One year ago today I was sitting in Anna-Lena's apartment in Grebbestad, Sweden.  Having just been refused entry into the UK only 3 days prior, I was in a place of bewilderment and anxiety, trying to remain positive and pushing the fears welling up in my throat down into the depths of my belly. 

Just breathe, I told myself.  That's all you have to do.  All kinds of corny mantras were going through my head; things like One Day At A Time, repeating it as if I were sitting in the circle of an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.  But in moments like these it's the cliche lines that comes so easily, because somehow they're so relevant.  So true. 

I did my best to remain calm, thinking it'll be OK.  You have a place to sleep.  You have food to eat.  You even have wine to drink.  Thank god for the angels that he sends.  I'm not religious, but I can't help but think that some sort of divine intervention sent Anna-Lena to me.  She will always be my rescuer.  Her and Ingalil.  And Erica.  And really all of my friends who were with my on that wonderful adventure in Sweden.   Not the least of whom Dave, my wonderful husband.  He was my fiance at the time and we were newly engaged and in that horrible moment we were torn away from each other I felt completely devastated.  I could see him on the other side of passport control, but I couldn't touch him.  Couldn't even walk in his direction.  I was hostage to the situation.  I had to sit in those horrible gray chairs in the Stansted Airport as if I were in front of a firing squad - the Border Control Agents shooting daggers and incorrect assumptions at me from their post; whispering to each other from their glass cube.  As I sat tired, scared, hungry.  And I had to pee.  So bad.  But all I could do was sit.  And the whole time I sat there - staring blankly at the piece of paper in my hand that told me in stark black letters that I was being detained, tryint o decipher some sort of meaning or make some sort of sense of it - I waited in hope.  Hope that they'd discover I'm a good person.  A decent human being just trying to do the right thing.  Yet, sitting in punishment.  For what?  Volunteering?  It just seemed so absurd.  

When I was in the third grade, I was put in afterschool detention.  I can't remember why.  Probably for talking to Carly during class, a girl that I was "friends" with despite not really even liking her.  And I'm sure I was meant to be there for 10 minutes.  I expected the teacher on duty to tell me when my time was up.  And the clock kept ticking.  And I got really nervous.  Because I was meant to join my Bluebird Troop for an overnight at the big mall in Minneapolis - an event of monumental proportions not just because I was nine years old and that's what trips of that stature are when you're that young, but because we were so poor that opportunities like that just didn't happen.  Not to me.  So I just sat watching the clock, watching the teacher, watching the clock, getting more and more anxious by the minute but too scared to say anything.  Ten minutes turned into 15, 16, 17...half an hour.  And then it was over.  School done.  Detention done.  The teacher had to go home.  I went home, too, hope like a dark cloud because I knew I'd missed it.  Missed my big chance.  And for what?  Talking in class?  Well, the punishment certainly felt larger than the crime.  Just like being refused entry at the UK border because I'd been volunteering without a visa - a crime I'd unwittingly committed.  The words of the Agent taunting me continuously "ignorance of the law does not make you immune to it." 

So eventually Dave flew out to see me and we spent a glorious couple of days together before I flew back to the States, where I spent the next four months.  It was a dark time.  A difficult time, dotted with bright moments.  In the end I was granted permission to return to the UK and have been here now for 8 months.  Good things do eventually happen to good people.  Sometimes it just takes awhile. 

As you can imagine, the hour and a half flight back to Sweden was full of anxiety for me.  I was sitting near the front of the plane where I had been directed to sit by the security agent who had escorted me onto the plane (imagine this scene: I'm being rushed through the inner maze of hallways that's hidden from view from the general public by a tiny but very official woman at break-neck speed while carrying a large and weighty duffel bag, taken to the front of the line of people waiting to board their RyanAir flight and am told to sit in an already occupied seat which requires me to ask the flight attendant to have the man removed so I can sit there and then answer her questions as to why because she doesn't know about the situation or why I'm there and so this poor man has to move and I take over warming the seat as everyone the near vacinity is looking on in morbig curiosity at this woman with wild, pink, puffy eyes and greasy hair who's not slept in over 24 hours and has been crying intermittently for the last 7 hours), nervous, occassionally trading off my gaze out the window to my shaky hands but never to the people around me.  I faked sleep for a little while, trying to calm myself down and feeling as if this was all a dream and that I'd wake up soon. 

