My First...

My First Record

        Music is everything to me. If someone asked me what is the one thing I couldn't live without, it's music. Nothing makes me happier than to sing and dance, and there will always be a part of me that wishes I could have made my life all about music. Don't get me wrong, I think writing is what I'm supposed to do in life, and the truth is, singing and dancing on my own works just as well. It's a huge part of my life even though it's not my career. But still...music is my first love. 

        And that love has gotten so much bigger since learning to play the guitar, because I can now access music in a different way. I can accompany myself when singing my favorite Beatles songs, and even make my own. Although I will say, it's hard for a screenwriter to write songs. I am used to having 110 pages to tell the story. Gently, slowly unfolding, with subtext and nuances. In music, you get a couple of verses, a bridge and the chorus to tell your story. So it's all right there. Boom. Potent. Intimate. "I loved him. He didn't love me. And now I'm left crying." (Sounds like a country song actually. Maybe I'm just in the wrong genre?) 

                                            

        Back to my love for music. I wake up and roll out of bed and immediately turn on this Shamanic music which overnight guests find creepy. It's deep and dark and has a heartbeat-like bass line, but to me, it's the perfect thing to start the day with. Breathe, relax, have some tea, open the curtains and come to life.

        Once I'm awake, it's always the Beatles, although after a recent visit by my brother Ulrik, who does work in the music industry, I've found myself switching out Rubber Soul and Revolver for Swedish rap. I know. Weird. But it's fun to listen to overpriviledged Swedish kids rap about life, and it does keep me knee deep in Stockholm hipster language which I think will prove quite helpful when I go home, since I'm always teased for using 90's jargon around my family. 

    

        When I feel stressed and need to calm down I listen to Grizzly Bear. At work I listen to The Black Keys or Radiohead. A little Mumford. When I clean it's always to Stevie Wonder, because his music makes everything feel good. Even scrubbing and mopping. When I write, I have something instrumental on, otherwise I'll sing and dance instead of write. Then there are those special albums that come along and just change everything. You can't go for long without a listen, so they become your everything albums. You go to dinner with good friends and all you can think is, "how long before I can get back in my car and sing?"

        I'm obviously talking about Justin Timberlake's "The 20/20 Experience." And if you are rolling your eyes, you obviously haven't heard it. There's no other explanation. It's brought myself and Christie Hooks from Post more joy than anyone can experience in a lifetime. And a lot of office dance parties. In just under 10 days. So imagine what it can do for you. (Note: There is nothing I won't do for tickets to the JT/Jay-Z show.)

                                             

        So after this long introduction, on to my first record, which took some recognisance and research because my memory failed me. Which is a first. So the truth is, there doesn't seem to be one first record. I remember a few records in the beginning, but I don't remember which came first. I had the Sountrack to Grease (released 1979) which I loved because of the handsome Mr. Travolta on the cover, and his "why ay ay ay" in the song "Sandy." I also had the Soundtrack to Hair (1979) and knew all the words to every song even though I didn't understand what the words meant. Considering the somewhat adult lyrics and subject matter, my not knowing English was probably for the best.

        It wasn't all musicals though. I also had - or rather, my brother Ulrik had which gave me access to - the record "Tonarsdrommar" (teenage dreams) by the Swedish punk rock band Noice (1979 again.) They were just a few years older than we were, and still in school. They wrote about issues that teenagers have, and although I wasn't one yet, something about their angst touched me. Sadly, fame at such a young age changed their lives, and not for the better. After a couple of years, the music no longer had the same angst and they got into all sorts of addictions, which had two of the original band members die fairly young. 

        I will say that U2's "Out of Control" was the first time I remember feeling something really deeply about music. It came out in September of 1979 just like the albums above, so I was almost 9. I think I heard it at my Grandparent's house in Helsingborg. My Uncle Ulf is only 5 years older than I, so he was still living at home at that time, and was getting into U2. I think it was more my lingering around his bedroom door than him sitting me down and playing their songs for me. He wasn't all that interested in spending time with my brother and I back then.  

            I remember being an angry kid, and I remember hearing that they were angry, even though I didn't understand what they were singing about. I think my anger was about having divorced parents, a new step-dad, a fairly new brother, and living in Stockholm, which was far away from my Dad. I had finally started learning English that fall, but we were learning things like "Jill is skating. Bob is playing ice-hockey." (I guess winter words worked best for Swedish children.)

        So my brain wasn't equipped to deal with Bono's angry, politically charged lyrics, but they gave me solace and made me feel understood. I stuck with U2 for a long time because they were there for me when I needed them most. Seeing them live was almost like a religious experience, but then I had to brace myself for the post-concert blues that always followed. I'm still sticking with them even though these days, their lyrics aren't as potent and they seem to have lost most of that raw anger. I have too though, so I can't really complain. I guess I listen out of loyalty and to remember how I felt then. 

        To quote a Swedish band I've been listening to a lot lately, The Soundtrack of Our Lives, music really is. Every song has a memory, an era, a person connected to it. Music takes you back to happy times, sad times and in my case with U2, angry times. You hear the song and you're back there. It's like when I smell Fahrenheit on a stranger and follow them for blocks, gently sniffing without being too conspicuous, because all the cute boys wore Fahrenheit in the 80's. It still makes me crazy love sick. Instantly. 

Bjorn, me, Dalit and Benny

        ABBA reminds me of the "shows" my friend Dalit and I used put on in her living room; she was Annifrid (known in the US as "the dark-haired one") and I was Agneta ("the blonde one.") The Beatles remind me of my Mom, because that's what we would dance around to with her in the living room, U2 obviously reminds me of my Uncle Ulf and but also Richard Zamet, who serenaded me with songs from The Unforgettable Fire when we were teens in London. 

        

        When I hear Soft Cell's "Tainted Love," I start to do the dance combination my 5th grade friends and I choreographed to it. Pretty impressive considering that song doesn't lend itself to any kind of choreography. When I hear the Prince album "Sign of the Times," I think of that night my high school friends and I spent sleeping outside in a very cold Stockholm, to get tickets to see Prince live in concert.

        I learned how to roll joints with my friend Rowena Cokayne (yes, that's her last name, but no, she preferred weed) to David Bowie's "Space Oddity" in London in the 80's. I hiked up to Machu Pichu with Simon & Garfunkel. Not bad company at all. Bob Dylan makes me think of my brother Simon, who wasn't blessed with good pitch like the rest of us. But for obvious reasons, when he sings Bob Dylan, you almost can't tell.         

Bruuuuuce in Stockholm

        When I hear Springsteen's "Thunder Road," I'm back at my very first Bruce Springsteen concert at Staples Center. I had been told by my friend Ronny to listen to every Bruce album ever made to get ready, since I wasn't a huge fan at the time. I was feeling lost because I hadn't recognized any songs, when all of a sudden I heard just a few familiar chords and screamed at the top of my lungs, "IT'S THUNDER ROAD" like a crazy person. The rest is history. I've seen Bruce almost as many times now as I've seen U2. The highlight was in Stockholm on my birthday a few years ago. And we hung out with the E Street Band at the Grand Hotel after the show. 

                                                               

        I'd like to think my music taste is varied and sophisticated, but the truth is, there are some Britney songs I just can't help but love. And let's be honest, that's not sophisticated at all. I couldn't put myself in any one music box if I had to, although as my brother Ulrik said on a recent visit; "you always preferred the dark, depressing stuff..." I suppose I find depth and melancholy a bit more interesting than "happy fluffy music." 

        It would be easier to say what I don't like. I am not a fan of Country Music. Or Heavy Metal. And I guess I don't listen to a lot of Blues, Techno, New Age or Christian. And Easy Listening isn't at all to me. Jazz, I like some of the old stuff. Other than that, anything and everything goes, and by the way, I'm still catching up on all the American Music I missed out on by not growing up here. When I got here, I didn't know Crosby, Stills and Nash. Or Young for that matter.

