Jenni’s Arrival:

In such a confident manor I wrote about not getting out of bed at 7 am, about not going to the airport at the crack of dawn, about basking in the brilliance of nothing to do. And just like I expected, at 7 am I was promptly dressed (and fed) walking out the door to a car headed toward the arrival gates of Arlanda. This would be yet another disclaimer that you should rarely believe what you read, especially if I’ve written it.

The 7 am departure was followed by an 8 am arrival. Jenni was quite easy to spot, dressed in enough North Carolina paraphernalia to make Anson, Mia, Marion, Michael and the whole North Carolina family excessively proud.

At this point we were 4: Jompa (the goalkeeper coach), Fanta, Jenni and yours truly. I was quickly alerted to the fact that Jompa had a schedule of events planned for the day: pillage Ikea for a pillow, grocery shop, introduce Jenni to our host families, have lunch in the city, get her a bus pass, and finally, move her into her new apartment; all of which was to be accomplished by around 1 in the afternoon. I think Jenni would have been more pleased with an abbreviated version that included food and then sleep.

At this time I’d like to remind you that the point of this story is not to detail the actual day, but instead to highlight my own patriotic behavior in waking up way before daybreak to welcome Ms. Branam. The rest is just filler. Next!

Sex and the City Marathon:

It would be an injustice to talk about this week without mentioning the underlining theme that runs through the background of each day so far: Carrie Bradshaw, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda, better known as the cast of Sex and the City. Every day for at least two hours Fanta and I commit ourselves to getting closer to the completion of every episode ever made. We’ve borrowed seasons 1-6 from a teammate. I’ve seen them all before countless times, but a Sex and the City marathon is never out of place. This will probably continue all the way up until I leave.

Truth be told, Carrie inspired me to write. Gucci, Prada, Manolos, fancy dinners, the latest night clubs, nice apartment with a walk in closest, the occasional trip to the coffee shop to write an article while pissing away the rest of the week. Carrie is the poster child for professional literary inspiration. She’s set the bar for journalistic aspiration. . .Just kidding Mom. Besides, what did I tell you people about believing what you read here anyway?

Our Moroccan dinner:

After about a month of, "Mona when are your folks gonna invite us over to dinner?", she finally broke down and cleared it with her family to have Fanta and I over for an authentic Moroccan buffet. We were to make our appearance Friday at 7 pm, don’t be late.

Friday, decked out in our Carrie Bradshaw inspired ensembles, we ventured to the middle of nowhere to spend the night at the Najib’s residence. Her family was adorable. From the minute we walked in the door it was just warm and welcoming. We took the tour, met the folks, and the aunt, and the little brother.

Then it was all business. First course: salad, fried potato slices, marinated chicken, roasted almonds, pita bread. Swallow, breath, refill. Second course: Couscous with sauce and meat. Swallow, breath, decline refill. Third Course: Desert, ice cream, bananas. Explain need to lay down.

I can’t remember the last time I was cajoled into eating so much food. Fanta was worried that she wouldn’t be able to move for the game the following day. I was more worried that I wouldn’t be able to make it to the bus stop a block away. Needless to say, Fanta was the sponsor’s player of the game and I miraculously made it to the distant bus stop.

Thanks Mona. Everything was great, even the extra five pounds I gained in one evening. Love ya!

Sightseeing with Jenni in Stockholm:

I must have had some huge sign plastered on my forhead, "Lonely, Please talk to me." First it was some homeless looking man on the train who thought he was a journalist because he had a press pass to the reggae festival and got to write captions under the photographs in some grunge newspaper, then it was the man who proclaimed he was an Italian movie star, but somehow couldn’t remember his last film when questioned, and then finally, there was the man who jumped into Jenni’s picture so as to improve its value (or so he claimed). It was a strange day.

Every person we talked to had some off the wall story to tell. Like the guards at the Palace who were disgusted that someone had snuck past the ropes to sit on a royal thrown. You could see where the culprit had marked his territory with a fresh indent on the royal coronation coach. We listened as the animated guide talked about how they would have to wait until tomorrow for some cleaning person in white gloves to come and re-fluff the cushions. Jenni laughed; I didn’t, the guard was serious.

And then there were the women at the ticket information counter who ranted about how anal the guards outside the palace were; talking about how even they couldn’t cross the black lines that outlined the guard’s "personal area". " Oh yeah they make us walk all the way around. Otherwise they yell at you," they explained in disgust. It’s like everyone had a story to tell. I guess we just looked like two gullible Americans ready to listen. You’d think I would have learned by now; stare at the ground, wear your headphones, dress European.