Then we land.  I wasn't sure what was going to happen or what the protocol would be - all I knew was that my passport and documents for being refused entry were in the possession of the cabin crew.  All around me other passengers are getting up and pulling their items from the overhead bins.  I stand up, unsure of what to do.  It didn't take long.  I was soon called out in front of the line of passengers eagerly awaiting to disembark from the plane to enjoy their holiday or to enjoy going home to their families after being away on holiday and was told to descend the metal staircase leading to the tarmack.  Waiting for me were two police officers.  One of the flight attendants greeted the men and handed over a manilla envelope which I was sure contained my documents.  I was handed over.  There was a bit of chit-chat.  Humorless.  Humiliating.

"So, you were refused entry?"
Yes

"What did you do?" 
I was volunteering without a volunteer, which I didn't know was illegal. 

I tried to keep it light in a tone inviting some sort of chuckle or at least a compassionate eye.  Nothing.

I was led into a small room within the airport.  An official looking room.  I guess where the police-men sit all day waiting for refugees to arrive. 

"So, what do you plan to do?"
I don't know

I sit in disbelief.  They ask me what my plans are?  I thought I would be told what to do.

"Do you have any money?"
No, just a credit card.

"Do you have any friends or family here?"
No.

"Well, we'll let you in.  But you have overstayed your stay in the EU."
What, I don't understand?

"You are only allowed to stay for three months in the EU, even though you were allowed a stay of six months in the UK."
So what does that mean?  Will I be OK to leave?

"How long do you plan on staying?"
I don't know, maybe five days, a week.  Just long enough for me to make arrangements to go home.

"That will be fine." 
Is there a certain amount of time I have before I need to leave?

"You'll be fine."

I sit there.  Still stunned and unsure of what to do.

"We'll take you through to get your passport stamped."
Can I at least make a phone call?  

So they fumble around for about 10 minutes trying to figure out to make the international call to England.  Finally they figure it out and I'm connected...almost.  It's ringing anyway.  But it just keeps ringing and ringing.  No answer.  And Dave doesn't have voicemail.  I'm terrified.  I hang up.  I am led through the airport to Passport Control.  My passport is stamped.  I'm allowed in.  They say to me, "Good luck."  To which I respond, "is there a pay phone or internet access." 

"Oh yes, there are some computers you can pay to use."  
Can you show me where that is?  

They walk me to the line of three computers that constitutes their "internet cafe."  Relief.  They tell me how I can get access to the internet, smile, wish me luck again and leave.  I stand there stunned.   I could hardly believe it.  In less than 8 hours I'd flown to England from Sweden, was detained and questioned at length and then flown back to Sweden.  It was a full-circle trip.  I would have been less exhausted if I'd slept the night in the airport on a concrete floor.  What was I going to do?

Thankfully just about everyone in Sweden speaks English.  So I went to the girl running the register in the tiny box that only slightly resembled a gift shop and asked if I could buy time for the internet.  She ran my card, gave me a receipt and showed me the code allowing me access.  The first thing I did was looked for transportation out of the airport.  Fear gripped my chest when I realized all of the information I was reading was in Swedish.  Of course it was.  And the only Swedish I knew was "hi-hi" and "takk".  I'm sure there was a setting I could have changed to allow me to read the information in English, but in my panicked state, it was the last thing I would have thought to do.  So I did the only thing I knew to do - signed into Facebook.

I need to remember to send a thank you letter to that fella who created Facebook.  And to the guy who created the internet and computers and electricity.  I mean, without all of this technology, I seriously don't know how I would have contacted Dave.  After all, I didn't have a cell phone on my and no cash.  There was no cash machine and no currency exchange.  I logged onto Facebook and immediately started sending messages to anyone of relevance and sent a desperate message to Dave in the dire hopes he'd have gotten to Greavsey's house and was able to get online.  And then that wonderful little ring let me know I had an instant message.  From Dave.  Thank god!  I was able to let him know I was at the airport and in the time I'd spent in detension and flying from Britain to Scandanavia, the gang had arranged for Erica's mom to pick me up in two hours.  Sweet Jesus.  Still, I needed to speak to him so we could arrange a few more details.  There was no pay phone.  So I went to the information desk to see if there was a phone I could use.  Sure, if it was a local call.  To England?  Sorry, you'll have to ask the bored girl sitting on the till in the shoebox gift shop if you can pay to use her phone.  You'd like to use a phone?  What phone?  No, I'm sorry there's no phone here, you should try information.  Seriously?  Arrrgh!  I go back to Information.  Wait for about half an hour for a woman to show up in the window.  Can I use your phone please?  I was just refused entry to England and sent back to Sweden and I really need to call my fiancee in England.  Reluctance.  Seconds tick by like hours.  OK.  But just for a minute.  Thankfully this time he answers.  He outlined the whole scenario and what I could expect.  Erica's mom would be there to pick me up in two hours.  She would allow me to stay there until we could make other arrangements.  In the meantime, Dave was on the phone with Annie to see if she knew of an immigration lawyer we could contact to see if there was any way to get me back to the UK.  The gang was being very supportive and send their love.  OK, talk to you soon - we'll keep in touch on Facebook until Erica's mom gets here and then we'll talk once I get to her house.

