360 Degrees Longitude (14 page)

Sweden was not on our radar screen when we left Zermatt; our intention had been to stay in Eastern Europe until we could resume cycling and camping. Yet around the time I was putting foot powder on my cornflakes, September simply announced that we were going to Sweden. “It'll be easier to find an English-speaking doctor for Katrina's follow-up exam,” she noted. I couldn't argue that, as we had already speculated that everyone in Scandinavia speaks excellent English. Lutefisk had to be better than cornflakes mixed with Dr. Scholl's, so it was arranged.

We took a ferry from Gdansk to Gotland Island, Sweden, situated in the Baltic Sea 110 miles south of Stockholm. Gotland, literally “God's Land,” was a Viking stronghold for centuries and the main city of Visby is now considered one of the best-preserved medieval cities in Scandinavia. Visby was hosting a medieval festival and on the Internet, September had found a cabin for us. The cabin gave us something we hadn't had since we left Silicon Valley—a mailing address.

When we arrived we found the cabin was surrounded by forest, situated on a cliff overlooking the bay that surrounds the town of Visby. When we first walked inside we took a look at the dining room table and found a large package waiting for us—our August shipment of books! It cost about three times the value of the contents of the package to have it FedEx-ed from the United States to Sweden, but it arrived on time. Our July shipment of books was still at the mercy of the U.S. Post Office.

Not only was our package of books waiting for us, but also friends had sent Katrina and Jordan a care package. It was better than Christmas. “COOL!” Jordan shouted, climbing the furniture and jumping from the kitchen table to the couch, his way of coping with the flood of emotions that came with the new
Essential Fantastic Four
comic book he received.

After Jordan's Fantastic Fill, we ventured inside the old city walls to the medieval festival. Entrepreneurs had set up booths to sell their wares and the townsfolk and tourists alike were dressed in period clothes.

“Omigoshlookatallthecoolknivesandweapons!” Jordan started talking so fast and excitedly that all the words ran together. The focal point for all this enthusiasm was stall after stall of shiny weaponry: bows, arrows, spears, knives, battle-axes, maces. You know, the run-of-the-mill stuff that any knight in shining armor or Freddy Krueger wannabe would need. All available for sale, all available for any hyperactive eight-year-old to handle and impale himself with in a spasmodic frenzy of activity.

Jordan picked up one particularly massive-looking sword and started to wield it in a fashion that should not be allowed in public. I rushed over to avoid a reproduction of the Black Knight scene from
Monty Python and the Holy Grail
. “Wow,” he exclaimed as I helped him put the sword back in the scabbard, “they would never let you do that in America.”

“Right you are, my boy. And for good reason.”

Mixed in with all the weaponry was Ye Olde Tie-Dye Shoppe and Ye Olde Internet Café. At the grocery store we observed battle-axe-wielding Vikings helping their fair maidens peruse produce.

“There's a jousting tournament tonight,” September commented after reading a brochure. “Could be interesting.”

“What's that?” Jordan asked.

“It's a demonstration of how to use all these weapons,” I replied.

“Cool!”

The “cool” tag should have been a warning. The men and women who participate in these tournaments are certifiable.

Later that night Katrina's wheelchair scored us front-row seats at the tournament. Brandishing a 15-foot-long lance, two “knights” would charge at each other on horseback at full gallop. The sole safety measure in place was that instead of an armor-piercing point, the lance had a spherical cushion about the size of a volleyball. There was a convincing thud on impact, throwing the loser off his horse. The time lag between the person hitting the ground and when he actually started moving again was a signal that these tournaments are not faked.

It didn't take long for us to understand that the Swedes take jousting seriously. “That hurt,” I said. “He's not moving.”

“How do you know it's a he?” Katrina asked. “They're in full armor.”

“Women aren't that stupid,” September replied.

When the archers came out and started shooting real arrows in a show of their marksmanship, September was not amused. “All it would take is a tiny slip and those arrows would come straight at us!” It was one of the few times that I wasn't grateful for front-row seats.

“You can hear the arrow slice through the air!” Jordan exclaimed. When the real arrows gave way to flaming arrows, we gave up our premium seats and opted for five rows of human shields for the remainder of the tournament.

• • •

The day of Katrina's four-week checkup arrived. Visby Tourist Information helped us to make an appointment at the local hospital.

“Dr. Julen told me that I might be able to get a cast after four weeks where I could bend my knee,” Katrina said as we made our way to her appointment. “I would really like that.”

Dr. Julen had given us the original X-ray before we left Zermatt. We found that our Swedish doctor was a semi-retired Dane working in Visby for the duration of the summer tourist season. The hospital was new and sparkling clean and our doctor probably spoke better English than I did. It was impossible to tell if we were in Sweden or California.

The doctor took the original X-ray and put it side by side with the one he had just taken. “Katrina's leg is healing nicely,” he said, “but it is still much too early to replace this cast with one that would allow her to bend her knee.”

I looked at the two X-rays, and to my untrained eyes, they looked no different from each other.

The doctor continued, “We cannot disturb the healing process by replacing the cast with a shorter one. There is still a visible five-millimeter gap at the break point.”