        Thank god for my musically sophisticated friends who through the years have introduced me to the likes of Johnny Cash, Lou Reed, James Taylor, Janis Joplin, Tom Petty, Jefferson Airplane, Jimi Hendrix, Van Morrison (thank you, Joey) and many more. I can't remember who played Tupac for me, but god bless them. I would have been ok without The Beach Boys. Just saying.  

My First Time Voting

        About two weeks before I voted, I realized I hadn't received anything in the mail and started to panic. I've looked forward to this day for years, and it would be so typical if I didn't get to. I feel really strongly that if you live in a country, that you should participate not just by paying taxes, but by engaging in the political process. It's a right but also a duty, and I don't take it lightly, probably on account of my being born and raised in Sweden, where these things are treated with the utmost importance.

        Swedish Parliament 

        In the last election in Sweden, which was in 2010, close to 85% of the population voted. In Sweden you don't have to register to vote, and voting always happens on a Sunday, so they make it easy for you to participate. Also, you vote for whatever party you affiliate yourself with instead of an actual person, so you tend to know what to expect as far as how they are going to vote on things (they follow party lines.)  The party has a list of candidates they are sending to parliament, and depending on how many votes a party gets, a certain amount of the candidates on the list make it in. The first person on the list is the leader of the party, and that person becomes the prime minister if their party is forming the government. Pretty easy. 

        I actually stopped voting in Sweden a while ago, so I've been out of the voting loop altogether for a bit. The last time I voted in Sweden, I polled my family and voted with the majority of them, which didn't exactly seem "right," (especially if you know my family,) but it's tricky to keep my finger on the pulse of the happenings in Swedish politics while living here. Unless they do something ridiculous and embarrassing like voting to grant Palestine non-member state status in the UN.

        Come to think of it, I don't exactly have my finger on the pulse of the Swedish language either. I don't have an American accent when I speak Swedish like Dolph Lundgren of "Rocky" fame, but my vocabulary hasn't grown or developed since the early 90's when I moved here, to the delight of my brothers who never miss an opportunity to tease me for using 90's jargon and words whose hipness factor apparently expired many years ago. 

        But back to the U.S. where I've held citizenship for a couple of years now, and to my special polling place. Some people vote in schools, some in churches, but I get to vote at the Los Feliz Fire Station on Hillhurst. I recognized some of the fire fighters from their morning runs, which by some miraculous coincidence always seem to take place when I walk to my car to go to work in the morning. I always say hello and smile, because I think that if I ever need them for fire reasons, they'll remember that, and will work so much harder to save me. (I also say hello and smile because they're hot and I'm single.) Unfortunately, my friendly antics didn't get me anything on Election Day, as far as cutting in line, so I went to work and came back during my lunch break, when the line was a bit shorter. 

         I had re-registered online, since I hadn't received my voter card or voter guide, but I was still nervous that I wouldn't get to vote. This country isn't exactly known for having it all handled when it comes to voting, so I was prepared for a potential argument where I would scream about being a US Citizen and having the right to vote. Sure enough, my name wasn't on the list, and I started to clear my throat, getting ready for my big speech.

        Before I could start, I was interrupted by an Asian man, a voting volunteer, who asked me where I voted last time. I proudly said "I've never voted before, this is my first time!" which of course made the woman behind me shoot me a super snarky look of disapproval. She thought I had finally gotten off the couch, having been eligible to vote for years. Sigh. So I proudly added, "I just became a citizen," which made her relax a bit, and ask, "Canadian?" I nodded. Because I sound too American for my own good apparently. 

        They found me on the provisional ballot list. They explained that after everyone else's vote is counted, they will count mine and the other provisional ballots only if there's not a clear winner. Great. So, my vote really didn't count, because it was probably not even counted. Great first time out!

         But back to me in the little booth feeling important. I fastened my ballot, provisional or not, and started punching. I knew exactly what to vote because I had done my due diligence, researching the issues online, reading a friend's voter guide, and talking to Marjorie David, who is knowledgeable about all things political. I suppose one could say I voted according to party lines, with no real surprises. I decided to let the porn industry manage themselves and their potential health issues. That felt like a strange issue for me to vote about, but I suppose that's the political process.

        I will say that I felt, (and still feel) very strongly about the GMO initiative and I was surprised and horrified that it didn't pass.  Who says "no" to the question "do you want to know if your food is genetically modified?" I just don't get it. Even if you didn't care about that...if you didn't think there was anything wrong with genetically modified foods, why wouldn't you just let the people who do care about it know? 

           I sat glued to the TV on Election Night and was actually a bit fearful. I'm not 100% aligned or thrilled with everything Obama has done for the last four years, but the idea of someone becoming President and being against gay marriage and abortion is so bizarre, and far from where I think the world should be in 2012. Or at least the country I've chosen to live in. Turns out there was no reason to worry, everything was fine, and in the end, because some of the initiatives on the Los Angeles ballot were close, my ballot was counted. So my vote was needed and important after all...

        Proud first time "I VOTED" sticker bearer!

My First Wave

        I have a complicated relationship with the Pacific Ocean. I'm singling the Pacific Ocean out because it's overwhelmingly powerful, temperamental and super salty. And because I had what I refer to as a "near death" experience in it. You know, one of those experiences when you're drowning, and your significant other thinks you're waving. So they wave back to you, and continue doing what they're doing. As your head is bobbing up and down, under and over the surface. As you panic and swallow a ton of water. As coral is cutting your legs and the tide is pulling you around like a rag doll.

        The problem with the argument that happens afterwords, on the beach, is that no matter how much you emphasize the danger you were just in, or how hysterical you are, they win, because after all, you didn't drown. They find the whole experience funny and cute, and there you are, having just stared death in the face, which isn't funny. I remember wishing I had died, just to be right. 

Where I "learned" how to swim, Rösjön

        But let's start from the beginning. I cheated in swim school. I took swimming lessons in the local lake where I grew up. The water was dark and so was the bottom of the lake, so the teachers couldn't really see what was happening with your feet, just whether or not your arms were breast stroking. So there I was, breast stroking with my arms, and walking on the bottom, because I was too lazy to make the effort. At some point I had to learn how to swim, because it was widely assumed I already could, and that was really hard. The other swimmers had moved onto more complicated and flashy strokes, but because of my earlier laziness, I got stuck with the breast stroke. For life, I figured. 

My Australian crawl...

        Until my honeymoon in Cabo San Lucas. I had a swimming lesson every day, which was weird, because I hadn't signed up for it, but that's how great the Palmilla resort is, I suppose. I learned the Australian crawl, and couldn't get out of the pool until my "teacher" was happy with my progress. Yeah, same guy who would wave at me while I nearly drowned in Tahiti, a couple of years later. I will say that the involuntary lessons paid off, because I got more comfortable being under water and actually started to feel like a real swimmer, having more than the breast stroke in my repertoire. 

        Months and months ago now, I was talking to the sweet and multi-talented Conor Gaffney, after a Makepeace Brothers gig, and the topic turned to surfing. "Do you surf?" he asked. It was a harmless and geniune question, yet, I couldn't answer. And not just because I had partaken in some herbals. I wanted to say yes, but the correct answer was no. And when you can't answer yes or no to a question, you know there's something to work out. In this case, it was my relationship with the Pacific Ocean. 

Vincent, River and Linda...

        The lovely Linda was visiting me from Sweden at the time, and we went down to the beach a couple of times, where she ran into the ocean fancifull and free, without any preparation in the form of breathing, counting or clenching of fists, making me insanely jealous. Without thinking, I grabbed Vincent, one of the more grounded people I know, and went in. Not as fast as Linda, but at a steady pace for me. It was great. Fun even. I swam. Went under the water. At some point a huge wave came toward us, and I quickly yelled "uppie" like Vincent's son River does, jumped into his arms, and stayed there until the wave had passed. 