Relief.  One problem.  I didn't have a watch.  No way to tell time.  I found no clock in the airport, oddly enough.  I bought a small alarm clock for a ridiculously extravagent price from the shoebox boutique.  And some toothpaste.  There was serious fur growing where my teeth used to be.  

I found the time, set the clock.  Locked myself inside the bathroom and tried to tidy myself up.  Brushing my teeth was about the best feeling in the world.  

Then I went to the airport cafe and got something to eat.  I was starving, having not eaten for quite some time.  And I just waited.  To kill time I wandered back into the main terminal and there stood my angel, with blond wavy hair holding a sign that read "ERIN".  I immediately hugged her and in her broken English Erica's mom told me not to worry - she would be my mom for a little while.  She was going to take me to her house where I could get some sleep and use the computer and phone as much as I needed.  I don't know if I've ever been so relieve in all of my life.  Or so tired. 
 

 OK.  So the trip to Sweden ends.  So we head back to the Gothenburg City Airport, which is just a tiny thing of an airport.  It used to be an old military base, I think.  So it's pretty bare bones.  Our flight didn't leave until 11pm, so we were all fairly shattered and full of sadness that our wonderful trip was over.  I can't really explain it, but there was sort of this grey cloud hanging over us.  Maybe it was just me.  Maybe it was that we were sitting for hours under artificial light in a building that nearly made status of airport.  Or maybe it was that Benno and Jess had a stroke of bad luck.  Turns out that Benno booked he and Jess a flight for earlier in the day and obviously missed that flight.  It was a simple oversight.  And so they had to pay 500 some odd pounds to get new tickets issued so they could catch our flight home.  Bugger.

They managed to get it all sorted and things resumed as they normally would and as normal as you can imagine.  We sat in a dimly lit waiting area past security, queued up to board our Ryan Air flight and landed in London's Stansted Airport at about midnight.  Maybe Benno and Jess' bad luck were an omen.  I wasn't prepared for what happened next.

As you know when you get off an international flight you have to go through Passport Control.  Because I was the only American in the group, I had to stand in a separate line all on my own.  I can't quite explain it, but while I was standing there in line, I was feeling extremely nervous.  My heart was beating like mad.  But I pushed those feelings down and told myself I was just being silly.  Why was I so stressed?  Well, I was in the UK on a visitor's passport which is given to American's when they first arrive in Britain.  It's just simply the stamp they give you when you enter the Kingdom.  And it's good for six months.  The border agent who originally stamped my passport did so with a great reluctance.  The flashback to that monent is probably what prompted my nervousness.  Whatever.  There I was.  In line.  On my own.  I step up to the desk answering typical questions - why are you  here?  What are your intentions?  The questions got increasingly more intense.  I felt the blood drain from my face.  My vision started to narrow.   My throat was completely dry.  It was getting difficult to talk.  I slowly realized that this questioning was not going well. 

Now, anyone who knows me knows I'm a terrible liar.  I also wear my heart on my sleeve.  My panic must have been shining like a great, bright beacon to the woman questioning me.  I'm sure this did me no favors whatsoever.  I heard myself answering questions as if from outside of my self.

Why are you here?
To live with my fiancee.  We just got engaged during our holiday in Sweden. 
Why are you here for so long?
Because we're trying to figure out what to do - whether or not to get a finacee visa or get married. 
How can you afford this trip?
I sold my house.
What's your job?
I lost my job.
How much money have you spent while you were here?
Not much.  A few hundred dollars.
Not bad.  So what do you do?
What do you mean?
What do you do on an average day to keep busy?
I volunteer.
Where's your visa?
Visa?  I didn't realize I needed a visa to volunteer.
Ignorance of the law does not make you immune to it.  It is your responsibility to research such information before making a trip.
I did!
Where did you get your information?
The Home Office website. 
Where do you volunteer?  PAD Gallery.  How often?  About 4 hours a week.  What do you do?  General assistance.
OK.  One moment.  I'm going to speak with your partner.  I'll be back.

