolded.

        I remember that we played the game for a few rounds before it was time to leave Mark's and go about our respective Sundays. We walked outside and said good bye with no awkwardness at all, which was cool. I definitely walked away impacted by it, like somehow mesmerized by the feeling of having had my lips pressed against "girl lips," yet I didn't feel the need to overanalyze it, or worry about whether or not this was going to effect our friendship. And it didn't. So, in conclusion, and to quote Kate Perry, "I kissed a girl and I liked it." 

My First Fløde Is

    This might sounds like a weird thing to blog about, especially if you don't speak Danish, but if you've ever had a "fløde is" from "Brostræde Fløde Is" in Helsingør, Denmark, you understand the need to forever immortalize the experience in this blog. For those of you who are Shakespeare fans, Helsingør is where you find Kronborg's Castle, of Hamlet fame. (In English it's called Elsinore.) And, a "Fløde Is" is simply an ice cream, but not just any ice cream. 

        Right across the water from Helsingør, Denmark is Helsingborg, Sweden, where I was born. Helsingborg is one of the oldest cities in Sweden and has a medieval fortress that's 600 years old. It became a Swedish city in 1658, when the Danes had to give it up in a treaty. It's Sweden's closest point to Denmark, with Helsingør only 4 km away - a quick ferry ride. 

     Although we moved to Stockholm when I was very young, my Dad and both sets of grandparents were still in Helsingborg, so I'd go back and visit often. Helsingborg is where I had some of my fondest childhood memories, and therefore where my heart is. My father, aunt and uncles, my grandmother and my sister Jessica all still live there.

        Being able to jump on a ferry and be in another country about twenty minutes later is pretty cool, even if that other country is Denmark, a country very similar to Sweden, in both language, history, food etc. You get there by ferry and all the ferries have strange names that end in "la" and that I think are all supposed to be women's names. Regula, Carola, Betula, Ursula, Pendula, Primula. The trip takes about 20 minutes and I've made it many many times. It never gets old, mostly because of the treat that awaits on the other side of the water.   

    Once on the other side, in Denmark, "Brostræde Fløde Is," which opened in 1922, is on a street called...you guessed it...Brostræde! The short walk from the ferry seemed to last for hours when I was a child, but it's really just a quick two minutes to get there. 

        "Brostræde Fløde Is" has the best ice cream in the world. It's not the ice cream flavors themselves, although they have delicious vanilla, nougat, chocolate, strawberry and pistachio. It's the whole package that makes this a spectacular ice cream experience, one worth crossing country lines for.  

        The cones are homemade and as you get close to the ice cream shop, you get that delicious freshly baked cone waft in the air. You pick your flavor, and after they fill your cone with your choice of ice cream, they add fresh whipped cream, warm homemade jam and a flødeboll on top.

        It's hard to explain what a flødeboll is...you should really experience it, but it's sort of a wafer bottomed, chocolate dipped ball with delicious sweet sticky cream inside. And they just smush it on top of your cone. 

        I remember my first ice cream here, and I remember having to hold it in two hands because it was so big and filled to the brim with pure, heavenly sweetness. It wasn't easy to finish one of these as a child, but as long as I got the flødeboll, jam, whipped cream, some of the ice cream and a bit of cone in, I was deliciously satisfied.

My brother Max with his cone...in his fire truck

    Also, the ice cream became synonymous with family, fun, travel and adventure as the years went on. Going with my Dad, or my grandmother Celina, Mom, Ulrik, and most recently Max, it's sort of a thing to go to another country just for ice cream, even if it's as close as Denmark. My First Fløde Is was a experience I will always remember, and it's what keeps me taking that ferry back for more. 

My First Time Caught In a Lie

    It was December 31st, 1984 in Stockholm. My parents were going to a New Year's Eve party at some friends' house. I was staying home with my brother Ulrik, who left five minutes after they did, not interested in spending New Year's with his younger sister and her friend Marie. Understandably so. 

