To say your heritage is American doesn't really fly. People want to know what nationality you were originally from. On my father's side his ancestors can be traced back to the Mayflower (Resolved White, look that sh*t up) so I solely identify with my mother's side. The Swedes.
Thinking we were better than these Vikings, we tried out hand at the shooting range. I made zero. How ever Karin made all five shots in a row and won a prize. Here I am, looking awkward holding a rifle for the first time, and Karin beaming away after her victory.
From Östersund I took an early morning commuter train down to Uppsala to stay with Karin's sister Ana. Like most families, there is one historian. And thankfully for me, Ana was that member. Her mother had saved every letter written from the siblings who had emigrated to the US in the early 1900s.
The letters, written in the colloquial "Swenglish" a fusion between the two languages, were known to the Swedish family as "The America Letters" and served as the only connection that kept the family together.
Here Ana and I are looking through some of the documents. Included were baby portraits of my grandmother, letters of children's growth, complaints of various medical conditions, and original death, birth and wedding announcements.
I took a tour of Stockholm's city hall, went to various shops to find the coveted Dala horse for my mom. It was cold; I drank glogg.
However I did get a kindly Japanese fellow who was avidly clicking his camera in the direction of his stoic companion to take my picture with City Hall in the background. Does the fact that it was negative 3 Celsius explain the bundling?