    There were many attempts to move from swimming in the Pacific to surfing in the Pacific, but none worked and it was mostly my hesitation to jump in. Pun intended. Until my friend and Exhale super yoga teacher Cristi Chistensen started her Yoga & Surf Camp for the summer. I figured doing yoga right before swallowing copious amounts of salt water would make me feel "ready to calmly swim into the light," if that was my destiny, so I signed up for the next to the last class of the summer.  

Cristi in "surf pose"

    Starting the day doing yoga with Cristi is always a treat, and doing it with just the right amount of sun and breeze, next to the beach was definitely the way to start Surf Sunday. It made me calm, relaxed and sufficiently warmed up. Next up: The Pacific Ocean. 

    If you ever have to follow a surfer dude to a beat up van in a parking lot in Venice, it helps if he's hot, as was the case with Luke. He came and got us at the grassy area we had practiced at, and lead us over to the Aqua Surf van which was filled to the brim with boards and wet suits, and this is when my nerves got a little funky. I started to think of the ocean and how much I hate being under water, and was seriously doubting myself and my ability to even get in. It was at this exact time the universe sent Luke over to help me get into a skin tight wet suit. It helped. 

Before. Very scared. Doing some sort of surf hand gesture...

    After a quick land lesson in the sand by Alan, consiting of faux paddling and faux popping up, which I mastered quickly, I put my banana yellow board on my head and walked down to the water with the other first-timers. The more experienced surfers were already in the water, doing that cool-looking thing where they straddle the board and wait for a wave. Envy.

    As I got closer to the water my brain caught up to me and I started to giggle. I can't surf. I mean, don't these people know me? The answer was of course, no. And perhaps I could use that to my advantage. Perhaps I could pretend like I was comfortable and happy in the ocean like everyone else. So, I got in the water and sort of did what everyone else did. Paddled out a bit and then attempted to turn my board around.

    The Aqua Surf instructors were all over the place, so it didn't take long to get help. I think it was Luke who first came up, turned my board around, and attempted to help me catch a wave. It went so-so. And when I say so-so, I mean, I fell off, I got water in my eyes/nose/mouth and tumbled around a bit and then got hit by another wave. Not a great start. 

What my wipeouts probably looked like...

    After a while of trying and failing I thought...well it's not the end of the world if I don't actually catch a wave. The blog could always be about what happened when I didn't catch my first wave, like some of those cool documentaries that start off being about one thing, but then turn into something else, something more riveting even. That's when Peter, another instructor, found me and took charge. He was firm but gentle. Explained a couple of things Alan had gone over in the sand, but that made more sense hearing on the board, in the water. 

    I got closer. And every time I failed, and I felt like I was in a washer on spin cycle, I got right back up on the board. It turned out the best way to learn to surf was with people I didn't know, so that I couldn't be coddled or pitied or babied as someone who has trouble in the Pacific Ocean. Peter yelled, "get back on the board" and I did. Every time. I blew salty snot out of my nose and crawled back on. Paddled, paddled, paddled, and fell. I even got run over by another surfer and her board and just shook it off, like I imagine a real surfer would. 

It felt like this...

    I wish I had a photo of myself on the board when I caught my first wave, but of course we left all our belongings in the van. Peter told me to breathe and relax. I did. Then I paddled, paddled, paddled and when Peter yelled "pop up" or "stand up" or whatever it was he yelled, I did. I popped up. And I stayed standing. And there was a momentum and a feeling and a connection that was unlike anything I've ever experienced. It was glorious.

    When there was nothing left of the wave, and I ended up in the water, not only did I have the most ridiculous grin on my face, but also what my friend Debbie Dancer calls "a bhakti moment." How I know I'm having a bhakti moment is, I get goose bumps all over my body, waves of joy come over me, and I burst into tears of happiness. Given how cynical I am, it's a weird experience for me to have, but at the same time a nice relief. For a few seconds I experience life with a quiet mind, and that's worthy of tears in itself, as my mind has so much noise usually. 

After...    

    During Forty by Forty days, I would have these moments almost every week because I was having so many fun and exciting adventures, so I was used to it. Today, however, I was not prepared. So I stood there, in the water, with a surf board attached to my foot, just letting a few happy tears mix into the salt water, sand, and snot on my face. And then went back in for my second wave. And my third. And my fourth. And then I was tired. From paddling, and popping up, and being unafraid, and from swallowing water.  

    So I sat at the edge of the water for a bit, while everyone caught their last wave, and just smiled to myself. Surfing has always been that scary thing that I'd never be able to do. And today I did it. 

 

 

My First Funeral

    I was about 15 when I walked into my Mom and stepdad's bedroom with a tray of tea. If I remember correctly, it was a Sunday, and I think my Mom and I were going to hang out and read in her bed. As I walked in, she put the phone down and had a strange look on her face.  She told me my father had just called, and I remember thinking it was weird that he didn't ask to talk to me. Since my parents divorced in the early seventies, they hadn't exactly had a warm, co-parenting relationship. The twice yearly drop-offs in the south of Sweden were never happy family reunions, more somber transactions I think. 

    The explanation for the call came a few seconds later. My mother asked me to put the tray down and come sit with her, and then she told me my Grandpa Allan had died from a blood clot in the leg. I was confused and I suppose sad, but mostly confused. This wasn't just the first grandparent to die, this was the first person I knew who had died period. Also, I wasn't sure what a blood clot was, and my Grandpa Allan was probably the grandparent that I had the least close relationship to, so I really wasn't sure how to feel.  

In Grandma and Grandpa's backyard with stepmom Monika

    Don't get me wrong, spending summers at Grandpa and Grandma Lundins' house in the south of Sweden was magical and exciting. Allan and Agda had a big house with a huge yard, on account of him being the head of a farming union or co-op, so there was a lot of room to play and discover both inside and out. Also, my uncle Thomas, who was just a few years older than Ulrik and I, still lived at home which we thought was so cool. We worshipped him, but it seemed our attemps to hang out in his room and be part of his life was probably more irritating than anything.

Playing Dominoes with Grandma Agda

    The best part of summers in Ljungbyhed, which was what the litte town was called, was Grandma Agda. She was patient and kind, playing cards and other games with us, and of course there were her baked goods. She baked the most heavenly of cinnamon rolls, mocca squares and cookies and there seemed to be an endless supply for us, without us having to do any chores. Thinking back on it now, I think the summers spent there were some of the happiest times of my life.

   But back to Grandpa Allan. I don't know how old he was when I was a child, and I don't know how old he was when he passed away, because to me he was always the same age, which I suppose was simply "old." Not sure how to sugar coat this next part, so I won't. He drank and smoked a fair amount, and could be quite tough to be around. I don't think he was always kind to Grandma Agda, or his five children. It was complicated because on the one hand, if he was in a great mood, he'd be really fun and he might send us to the store to get cigarettes, which meant we'd get to buy candy with the change, but he could also be quite moody and harsh if we played too loudly in the house. 

Monkeying around with Grandpa Allan

    The funeral was held in a church in the south of Sweden, so we took a train down there to attend. In Sweden there is no separation between church and state, which means everyone is automatically born into the Swedish Church, unless one is Jewish and asks to leave it. So although the Lundin clan isn't particularly Christian or religious, it made sense that the funeral would be in a church. Except for I had been raised Jewish, and had never been to a church before, so it was a bit strange to me.

    There was always a part of me that was conflicted about this growing up. We lived in Stockholm with our Mom and stepfather and kept kosher, but in the summer we'd spend time with our father and his side of the family, and then we'd eat pork meatballs and whatever else was served. And it had never been explained to me by either of my parents, so I was left religiously confused, while my brother didn't seem to think it was a big deal.

