It
was Sunday afternoon, around 2pm, and after
spending twenty minutes wrestling with four keys, three doors and a touch-sensor-key-pad-lock-thing
(the technical term, of course) I was finally able to open my new front door. I did so without a moment’s hesitation and,
if I remember correctly, a little dance of excitement followed. Anybody who knows me will know that dancing
is not something that comes naturally, so I think that says everything. It was clean and beautiful and big. I hopped about, flinging open doors and
discovering walk in wardrobes, en suites, sofas, heated window benches.
As there was nobody around, I eagerly scrambled around in my
suitcase for my laptop in order to share my excitement with, failing all else,
the world. I was so enthusiastic in this
endeavour that as I pulled my charger from the case, I somehow managed to snap
one of the plug pins off in the process.
Had it been a cartoon sketch, there would have been a loud ‘duh’ sound
shortly followed by a light bulb image appearing as I frantically attempted
some dodgy electrical work involving the broken charger and an adaptor. Perhaps needless to say, this did not work,
and I was left with a broken adaptor too.
Wonderful.
Things have, however, looked up from there. That evening, I met four girls living in my
building and we ate pizza. That in
itself was an experience as when Suzanne asked for pizza and chips, she received
this:
The next day was, no word of a lie, about on par with all my
Christmasses coming at once as I got to fulfil a lifelong dream and go to Ikea
in its homeland. There isn’t really much
to tell of this experience of this except: it was great. Great.
And I stole all of the little pencils, which is standard procedure. Later that evening, we went to visit somebody
in another block of halls, which ended slightly terrifyingly. We knew that the trams ran all night but had
not yet discovered at this point that they stop before you reach our
accommodation. As everybody got off the
tram, we sat looking dazed for a while before a Swedish woman pointed to the
bus which apparently took up the journey from there. We boarded this bus and had gone a few stops
before it occurred to us that the bus obviously was not following the tram track
and therefore would not go to the same stop.
A bit more panic followed before we decided to just get off the bus and
walk back. We had gone a little way on
the bus by this point though and as we began walking the deserted streets on
the outskirts of Gothenburg, it struck us that we had no idea where to go or how
long it would take. It was 1am at this
point and we had to be up again at 7.30am; a long night looked to be ahead of
us.
We had been going for a little while when we looked to the right
and noticed that we were walking alongside a graveyard. Being the erratic and ridiculous girls that
we are, at this discovery we immediately began a full speed sprint, arms flailing
and screaming. In fact, this was the
best thing that could have happened as an approaching bus thought that we were running
for it and stopped to let us on.
Hallelujah. When we finally got
back, I rushed into my room and double locked the door, continuing along the
path of illogical fear.
Other events of the past week have included a welcome reception
with the mayor, during which we took full advantage of the free wine and drank
her out of house and home, an accidental visit to a death metal club, a tram
stop called Elisedal, a very hungover bus tour, being shunned for wearing shorts
and lots of Fika (coffee and cinnamon buns, basically). Hervee, a Belgian friend who lives in my
flat, also introduced me to the utter joy that is a tequila slammer with orange
and cinnamon in place of salt and lime, which is something I thoroughly recommend.
Despite having only been here a week, it’s safe to say that
Gothenburg feels like home already. From
my very earliest memories, I’ve been saying to anybody who will listen that I
want to live everywhere, absolutely everywhere, and for the first time I’ve
moved away and am living in a very certain somewhere. As I prize myself from my bed each morning
and stagger to the kettle (and by kettle, I am really referring to a small
saucepan of water on the hob), it all feels so normal that it’s hard to believe
that I’ve finally done it and left and that this morning cup of tea is
happening somewhere non-English speaking and non-Tetley drinking. But it is, and thank God for that.
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