The Unobserved Moment

I was in Norway. And Sweden. And Denmark. Lost, too, because my phone didn't work there and no one gives good directions anymore. But wonderfully lost.

You probably already figured it out. If I disappear, you can kind of figure I'm out of the country of these United States, and give it a fifty-fifty chance I'm in Sweden- because, let's face it, when you take the time to learn a language like Swedish, you're going back to Sweden. Often. I mean, no one else in the world speaks Swedish, so what's the point, otherwise?

People in Sweden don't even speak Swedish, half the time, but that's another story.


Time is different when you aren't writing about it. Or taking pictures and posting them on your blog. It's all different.

Something changes when you are making something into a story in your mind. I won't say it's a bad thing, necessarily, but something definitely changes. And then you race around writing and photographing and painting and creating and there's just a point when you have to take some time and just...


You know?

So that's why I haven't been writing of late. I feel refreshed.


I did mean to write about it. I totally meant to keep a journal of my trip. I bought a really pretty journal. I wrote in it the first day. We went through Paris to get to Norway, and I wrote this:

A good beginning, I thought. Nothing special.

Incidentally, my Swedish friend, Stina, went to Paris three years ago. She was staying with a friend. She stepped outside for a moment. The garbage man was there, emptying the trash into his truck. He asked to have sex with her.

She declined, and then asked her friend whom she was visiting what the heck?

"You looked at him," said her French friend.


My book was number three today in comedy give-aways, right behind What's French for WTF? I wish I had thought of that title. My next book has that as the main idea. Guess I'm not alone? I shouldn't get the book, though, because I might be keeping Gwen Ellery ahead of me (although she deserves it).

And yes the book is free again, still today and tomorrow and Sunday. Ja ja.


It's good to be back home, though they sure make it difficult to get back into these United States. Their motto at customs is, "If you left the US willingly, you must be a traitor." They treat people accordingly. Still, God bless America, and all that. There's no place like home.

A guinea hen started living here while we were gone.

I know I wasn't supposed to write this until Tuesday. Forgive me. Förlåt. I couldn't wait.


  1. So glad to have you back, for a moment I thought you may have fallen victim to the witches of Picnic Point.

    BTW, my Grandmother was born in Sweden.

  2. Welcome back! Glad the customs officials didn't get up close and personal. They are very good at making me wonder if I am a criminal and I just don't remember all the heinous crimes I committed while on vacation.

  3. I didn't actually say they didn't get up close and personal. They did, leaving Amsterdam. We didn't really go to Amsterdam- we just switched planes there. I'm convinced we should never switch planes there again, because they assume you're a druggie. We all were patted down- me, BAH, Grandma, they even patted down Little Z! She just turned seven. She was not bothered, however. She's a seasoned traveler.

    I have Swedish roots as well, Professor Batty. But I was unaware that Picnic Point had witches. I'll have to look more closely into the trees next time I walk out that way.