    Going to church for a family member's funeral on top of all of that didn't make me any less confused. There were crosses and stuff. Hard benches. I think Bibles or some sort of prayerbook. I remember thinking how interesting it was that the praying was done in Swedish, simply because my praying was always done in Hebrew. It was new and scary although the songs were pretty, and I suppose this was the beginning of my understanding that there was this other part to me that I didn't know or know about. Not necessarily a Christian part, but a Swedish part, which included some aspects of Christianity. I found it interesting and still do.

The Lundin cousins at a later gathering; me, cousin Jonas, sister Jessica, brother Max, cousin Andreas, cousin Daniel, cousin Pelle and Jessica's daughter Nova.

    All of the Lundins were there; my uncles Arne, Lars, Thomas and my sweet aunt Ingrid, my siblings Jessica and Max, the big and little cousins, which was really nice, because I hadn't seen many of them in years. After the service, we went somewhere and had a smorgasbord of Swedish delicacies and beers. It was a nice afternoon and there was talk of Grandpa Allan being a "son-of-a-bitch" but in that festive, fun meaning of the word.

    I think Allan was cremated and had his ashed scattered. Maybe I'm making that part up, but I vaguely remember being told, I think by my aunt Ingrid, that Grandma Agda didn't want anyone to feel forced to come around and visit them in some plot after they were both gone. Or have to come and plant things. It sounds like something Grandma Agda would say, for she was someone who was truly selfless and lived to make everyone else's life a little easier and happier. 

My First Fight

        I fought a lot with my older brother growing up. Or rather, he would hit me if he found out I had been in his room, or even worse, worn one of his sweaters to school. In the eighties, oversized sweaters were all the rage, so naturally, I had tapped into the supply in his closet on the sly. His sweaters were preppy and expensive, since he was working part-time and buying his own clothes. I particulary enjoyed the navy knit Lacoste, and the grey Bjorn Borg, both V-necks of course. I would pair them with parachute pants, or, as they were called in Swedish, balloon pants, and voila...ready to go! 

The cause of beatings...

        We went to different high schools so it sort of worked out. I would wait for him to leave for school, grab a sweater, then head to my high school and look really cool. Then I'd hurry home and put the sweater back.  The fights would happen if one of his sweaters smelled like my perfume, which at the time was the very pungent YSL Paris. Needless to say, it was a frequent occurance. I would cry for help from my mother who rightfully pointed out that I could just stop wearing his sweaters...

       But other than the sibling stuff, I suppose there is a "fight" that stands out. I was in junior high and had this really cool and cute boyfriend, Per. He was half-Korean, great at writing love letters, and well endowed. It's funny the things you remember twenty six years later. We never actually consummated our relationship, but this was around the time, age wise, that you start to get to the point when kissing isn't enough, but you've got nothing else in your "tool belt." So you kiss and kiss and find different positions to kiss in. And in most of them, private parts are pressed up against each other. So I got a sense of what was in his pants, so to speak. 

Some of Per's love letters from the mid-eighties

        We were in the same grade but in different sections, so we didn't have any classes together but would see each other at lunch, on afternoon breaks, and after school. We'd go to his house since his Mom worked late most of the time, and he had no siblings. This meant his house was a bit more chill than mine, which always seemed full of siblings and drama. We would kiss and kiss for hours. 

        There was a girl at school who liked Per. She was in his section, so she got to spend all day, every day with him, which of course I didn't like at all.  They also shared the same last name which was sort of cute, some people thought. I was not in that group. This was a time when my life was ruled by the need to be cool and popular, so in regards to romance and boyfriends, I was radically different from who I am today. I know today that you can't own or control people, or make them love you, but then, not so much. 

        So back to Jessica and the time when my life was driven by insecurity, jealousy, and pettiness. When I used my powers to do more evil than good. Even though Per was my boyfriend, and all my friends told me I was prettier, I naturally hated her, and made her life difficult whenever I could. Probably because deep down I was afraid to lose him. It was mostly cold stares in the hallways, or rude comments and loud laughs with friends, when she walked by. It's weird because I see myself as such a small and harmless person, and have never really considered myself a bully, but I think at this time I was. 

        One day after school, I saw her riding her bike towards where I was walking, and decided to do something. I wasn't quite sure what, but as she got closer, I could feel my blood boiling with rage. My mind was providing me with justifications and fuel to hurt her in some way;  "who does she think she is, riding her bike here?" and "look at her and that stupid grin."

        As she rode by me, I pushed her bike, and whatever she had in back fell off, and she sort of did too. She didn't get seriously injured, but she had to get her bike back up, and gather her stuff before getting back on and riding off. At which point I might have yelled at her to stay away from my boyfriend and/or that she was a whore. Yeah. Pretty sure I did.

        I'm not sure this constitutes as a legitimate fight, but it feels like it's in that category. I picked a fight with someone for a pretty lame reason, using mean and immature behavior to make them feel shitty at school, and then pushed them off their bike when they rode by me. Now that I'm thinking about this, imagining being in her shoes, I'm filled with regret, embarrassment and sadness.

        I decide to see if she's still around, to maybe check in and apologize. I go on Facebook and a couple of clicks later, there she is. Two mutual friends. I'm immediately intimidated by her profile photo which has her looking quite powerful on a big motorcyle. I'll think about it. 

 

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 Time

         This seems weird to say, but losing my virginity was a two-parter of sorts. There was the time I tried to have sex, but was unsuccessful, and the time it worked, probably partially because I had tried once before. I apologize in advance to those of you who will think this is a bit too intimate. On the one hand, it is a bit personal, but on the other, it was so many years ago, so although I'm experiencing discomfort writing this, hopefully my readers will find it endearing and amusing, instead of gross. 

        It was one of those things that was getting a bit frustrating. It seemed everyone else was doing it...and so naturally, I wanted to do it too. I didn't want to be the only one still a virgin. The year was 1986 so I was 15, about to turn 16. There was no pressure from anyone but myself, but for those of you who know me well, you know I'm my best "pusher man," being both highly competitive and eager for new experiences. Couple that with the eagerness to fit in that most teenagers experience, and you get where I was at. 

        His name was Omar, and he was Swedish, but his family was most likely muslim. Perhaps that was why it didn't work? He worked with me at Clock, which was a Swedish McDonald's type hamburger chain in the 80's. I was a cashier and I think he worked the fryer. He wasn't tall or short, so somewhere in between, and very cute. We had flirted a lot and perhaps even kissed once or twice. 

        My two friends, Pia and Claudia, who were a year ahead of me in high school, were throwing a party one weekend, and since they also worked at Clock, they had invited Omar.  The party was in full swing, and I wish I remember there being a romantic set-up, but the truth is, I found myself in what I think was Pia's bedroom, with Omar.

        Before I knew it, his pants were off, and we were going to have sex. It was weird. I don't think I was super into it. Meaning, I was a little bit taken aback by the whole "we're in someone else's bed and there's a party happening in the other room" element. I guess it's embarrassing that I decided to do it anyways, that I was a 15-year-old girl more concerned with upsetting Omar, then taking care of myself and my honor, but so it goes. Sigh. 

   

        People who know me, know that I have a slightly overactive obsession with safe sex. Not only have I been known to scare the crap out of friends, by lecturing them incessantly about the various diseases one can pick up even without intercourse, but I've also been known to buy my more promiscuous and careless friends condoms, to ensure their health and safety. 

        Given all of that, it's surprising that I don't remember Omar having any protection whatsoever, even if this was before AIDS. Safe sex was being discussed in schools and all around us, but perhaps this was another one of those "teen Marika not wanting to rock the Omar boat" moments, where I put myself second, and a teenage boy's libido first. 

        To get to the awkward part, he tried to "get it in," but couldn't. A combination of his size and my being a virgin. It really hurt, so after a couple of tries, he stopped, quite frustrated. Whatever moment of excitement and bonding there had been, it was over now, and Omar quickly got dressed and re-joined the party. I stayed back to make the bed, and to my horror discovered I had bled a little bit on Pia's bedding. I pulled her and Claudia aside and apologized, and they were quite gracious about the whole thing.