We were all disappointed. Katrina tried her best not to show it; we dealt with the setback by not discussing it. We shuffled to the payment desk and paid our bill. It suddenly became clear we weren't in California.

“We just got an X-ray and consultation for 50 dollars,” I commented to September as we walked away. “At that price, we should get two.”

“One's enough,” September said. “Let's go home.” By now it was natural to refer to the place where our stuff was as “home.”

When we arrived we found a note: Our friends' friends in Paris had received the package of books that had been mailed more than two months prior. Excited, we arranged to have it FedEx-ed to us in Visby. Within the space of a week we had gone from being marooned in a virtual book desert to being able to compete with the local library.

• • •

One of the things that gives Gotland Island its character is the Viking Village, a working museum that keeps the old traditions alive. But old traditions aren't always worth keeping alive. Two days after we had flaming arrows shot at us during the jousting tournament, we found ourselves once again running for cover at the Viking Village, where anyone who wanted could go to the axe-throwing booth, pick up an axe, and give it a toss. Or the archery booth, the mace booth, and so on.

We stood in line to test our own axe-throwing powers. When it was my turn, I reached for an axe; if I hurled it hard enough it would either stick into a pile of logs or bounce off them, ricocheting back to test my reflexes.

“One at a time,” a young man said in perfect English. He then motioned to a little boy, about three years old, to take his turn. I had noticed the little boy, but assumed he was with an adult, never dreaming he was actually waiting for a turn.

“You can't be serious,” September said. “He can barely lift the axe! Where are his parents?”

The little boy hurled the axe and it landed about three inches past his toes. September was upset that the Viking Village would let a toddler throw an axe and she let the young man next to the booth know it.

“I don't work here, ma'am. My friends and I like to hang out here, that's all.”

“You know,” I said, walking away, “this morning I was reading a news article that was headlined, ‘Sweden bans import of irradiated food.' It's one of the EU stumbling blocks.”

“So, what you're saying,” September said with a mixture of frustration and utter befuddlement, “is my health is protected from the onslaught of irradiated tomatoes, but…”

“… one ill-timed stumble could cause you and your radiation-free cucumbers to be chopped by a battle-axe, yes.” I finished her thought to the logical conclusion.

There are those who believe that we should take responsibility for our own actions; I even like to think I am one of them. But obviously I am a mama's boy by European standards. “I've been noting a severe shortage of lawyers in this part of the world. Ever since a …”

“… certain rope broke?” September asked.

“Well, that too,” I said. I had also been thinking about how we were given grog when we went rafting, but had to demand life jackets, and how we had arrows whiz past our heads at the jousting tournament. And there were other, more subtle differences we had observed. “I've been taking a mental inventory about how everywhere we go people are a little bit different. It's taken a couple of months before I could start to appreciate how
we
are different.”

“What do you mean?” Katrina asked.

“The Swiss are always on time, and they love their rules. But just to the south, the Italians are always late and as far as rules go, don't mind looking the other way. The French enjoy their leisure, which is why stores are always closed. The list goes on.”

“And what are Americans like?” Katrina asked.

“I'm not so sure I want to know. But I suspect that among other things, Europeans must think we have an over developed sense of liability. But I beg to differ on that.”

 

John's Journal, August 18

Frank Zappa once wrote a song called “Stink Foot.” I wonder if he had a daughter with a cast. I never appreciated the fact that after five weeks one small cast could pack the wallop of a laundry truck filled with old gym socks. Wherever we go, people suddenly start looking about and begin testing the air as if some industrial accident just occurred upwind
.

We are constantly second-guessing when the cast might come off and changing our plans, such as they are, to satisfy that event in the undefined future
.

Stockholm is a city surrounded by water. We arrived in August at the peak of Europe's travel season and had just visited the
Vasa
, a ship built in the early 17th century. It was to be the grandest vessel on the water, and it was for about 40 seconds, until it sank on its maiden voyage. There it sat on the bottom of Stockholm Bay, until it was found and raised in 1961 and restored with a museum built around it. We were now on a pedal boat in the waterways where Lake Mälaren meets the Baltic Sea. The kids were entertaining themselves by blowing long strings of soap bubbles as September and I pedaled along.

“Science Moment!” I declared. I had introduced Science Moments as a way to stay in the classroom, even though I had been unofficially expelled. Anytime I saw something cool, I would explain
why
it was cool. Nevertheless, I heard a collective groan from my captive audience.

“Dad's in a good mood because he is pedaling in the sunshine,” September said. “Humor him with his Science Moment.”

“I was just thinking about that ship, the
Vasa,”
I began. “It floated for 40 seconds and then flipped upside-down and sank. What makes a boat float? What makes it sink? What made that boat flip upside-down? Why doesn't the boat that we're on right now flip upside-down?”

The kids desperately avoided making eye contact.

“Don't everyone raise your hands at once.”

Jordan held up his bottle of bubble soap. “These bubbles have special powers in them.
Every third Thursday they generate a force field around children that Science Moments can't penetrate!”