Where it all happened...our old house in a suburb of Stockholm 

    I'm confused as to what happened next, since there were no cell phones back then. Friends just magically appeared and around 9p.m., the party was in full swing. Writing about this now makes me laugh. It's bizarre that I could have ever thought I would be able to have a party while my parents were gone a few hours, without them noticing. Could 14-year-old Marika really have been that naive?

   

                                             The cool, older boys...

    Reading about the evening in my diary, it seems like your average mid-eighties teenage party by Swedish standards. Someone brought alcohol, there was loud music coming out of my step dad's Pioneer sound system, and the really cool, deliriously good-looking, older boys from high school arrived, which had all the girls excited. A few of us ended up hanging out in my room upstairs when Per asked everyone to leave because he wanted to talk to me about something. I wrote "there wasn't a whole lot of talking" with two exclamation marks after, in my diary.

    As every great party does, this one hit its peak with dancing, drinking and smooching all around. And then got a bit messy. Anders threw up on the bathroom floor, Markus mopped it up, and Anders subsequently fell asleep on the wet floor, on some chards from a glass he had shattered. Because Markus had been so helpful, I kissed him for a bit. He and Per were good friends but that didn't seem to matter. Most definitely because this took place in Sweden, known for its lack of boundaries in the area of love and sex. 

    After a few of us smoked cigar in the sauna (!), and someone punched a hole in the upstairs bathroom door, the party started to wind down. Eventually there was just a small group left, so everyone helped clean the house, then Marie and I put on PJ's and went to bed.  

    The next morning, after Marie had left, there were some obvious questions asked. "Did you have a party last night?" they asked. I said "no" with a straight face. "What about this hole in the bathroom door?" I mumbled that I hadn't noticed it before, and had no idea how it got there.  

    I braced myself, knowing exactly what was coming next. Since our sauna had no windows, there had been no way to air it out the night before, so I really had no defense for the cigar smell that was still so pungent in the sauna. Still, when the question came ("Did someone SMOKE CIGAR in the sauna?") I said "no" quite firmly.

    And there it is. Caught in a lie. Or three to be exact. But the funny thing is, I don't remember there being an argument, or any punishment whatsoever. I just kept on denying I had a party in spite of the clear evidence, and the big blowup with serious consequences never came. They didn't call my bluff. What I derived from this experience wasn't that my parents believed I was telling the truth, but that they were using some sort of "Jewish-guilt-Jedi-mind-trick" to punish me. And it worked. I was always on edge, wondering when the punishment was coming. And behaved well for a few weeks as a result. 

Trusting parents...or super clever and manipulative?

    I called my parents to ask them about it. Nicke, my step dad, doesn't remember anything about this crucial event, but he did say that they probably just trusted me and accepted my "no" as the truth. I reminded him of the smell of cigar in the sauna and the dented door, and that it was so obvious I'd had a party, but he had no response. I was really disappointed, having hoped for him to reveal the big scheme they had cooked up to teach me this important life lesson. 

    I talked to my mother next. My mother Elise remembers everything, and yes, I usually find that as annoying as people find me, when I inform them of that thing they said verbatim twenty years ago. For MY FIRST though, she's proving to be incredibly helpful, filling in important gaps, and it's fun to talk to her because we both remember so much. Not surprising, she was quick to tell me whose party they were at that New Year's Eve in 1984, but when it came to my party, she didn't remember either.

    She said that if I had a party that New Year's Eve, they definitely knew about it, but explained that they probably had expected me to, so it might not have been such a big deal. I brought up the dented door, the presence of alcohol although I had just turned 14, and of course, the cigar in the sauna, but she still maintained it wasn't so bad, and just behavior that was expected from teens. 

    My final attempt at resolving this issue was with my brother Ulrik, who must have used my party as leverage/extortion to get me to shovel snow or take on his other chores, as he typically did when he came across what he deemed "valuable information" about my life. Not surprising, he emailed me back saying he has repressed all childhood memories. Not a bad email to get, since I can now take generous liberties in future posts. 

    In conclusion, I was caught in a lie, but I guess I'm the only person that thinks that was, or is, a big deal. It's funny, my parents didn't seem cool or easy going while I was growing up. At all. But I suppose they kind of were.