She walks over to Dave who has been standing about 20 feet away during most of my interrogation.  He got through his line in record time.  He has a severe look of worry on his face.  I feel like I'm underwater.  She comes back.

So your partner says you volunteer a few times a week in the mornings and afternoons - would you like to revise your statement.  Please bear in mind lying to an immigration officer is grounds for refusal to enter the country. 

No, I think we're saying the same thing!  I gave you an average of the hours I work at the Gallery - sometimes I never go in, sometimes I go in for 6 hours.  But I never go in the morning and afternoon in the same day...I think he meant that sometimes I go in the day and sometimes in the afternoon.

It went on like this for about 20 minutes.  Finally she told me that I was going to be detained for questioning to determine whether or not I was to be allowed into the country.  Dave was told he had to leave the area he was standing in and go downstairs by baggage - and to leave me with our baggage.  I had to sit.  And all I could do was sit.  No bathroom.  No moving around.  Just sit and wait. 

And I did wait.  For nearly two hours. 

Then I was taken into the inner maze that makes up the part of the airport we never see as passengers.  I was  placed in a room.  Questioned briefly.  Taken to a new room.  Fingerprinted.  Taken back to the original room.  Photographed.  Bags searched.  Body searched.  Taken to the detention room.  My bags taken from me.  I saw a file about me already compiled.  So quick!  I sat in a dark room that was full of books, tv blaring about a poker face.  There was a room with large panels of glass standing in as a substitute for plaster walls.  This was a room I could pray in if I chose.  But it was intended as a children's play area.  I was offered some food.  Nothing great.  But very welcome.  I was starving.  There were two bathrooms.  The only place to get any privacy.  With matted, oily hair and puffy eyes I went there.  And cried.  The tears just wouldn't stop.  What was I going to do?  There was nothing I could do.  I was not in control of any of my possessions except for what I wore on my back.  I had no money.  No cell phone.  And even if I did, I would have had to hand it over to the security officials.  Thankfully, it was a quiet as far as detainees were concerned and the security officials were very friendly.  And they allowed me to pull my lip balm from my bag.  I tried to focus on TV.  It was crap.  I tried to read.  Impossible.  It seemed all I could do was pee.  And pee.  And pee.  Turns out that level of anxiety is great for emptying one's bladder.

I sat in this room with a man who was being detained for travelling on a fake passport for about two hours before being called for questioning.  The immigration officer was different from the one who questioned me at passport control.  He wasn't overly nice.  But not rude.  And I guess that's a good thing.  They need to have a professional distance afterall.  I was asked 23 questions.  The answers were tediously transcribed by hand.  I was often asked to slow down or repeat what I said.  I was starting to be filled with a bit of hope.  Then I was led back to the detention room.  I sat for another half hour.  Then the immigration officer came in to ask a few more questions.  This time in the toy-filled glass paneled multi-purpose room.  God I could use a prayer now.  I cried.  Pleaded my case, but only slightly.  I didn't want to look more suspicious than I already did.  He leaves.  I go back to my seat in the main waiting area.  By this time a young boy of 16 had entered the scene.  He, too, had tried to enter on a fake passport.  I had only volunteered without a visa.  t really didn't seem just. 

The immigration officer returned.  Bad news.  I wasn't going to be allowed to enter the UK.  He handed over the official paperwork stating that I was being refused entry.  I had to sign it.  I would be placed on the next flight back to Sweden which departed in one and a half hours.  I would not be given my passport - that would be held by the pilot until I landed. 

What was I going to do?  I needed to call Dave.  I need to see Dave.  I pleaded with the security agents to see him.  Miraculously, they allowed it.  They located him and walked him through the inner maze to where I was.  We were allowed a five minute visit in a small room under the supervision of a guard.  We hugged.  And cried.  And kissed.  And cried.  We exchanged luggage.  We hugged again.  And that was it.  We were separated again.  I would contact him when I got to Sweden and we'd figure out what to do.  I was terrified.  What was I going to do? 

I realize it's been a few months since my last blog.  As I wrap up what I've come to refer to as the "Swedish Saga" you'll understand why.  But instead of working my way back, I'm going to pick up from where I left off and go from there.  It'll help make more sense.