        Cut to a few months later, I had turned 16 and went to Gothenburg to attend a party and visit friends. It was February of 1987, and the party was hosted by my old boyfriend Joachim Rosenberg. It might seem weird that I had an old boyfriend already at 16, but Joachim and I had started our romance in 1978 at summer camp, and it had carried on for a few years.

        I had fallen for him because, at 7 and-a-half years old, he was the most obnoxious boy at summer camp. He dressed in Hang Ten pastel polos and shorts, and, perhaps most importantly, he came from Gothenburg, which seemed exotic to 7-year-old Marika, living in Stockholm.  

        He once sent me 23 post cards, each with just one word. I had to put them in order to read the message. He was 13 at the time and my parents thought the gesture was flashy, but I thought it inventive and romantic. We were girlfriend/boyfriend during the summers at camp, and wrote each other sweet letters and cards the rest of the year. In 1983, I was Joachim's date for his Bar Mitzvah, and wore a festive grey number, with a fluffy ribboned collar. 

        But back to 1987. I can't remember what the party was for, but it was an official sit-down dinner followed by dancing, and having been seated next to him at his Bar Mitzvah, I was upset to find some other girl seated next to him at this party, while I was seated with his best friend. In case you are wondering, yes, a lot of thought and planning goes into seating arrangements in Sweden, not just for weddings, but pretty much every party you attend whether you are 12 or 17. 

A slightly older Joachim, just as obnoxious...

        I felt slighted because although Joachim and I weren't officially seeing each other at this point, I had come to Gothenburg for this party, and was his longtime, old time girlfriend. Therefore, etiquette should have prevailed, and I should have been given the place of honor, next to the host. We spent some time arguing about it, and after much groveling, I forgave him and things were sweet and happy. 

        We went back to his parents' house where I had spent the night many times over the past few years, but there was something different about this night. We were both of that age. Joachim had already had sex but wasn't weird or boastful about it, so there was no planning or scheming or sleaziness.

        We were downstairs on his parents' leather couch talking, listening to music, and making out, and at some point, things progressed quite sweetly and naturally. Everything went smoothly and when it actually happened, I was surprised, because I was expecting it to hurt, but it didn't at all. In fact, it felt really good. This is going to sound so cliche, but he was considerate, sweet and loving, and made the whole transition into "womanhood" a truly great experience. 

        Perhaps Omar had done the "prep-work" or perhaps this just went well because I really loved Joachim. He was my first love, before I really understood what love was, and I don't think you can ask for more, for your first time. 

My First "Lillebror"

        The word "lillebror" means little brother in Swedish. Getting a younger sibling, after having been the youngest for seven years was a powerful experience. I had a younger sister, Jessica, but she lived in the south of Sweden with my father and his new wife Monika, so this was my opportunity to get an "in-house" doll. A sweet girl to dress up. A little Simon arrived, but that didn't stop me.

Happily helping with little brown seventies mittens

         I made him my own. I happily helped with diapers, and dressing him, because I wanted someone to play with, someone that I could be in charge of, and pick which games to play, as I'd had about seven years of playing what Ulrik wanted to play. 

        That's exactly how it went. Simon became my sweet little toy, doll, baby brother, and play mate. We played every game I wanted to play. Which usually entailed him wearing a dress or some other costume. I would also straddle him and do the hanging spit thing over his face, and some other torture tricks, if he was "bad." And sometimes even if he wasn't. Just to exert my power. 

         Simon was a happy, content child, with a hint of arrogance. He ate well...almost too well, and was in and out of chubby stages for much of his childhood. He was spoiled, being the first child of Nicke, my step father, and the first grandchild of Nicke's parents. I suppose there were times it bothered me, but Simon was always such a sweet child that it never got in the way of our relationship.

 

        He admired and listened to me. In his teenage years, I used my powers for evil from time to time, perhaps because I could. Simon would come down the stairs ready to go to school, and I'd just look him up and down and shrug. A few seconds later, he would exclaim;  "MOM...I can't wear this." My mother would come into the hallway and stare me down, saying "did you have to do that? You know how much your opinion counts."

   My lillebror Simon, a stranger to hard labor, cooking, cleaning, organizing & sports but with a big, open heart and a highly developed brain...

        Having been given a bit of a nest egg by his grandparents, Simon developed an interest in money early on. He read about stocks and bonds, and as a young teen made decisions about investments for himself, and advised his grandmother. He would emphasize that while Ulrik and I had gotten "the looks," he had gotten the money, and that would last way longer. 

         During an internship at a Swedish financial publication, Affärsvärlden, Simon wrote an article, got some attention, and subsequently became a staff writer. He stayed there for a few years, combining his articles with frequent TV appearances, and as a result, became quite well known in the finance world. So much so, that he was offered a job using his vast knowledge to manage money for private investors and companies. 

        In other words, Simon grew up to became quite the brilliant man. He's kind and sensitive. He still can't cook anything and is by far most practically challenged person I know. But he's a sweet husband who can't be away from his wife Miriam for more than a few hours. And he is a very engaged father to Bruno, the happiest boy in the world, and most recently little Lilly.

Bruno, happy and sweet, with just a bit of wildness...    

        It turns out, Bruno has inherited not just Simon's positive and happy outlook on life, but a bit of his arrogance. Not too long ago, Simon was trying to give Bruno medicine and promised him a present if he swallowed it. Bruno, his father's son, not missing a beat, said "Good bye, Daddy." When Simon asked him why he was saying goodbye, Bruno's response was "Daddy is going to buy a present now," and gulped down the medicine.

        Oh, and did I mention Simon was recently named the eighth sexiest man in Swedish finance? I'm not just including that because I'm a proud sister, but also to show I still have the power to embarrass and humiliate my sweet 'lillebror', from thousands of miles away. 

The motivation reads; "Simon Blecher is the type of finance guy who knows everyone and everything, and who is known as 'a nice guy.' He loves the spot light and participates eagerly in interviews and seminars, where he happily analyzes companies and tells you what his current favorite stocks are. A success story, he truly shines in his expensive suits. Next time you see him, he's probably having lunch with a big CEO at Sturehof."

 

 

 

My First Wedding

        Yeah, sorry. Not mine. The first one I attended. It was my mother's. It was her second wedding and it took place on June 6th, 1976, so 35 years ago tomorrow. Interestingly enough, there are no photos of me from this wedding. It seems strange now, in an era where children from previous marriages are included in wedding ceremonies with new partners, to make sure they don't feel left out. But that's exactly how it was. We were left out. No pink dress or flower girl responsibilities for me. I wore a denim overall dress and sat in the benches, with other guests. I remember crying. Why? Why was this other person coming into our life? Why was he "taking" our mother?

        And after? Ulrik and I were taken home by a baby sitter. No party for us. I remember my mom and Nicke (my stepdad) getting into a limo or some other fancy car, and I ran up to it, wanting to get in with them. But I wasn't allowed and they drove off. I was five and a half, and hysterically crying. For all I knew, they were never coming back. So, I don't have fond memories of this day, on the contrary, it was a traumatic experience for me because I didn't understand what was going on, and I don't remember anyone explaining it to me. My mom says she doesn't know if we understood what was going on or not, but that everything worked out.

        The ceremony took place at the "big synagogue" in Stockholm. For those of you familiar with Stockholm, the synagogue is located right behind hotel, restaurant, and night club, Berns. For those of you familiar with "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo," the scene where Officer Bublanski is interrupted in the middle of praying, was filmed here. This is also where a few years ago, a cantor forgot to turn his microphone off, and stepped out to make a phone call to his girlfriend, which was then heard by the entire congregation over loudspeakers. Including his wife. 

