Do you occasionally have these “Where am I and what am I doing” moments? Moments when you suddenly see yourself from without, as though you had stepped out for a while and have just come back, and now can’t figure out how in the world you’ve ended up where you are? I do.
Last night I suddenly found myself standing in the middle of a country road, as the last light evaporated in the west, standing behind a group of eight Swedish people, all holding perfectly still.
No one made a sound. Around us, little mounds of snow were scattered through the fields. A brook trickled with meltwater a short ways off. In the far distance, vehicles could be heard on the motorway. There were clouds overhead, the trees swayed almost imperceptibly, and it was almost totally dark.
What am I doing here?
It occurred to me that, not only did I not really know these people, I had never spoken a word of English to them. They didn’t know me either. They generally knew I was an American, though some thought I was Canadian. My thoughts fluttered like bats. We are four thousand miles from Canada. Out in the country, surrounded by cows, in the north of Sweden. And I live here. I own a car in the north of Sweden. It has a Swedish trailer hitch, which was put on by a Swedish mechanic, named Rolf, also out in the country, by a lake surrounded by cows. I do not have my car now. I rode out here with someone named Per-Arne, a nice fellow who looks too old to drive, but drives very well, albeit slowly. His wife is right now sitting in the car, drinking my peppermint tea. Where is my wife, by the way?
What am I doing here?
Indeed, what were we all doing out there on a country road, after dark, in the cold? We were looking for owls.
Annelie and I have joined a birdwatching class. We meet once a week, and sometimes look for birds, and sometimes just have “bird theory”. It’s taught by a lovely fellow named Stefan who knows a great deal and speaks very clearly. This is crucial for me, since the whole thing is in Swedish. I already know a fair amount about birds, but I don’t know words like tars and övergump, let alone the names of birds like myrsnäppa and skärpiplärka. I’m learning a lot about birds and about Swedish.
We’re also meeting some of the locals, which is a good thing. We hardly know anyone here yet, at least outside our colleagues at the university. The people in the group are very nice; they remind me a bit of the people back in Ann Arbor. Except they’re Swedish, and they’ve never eaten at Zingerman’s. But they bring their fika (snacks) with them every evening, and we have our little fikapaus in the middle of class. Swedes are extremely snack-break-oriented. This is one of the things I am learning.
So here I am, standing out on a country road, after dark, with a handful of newly post-snack Swedes who are standing there as though auditioning for Close Encounters. We are listening for a pärluggla, but we don’t hear one. It’s getting quite cold, and quite late. For reasons I don’t fully understand, my wife is in Poland.
Remarkably, I am having a good time. I am getting along with these people, who appear to find my little jokes and mispronunciations charming. The landscape is breathtaking—a mix of coniferous and hardwood forest, rolling hills and reedy lakes, stone churches lighted up on hilltops, farmhouses on ridges, painted red and white and surrounded by apple trees. And we have seen a number of birds: cranes, swans, geese, ducks, woodcocks, lapwings, a buzzard, even a horned owl, which flew past, close enough for me to get quite a decent look at it. So the day is saved, even if we don’t hear a pärluggla.
People do all manner of things. But the reasons why they do them aren’t always obvious. Looking for owls seems a bit frivolous, I will allow. But seeing the country, learning about nature, getting to know a place, and getting to know people—these are certainly things that are worthwhile.
So as I come back to myself, I find that, strange as what I am doing may be, everything is all right. As long as Per-Arne can get me home again.