When I last left off the group had just finished an extreme paddle through pretty choppy sea.  After working so hard to keep moving through the angry water, every other paddle felt easy and the rest of the trip was spent leisurely working our way back to our starting point.  Five months have gone by since this amazing holiday and sadly, the finer details are more deeply hidden in the creases of my brain.  I do, however, recall the last island we camped on to be one of the greater highlights.  Tucked away in a hidden spot and seeming to float on water so soft and still it could easily be described as a velvet mirror.  It was still.  And quiet.  And we were all alone.  Unless you count the sheep, that is.  Who were less than impressed to suddenly be sharing their space with a bunch of humans who spread out with obvious abandon and nonchalance.  A couple of our tents blocked the skinny little path made by the sheep.  But only just.  Which wasn't a big deal - until somewhere around 4 or 5am, which is when the sheep were busy moving from one side of the island to the other.  I remember them eyeing us shortly after we landed and they let out a few "baaa's" to let us know they were there - it was almost as if to say, "woah, woah, woah...what's this?  What ya doin?  You can set up tent there.  Or there!  Oh sure, go ahead...set up your tent on our path.  Great.  This is going to put a kink in tomorrow's walk.  Oh well, best to deal with it in the morning."  They went on their way and we continued with our task of setting up camp.  Which also included some swimming, relaxing, drinking, eating and gathering wood for a fire.  But not just any wood.  Cuz there wasn't much to be had on our island.  Luckily we found a pretty sweet stash on the next island over.  Not much of a paddle - a few minutes and you were there.  And would be easy enough, except that the slime covering the rocks of the beach made it a bit of an effort to do anything.  Somehow I managed to load the front of our double kayak with wood and paddled back to the main island with what I thought to be a pretty impressive stack of wood.  And then enters Benno.  Amazingly directing a big wooden wheel across the water.  And not something like a wagon wheel.  Not at all.  You know those huge wooden spools that are used to store really heavy cable?  Yea, that's what he had.  It was ridiculous.  And amazing.  It was too impressive to burn - and far to functional.  So now we had fuel AND a table...sweet!  The night carried on as you might expect - drinking, laughter, story-telling.  And after a mini star-gazing session, Dave and I retired for the night followed shortly by the rest of the gang.  When we heard them.

I don't know what time it was - four or five in the morning, maybe - when I woke up to what sounded like a thumping on the kayaks...as if they were being rocked back and forth in the water and hitting a big rock.  Except we were beached on grass and sand.  No rocks anywhere.  So I thought an animal was out there kicking the shit out of our kayaks.  I unzipped the tent and poked my head out to find the atmosphere soaked in a heavy mist.  I did a quick visual sweep of the kayaks.  No animals.  Quiet as could be.  Then I heard it again.  And I looked toward the hill in front of us.  And there, nearly hidden by the dark color of the rockface and mist hanging in the air, was a line of black sheep.  Since we'd covered their path, they made a new one.  And as I looked at them and woke Dave up to point them out to him, they starting "baa-ing" very, VERY loudly.  And very angrily.  I think this time they were saying something like, "Yea, thanks.  See what we have to do now?  We could have walked the path we've walked everyday since we've been born...a nice, flat, well-tread path.  Instead we have to walk in these damned rocks.  And it sucks.  Thanks."  Hilarious!!!  Sorry sheep.  

The next day we paddled back to the kayak rental, dropped off our kayaks and found a place with a shower and got cleaned up.  Erica arranged for us to stay the night in a cottage in the woods.  The cottage belonged to the parents of her best friend, Anna-Lena.  It was a fabulous stay.  We had a good feed, drank some beer and wine, had a wonderful blueberry pie (courtesy of Anna-Lena), and went on a midnight moose-hunt.  Not a real hunt.  A visual one.  We didn't see any moose.  But we did have a good walk in the woods.  And at the end of the night we all turned in for a great night's sleep on a mattress, bed or couch - there was plenty of places for us all to find a comfy place to crash out.   

The next day we woke up and got a leisurely start to Gothenburg where we'd catch our plane that night.  We realized that day how lucky we'd been with the weather as it poured down all day long.  The first real rain that had fallen since we'd arrived a week earlier.  So we holed up in a British-themed pub, watched football on the big flat-screens and filled our bellies with ale and chips.  The trip was nearing its end.  And for some reason I had this little pit in the bottom of my stomach.  I can't really explain it...and it wasn't all-encompassing - more like a light case of anxiety that quietly fell over me.  Like the mist that surrounded us that night the sheep woke us up.