        There are three synagogues in Stockholm, two orthodox and one conservative, and the "big synagogue" is the conservative one. It's called the "big synagogue" because it's by Swedish standards, very big. Definitely bigger than the other two. It features an organ and there has been a bit of a debate through the years about whether or not to play it on shabbat and holidays, as this is a conservative synagogue and not a reform one, but it's typically used. 

        The "big synagogue" is where I had my Bat Mitzvah and if was after that, in 1982, that Ulrik and I were invited to join the choir, which we promptly did. We were the youngest members of the choir, and I'd like to say we joined because we were inspired to sing Hebrew prayers, but I think our reasons were a bit more shallow than that.

Bat Mitzvah girl, December 4, 1982

        Singing in the choir was an exclusive way of attending services. We were seated on the highest balcony, which meant we could see everything and everyone. We were also separate from our parents, who would insist on our following along in the praying. Up top, no one could see us, so we could read comic books if we wanted. And we did. Finally, we got paid, maybe ten or twenty dollars per service. Enough to make us way excited to go to temple.

       But back to the wedding. My mother felt she should probably not wear white as she had been married before. And she loves green, so that's what she picked. She swopped a veil for the hat for the same reason. The night before Nicke spent the night in his apartment, but kept on calling for a myriad of reasons because he was nervous. One of the calls was that he had forgotten to arrange for the bouquet - I guess it was common for the groom to handle that in those days. Turns out that part was a joke, but my Mom stayed calm, got her bouquet, and got hitched. 

Happy 35th Anniversary!

 

My First Photo Shoot

        
            Boy, am I gonna get in trouble for this one. Thank god I'm thousands and thousands of miles away, because I can't imagine "he who must not be named" (but who's face you're about to see multiple times) is cool with having his sweet face plastered all over this blog. I suppose I could use the cropping feature. But I'm not nearly as cute on my own, much better as the smaller half of a duo.

        Our mother used to take us to a professional photographer in Helsingborg when we were little. It looks like my first photo shoot took place in 1971, because it seems I've just learned to sit and Ulrik looks like he's hitting the toddler age.

         From then, the posing seems to have gotten slightly more sophisticated, but of course, one very important aspect remained. We were always photographed in matching outfits. Always. Which I thought one really only did with twins. 

        The stories our mother used to tell about this phase of our lives was; a) we were so cute people would stop us on the street, b) the photographer always kept our photo in the window for promotional purposes, for the same reason, and c) people usually assumed my mother was some sort of baby sitter as she looked way too young to have kids. (She was 20 when she had Ulrik, and had just turned 22 when she had me.) 

        Clearly where my super short bang phase starts. Whoa. The hair in the back had already been chopped as I'd always get food and other things stuck in my hair. I was obviously not destined for ribboned pig tails and butterfly clipped braids. I imagine this haircut lasted for months and months. 

        This is the last one before the cuteness ends, and we both entered into the awkward teenage years, with teeth coming in a bit funny, and features growing in spurts before settling. So perhaps it's lucky that I don't have any more professional photos. 

  

         In going through the old photos, I found that the matching outfits weren't just for the days we had our picture taken, but permeated our entire childhood. It seems so uncreative and thwarting in individualism and independence. How was I supposed to find my own identity if I was always dressed like the male, older version of myself? 

   

        Perhaps this is why, even with the long blonde hair and the red finger nails, I feel like I have to work at showing my feminine side. Like it doesn't just come out naturally. I'm way tougher than I am demure and girly, and feel like my energy gets a little masculine at times. Maybe this is also why I've felt like one part of a duo most of my life. Don't get me wrong, Ulrik and I are as different as two people can be, but even though we've been geographically separated for almost 20 years, I still feel like one part of a two-parter. Like, Ulrik, part two.

        Maybe I'm reading too much into this and the reason for the matching outfits wasn't to confuse my whole existence, but maybe it was just easier to shop that way. "I'll take one red and one blue." Maybe it was because we looked so darn cute being matchy-matchy. Also, our grandmother Celina helped by knitting many a matching, itching sweaters for us to wear. 

        The plot thickened as I found the following photo of us with our uncle Ulf. It shows another sibling pair in the background, in matching shirts and shorts, also deprived of originality. So perhaps it was just a thing of the seventies? I guess so. And now I have to go and find another reason to explain all my childhood identity issues. Stay tuned. 

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 Concert

                

    When I started to write this blog, I had no idea which concert was the first one. There were three concerts from the eighties that stood out in my memory, Sting's "Dream of the Blue Turtles" tour, George Michael's "Faith" tour, and last but certainly not least, Prince's "Sign☮ the Times" tour.

    I dug around in my memory box and found the corresponding "concert scarves." Yep, I was one of those people who got the scarves. Held them up during the concert and wore them proudly afterwords. And thought to myself "one day these are going to be worth something." The George Michael scarf said 1988, so he was out. (Bad pun not intended but taken nonetheless.) I googled all three and found that George played Stockholm in 1988, Prince in 1987, and Sting in 1985.

    So, my first concert was Sting at Isstadion in Stockholm, on November 22nd in 1985. This is so funny to me, because I was about to turn 15, and I would have thought I was more hip than that. Don't get me wrong, Sting is great. I'm a huge fan of The Police, and although "The Dream of the Blue Turtles" has "If You Love Someone, Set Them Free," it's not exactly what a supercool 14-year-old listened to in the eighties, or was it?

    I remember everything about that Prince concert, including spending the night outside Isstadion in the freezing cold to get tickets, and almost making it up on stage to dance with Prince. The music stopped just as Jerome Benton reached his hand down to pull me up. I also remember how dreamy George Michael was when he played "Faith," of course wearing the jacket from the video. But Sting. Hmm. 

       

Isstadion 1955, during the conversion in 1961, and today next to the Globe

    The concert took place at Isstadion (meaning 'ice stadium') which has a bit of an interesting history itself. Built as an outdoor arena for ice-hockey, it opened in 1955, and was converted to an indoor arena in 1962, so that the stadium could host both ice-hockey and concerts without concern for the weather. Isstadion was Stockholm's biggest arena (holds 8,300 at concerts) until 1989, when Globen ('the globe') was built right next to it, completely eclipsing it and everything else around. In 2002 it was renovated and now has smaller concerts and ice-hockey again. 

The Beatles played there in 1964 for about a dollar

    But back to Sting and "The Dream Of The Blue Turtles," which was named for a dream he had. About blue turtles incidentally. I'm now listening to it. To remember something. Anything. Did I sing? Did I dance? And who did I go with? I think I went with a boy from my high school, Calle Colliander but I'm not sure, and I can't find him on Facebook to check. 

    I googled the set list, and it looks like it was a pretty good night. 

1. Shadows in the Rain
2. Driven to Tears
3. Consider Me Gone
4. Children's Crusade
5. One World
6. Love is the Seventh Wave
7. We Work The Black Seam
8. Bring On The Night
9. When the World is Running Down, You Make the Best of What's Still Around
10. Moon Over Bourbon Street
11. Fortress Around Your Heart
12. Low Life
13. I Burn For You
14. If You Love Someone Set Them Free

Encore 1: Roxanne, Russians, Tea in The Sahara, Walking on the Moon, Every Breath You Take. 

Encore 2: The Dream Of The Blue Turtles, Demolition Man

Encore 3: Message in a Bottle

    I suppose I should apologize for not remembering enough to make this a super interesting and worthy "First" blog entry. I would have love to have written about how CRAZY Sting was on stage, how drunk we were, how absolutely hard core the audience was, jumping up and down, maybe even say something about all the shit that happened in the "mosh pit," but somehow, I doubt there was one. 

     What I will say is that going to this concert obviously struck some sort of chord with me, as I became an avid concert goer, first in Sweden, and now here. I stopped buying the scarves after my second Prince show at Isstadion in 1988, the "Lovesexy" tour, however, I have saved most of my ticket stubs, some of which you can see above.

    I LOVE going to concerts. When I go to concerts, my whole being is elevated. I'm on my feet, singing and dancing whether it's the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Paul Simon, Van Morrison, Bob Dylan, Paul McCartney, Tom Petty, or even The Police, whose reunion tour I went to a few years ago.

     
My Trinity

    But, the artists/band I've seen the most is Prince, U2 and Bruce Springsteen. Because seeing them in concert is not just entertaining and uplifting, but it's a soulful, religious, heart opening experience, with full-on, sad days of withdrawal afterwords. For them I've driven to Anaheim, San Diego, San Francisco and flown to New York. For them I would go to the end of the world.  

My First Best Friend

Original best friend (and best man at my wedding) Ulrik

    When coming upon this "first" in the long list, I immediately knew that I would be blogging about Calli, my best friend from grade school. But then I had this tiny little thought, that my original first best friend was my brother Ulrik, simply because he was right there from the day I was born. To have a sibling who is close in age is to have a best friend sort of built in. You don't need to go and ring anyone's door bell and ask if they can come out and play, you just play.

    So Ulrik and I played together, in sickness and in health; soccer, land hockey, card games, and best of all, a made-up indoor slalom game. It entailed us wearing ski goggles, running down the hall as quickly as we could, with poles in our hands, leaning to the left and right to avoid cones. It was timed and Ulrik would ski as Ingmar Stenmark, while I'd ski as Phil Mahre or whoever was second in the world at the time. 

Lake Placid 1980; Ulrik (Stenmark) won the gold and I (Phil Mahre) the silver

    One day I hope to be able to write something about Ulrik without getting into trouble. I'd write about what a ridiculously cool, handsome and super loyal brother he is, and what an extraordinary dad he is to Lucas, Alexandra and Nicholas. I'd probably also write that one of the most difficult things about living in America is that it is a life without him, if you don't count texting and skyping. But for now, because it seems everything I write is too intimate and embarrassing, I'll shut it. I've probably already said too much, so I will focus on my first best girlfriend.  

Calli on the right in her busnel cap   

     Caroline "Calli" Sallmander started in my class in second grade. Looks wise, we were opposites. Calli had dark, thick hair and was taller than I was. I don't remember what it was that had us connect and become best friends but we had a lot of fun and  "stayed together" for quite a few years.

     Calli had a great sense of style that I quickly adapted, probably on account of both her parents being in the fashion industry. It consisted of dark jeans, Lacoste polo shirts with the collar always up from under a sweatshirt, and burgundy or navy loafers with tassels. In the winter time, she wore a striped Busnel cap, while mine was a solid burgundy. 

     Calli and I had a secret club, which was named "CMK," (Calli & Marika Klubben) and our nicknames for each other were "Majken" and "Cajken." Calli had eczema on the inside of her arms and as her best friend, I took it upon myself to stop her from scratching when she got itchy, by slapping her hands away. I think she was allergic to fish, and citrus fruits. 

    Calli lived pretty close to school, at Karlavägen 117, and I lived in a suburb, so our play dates mostly took place at her family's apartment. We were usually supervised by Diddi, the Sallmanders' housekeeper, who was the most incredible little lady ever. She was from the far north, from a place called Korpilombolo if I remember correctly. This gave her a bit of a funny and slightly Finnish sounding accent. Diddi was kind and patient and made delicious sandwiches and cookies. She even sent me a post card while visiting her family one time, and I still have it. 

    Calli and I would get into a fair amount of trouble while Diddi was off making afternoon snacks. One afternoon after school, Calli and I sneaked into one of her older sisters' room and hid under the bed. I can't remember if it was Lotta or Catti, but there was a guy over and they were talking or kissing when they discovered we were in there, from the giggles coming from underneath the bed. We got chased out with threats of beatings and big trouble. 

    Another pastime was making crank calls. We'd sneak upstairs to her parents bedroom and use the phone there, so Diddi wouldn't hear us. We'd look in the phone book and find someone with the last name of Storm or Rain or Lightning, call them and say "Is this Storm?" The idea was they'd say "yes," and then we'd say "well, hold onto your hat then." I can't take credit for coming up with this brilliant scheme, it was the standard crank call for kids to make in Sweden at that time, and although it might sound grammatically incorrect, it worked in Swedish. Especially because people answer the phone by saying their last name. 

    What didn't work was the actual execution, because we'd start laughing so hard we'd both get bright red, close to peeing our pants and unable to get anything out. Ocasionally we'd get the "Is this Storm?" part out, but that's as far as I remember us getting. Still, a fun way to spend an afternoon. 

    For whatever reason, our parents' vacation schedules never seemed to fit, so we ended up going to Glämsta Summer Camp during different sessions, and as a result, there were a lot of letters and post cards mailed between us. She would send post cards from her summer house in Stavnäs to me at Glämsta or in Skåne, if I was visiting my dad and grandparents. If I was at Glämsta, her letters had long lists of people to kiss from her. One such letter says; "sending you a thousand kisses, 50 to you, 50 to Danny, and 900 to Morgan." I guess she had a thing for Morgan Wald. She always signed off, "din bästis," which means "your best friend" in Swedish. Sweet. 

My only photo of Calli and I, out on the ice at Glämsta's winter session in 1980

    As everything fun and happy in life, my time with Calli as my "bästis" came to an end. I don't remember how it all went down, our smaller class had turned bigger and there were other girls around so I suppose we grew apart. But for the years we were together, she was the sweetest, funniest and most considerate best friend a girl could have. 

My First Day of School

        I'm starting to really love writing this blog. It's making me nostalgic but in a sweet, happy way. There is so much I remember...so many silly details and memories that I never thought I'd actually need to recount. They've been stored in the basement of my brain and for this blog, I get to go down there, dust some of them off, bring them upstairs and share them. And I'm having fun doing it. 

    I remember what I wore on my first day of school. It was a pink poncho with white piping that my mother had knit. I loved that thing. The other thing I remember about that day, was that we were told to sit in alphabetical order according to last names. Imagine my happiness when my mother recently found the photographic evidence of my memories. There I am in my pink poncho, sitting next to Allon Batsrawe. B before C. Allon was about to develop a habit of chewing on his pencils so from this day forward, he would always have tiny pieces of yellow pencil wood on his lips. In fact, he probably has a yellow pencil in his mouth in this photo, but it's hard to tell because his hand is in the way.

    I remember the red clogs. Not sure why I paired them with black socks, but I suppose it's an indication of the early development of my individual style. I still don't like to look too girly and prefer pairing a sweet dress with chunky boots to the more obvious pretty sandals... 

    It was August of 1977, I was 6 years and 8 months old, and I remember being excited about finally starting school, since I had been in Kindergarten for two years, by accident. When I say "by accident" I mean, my mother dropped Ulrik off at Kindergarten one day and had an errand to run, so she asked if she could leave me there for just an hour. I guess she forgot about me, because it wasn't until she came back at the end of the day to pick Ulrik up, that she realized that she'd left me there for the whole day. The good news was, I had been so well behaved and delightful that they agreed to let me start a year early.  

    And so it was that I was more than ripe for first grade. The school I was starting was Hillel School, a Jewish private school in the middle of Stockholm. It was like any other school, except for there was a security guard and iron gates protecting it from the general Swedish population, who probably had no idea it was there, as not all Swedes are familiar with Jews and Judaism. There was kosher food served for lunch, and we learned about, and celebrated Jewish holidays. We started learning Hebrew in the first grade and English in the third grade. 

The photographer told Allon to lean into me or else he might not get in the photo :)

    My first grade teacher was Agneta Nilsson. She was only with us for one or two years, but I loved her. She had long, beautiful reddish blonde hair, (so not Jewish) and was kind but firm. One day she came to school with all her beautiful hair gone. It was cropped to about shoulder length and permed and on that day she wore a peasant style, burgundy velvet dress that tied in the back. We all noticed her new hairstyle and there was a fair amount of buzz in the classroom. Zarina raised her hand and when called upon, asked, "did you get a haircut?" Agneta patiently replied in the affirmative to this obvious question, to which Zarina countered with "I liked it better before."

    Some people laughed but Agneta wasn't amused. Instead she asked us all to settle down, and said she was going to explain something very important to us. It turned out to be one of those life lessons that has stuck with me since. I thought Agneta was impenetrable. That because she was a grown-up and a teacher, she couldn't have her feelings hurt. But that's exactly what had happened. And she told us that. I don't remember exactly what she said next, but it was something to the extent of "if you can't find something nice to say, don't say anything at all."

    I still believe in and live by that motto. It's not always easy. Since I'm quite expressive and outspoken, it's obvious when I don't have something nice to say...but I suppose it has forced me to look deeper and find the good stuff in everything and with everyone. And that's not a bad pastime.

 

My First Car

    There it is. My first car. I think my mother took this picture, delighted that at 22, I was finally driving. I didn't have a driver's license in Sweden because I didn't pass the test. Before you laugh and judge me though, I dare any of you to take a driving test in Sweden.

           

                                  A selection of Swedish traffic signs...

    First of all, you have to know ALL the traffic signs. All of them. And don't think they won't throw that weird one in, you know the one that tells you deaf people are in the vicinity. Or the one where little baby elks might have left excrement on the road. And you have to know mechanical things. I was delighted to pass after hours of sweating, and was pretty arrogant heading into the driving portion. 

    My false confidence stemmed from the fact that I had been driving my older brother Ulrik's golden colored Honda around town (which my pro-Israeli mother aptly named "Golda.")  Of course, I had been driving it on my own, without permission. He was doing his military service in the far north, so it was just sitting there in a parking area by our house. I would wait for everyone to leave in the morning, then take the car to school, getting back before anyone else did, and parking it in the same space. Until the day I drove it into a ditch. I got it out with the help of some friends, but from then on, I only used it in "emergencies." 

My downfall...

    But back to the driving test. It was in the roundabout I got stuck. Literally. I couldn't get out gracefully, or at all during my driving test, so I took another go around. No big deal. It's not like spending the day trying to get out of a roundabout is going to injure other drivers. And in my defense, it was a two-laner, which is difficult to navigate. I didn't pass and since it's easier to take the bus or underground everywhere you go in Stockholm anyways, I gave up. 

    Until I was 21, living in Los Angeles, where you clearly need a car. I went to the DMV having glanced at the booklet with sample questions, and passed the written test in a few minutes, like most people do. When the instructor got into the car I had borrowed for the occasion, he looked at the stick shift, then at me. "Wow, you drive a stick?" He was impressed. I drove around the block once and got my license. 

    I got the car on my 22nd birthday. I lived on Stanley Avenue at the time and was getting ready to spend my usual hour and a half on the bus to get to school in Santa Monica. Every morning I would walk down Beverly to Fairfax, taking the bus on the corner, then switching to the Santa Monica bus once I got to Pico. The Santa Monica Bus was always cleaner and the crowd was a bit more "high class," as this bus was westbound, passing Century City and Westwood on the way to the beach. It also meant the "accidental" ass grab or general "pressing up against" was more rare than on the southbound route. 

    A good Israeli friend at the time, Chaim, had a spare maroon colored Buick Regal that ran but wasn't worth much, and showed up in the middle of my birthday breakfast, giving me a little box with the keys inside. And no, there was no exchange of bodily fluids to precipitate the gift, nor was there a gratitude romp afterwords. Just a good friend helping to put an end to Swedish bus groping. 

    I loved that car so much. Not just because it was my very own, or because it was my first, but because the only other people driving Buicks at the time, were either old Jewish people, or African American crews with hip-hop blasting out of the speakers. I felt part of an odd, quirky crowd and I liked it. 

Dr. Alan D. Buckley still teaches Poli Sci at CSUN & SMC

    I even named him. "Buckley," after my political science teacher, Alan Buckley. Alan Buckley wasn't particularly suave or attractive, but his theories on American politics and the manner in which he presented those theories, caused those of us who sat in the front row of his class to flutter with excitement, and from what I understand, garner the nick name "Buckley's Pets" by the rest of the class. 

    I drove that thing until it died. In hindsight I see the benefits of the comprehensive Swedish driver's test. Had I paid attention to the mechanical car portion, I would have known that the blinking yellow light means that you need to change or refill the oil. By the time someone told me, it was already too late for Buckley. He died on the side of the road one day on my way to school, and he was never revived, but instead, sold for scraps.

     I think of Buckley quite fondly when I pull up alongside a maroon Buick Regal. And I still chuckle to myself when I hear that line from 2Pac & Snoop's "2 of Amerikaz Most Wanted" where Snoop raps that he's gonna "get scooped up by the little homey in the Regal." You see, I'm pretty sure that if I still had my Regal, I'd be the little homey scooping him up for all sorts of adventures.

My First Celebrity Crush

    It didn't take long for my album cover to get worn out right around John Travolta's lips. I gave Olivia Newton-John some attention too, but not in the same way. I used real nail polish to enhance her red fingernails on the cover. But then it was all John and I. Looking at each other. Listening to the soundtrack, especially his solo effort, "Sandy." Talking with low voices so no one could hear. Especially not Olivia. And then the gentle kissing. 

    I really loved Danny Zuko. The blue eyes/dark hair is still my combo of choice with the gentlemen...makes me weak in the knees. Probably because I'm still looking to fulfill the Danny Zuko fantasy on some level...

    After Danny, I loved Tony Manero. Like Danny, Tony was obsessed with his hair, overly cocky, a true ladies man, while at the same time an incredible dancer. What more could a girl want?

    Then came Bud Davis. My interest fizzled a bit. I did enjoy him but there was too much fighting and drama in this film...not enough dancing and sparkle for me. 

    Yeah, I know. This still photo from "Staying Alive," seems so creepy and homo-erotic now. But this was the eighties, and men legitimately wore leg warmers and bandanas then. Riiiight? If my interest had fizzled with "Urban Cowboy," it sizzled with the return of Tony Manero in this follow up to "Saturday Night Fever." I loved the oily thighs and the big dance finale with fire, smoke and flashing lights. Co-written and directed by none other than Sly Stallone. 

    "Staying Alive" also has what must be one of the coolest lines of all time. At the end of the film, Tony's girlfriend asks him what he wants to do, having conquered the stage, and everything else that matters to him. He responds, "I wanna strut," and takes off down Times Square with The Bee Gees' "Stayin' Alive" playing. Awesome final scene. 

     It was all I could think about when I met him years later; the strut, the various roles that had tantalized me so, but most of all, that worn "Grease" album cover, and my secret dream that one day, I would be near him. It happened at a photo shoot for a movie Lisa had made with John right before I started working for her.

    I was introduced and shook his hand. It was a firm, yet gentle shake, he was lovely, incredibly present and kind. Although there was much less of that gorgeous black hair, his eyes were still as deep blue and mesmerizing as in any and every movie I'd seen. And no, I didn't bring up how I had utilized the album cover, but in my mind I was screaming, "I've made out with you!!!" and giggled to myself.

    When I worked for Lisa, I would always get giddy when they called from Mr. Travolta's office, and arranging for his yearly birthday gift from her was a treat. Not for creepy or stalky reasons, but because I thought it was sweet that all those years ago, on the carpeted living room floor of a small house, in a suburb of Stockholm, nine-year-old Marika had so eagerly pressed her young lips onto a photo of his 24-year-old lips, dreaming of meeting him, but never actually thinking it would happen.

    Just as my first day working for Lisa had happened to be on John Travolta's birthday, fate would have it that my last day was on his birthday, exactly five years later. Thus, my last task to close out a deliriously happy and fantastic era was to arrange for his birthday gift, giving me one more opportunity to think about him and giggle to myself. 

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.