Sven and the Art of Moose Hunting

I am on my way to Borlange which in case you don't happen to know, is in Sweden, somewhere north of Stockholm. (Don't feel bad, our French travel agent couldn't find it on the map and had to call one of the Swedes in my group to get help with the spelling.) It's far enough north that I have to take another flight when I get to Stockholm, but it's a puddle jumper flight of about 40 min. I suspect I will spend more time on the runway then in the air.

Borlange is really spelled with two little dots over the O but my English speaking computer can't handle this and I don't remember the special secret ASCII code to get the right letter. I am sure there is one. When I get to Borlange ... which is pronounced Bor-Lang-EEEE, like a tropical drink that I would drink in a Jimmy Buffet bar in the Caribbean .. I will be in search of Sven.

In Sweden, instead of calling the "average Joe" well, Joe, you call him Sven. Sven Svenson or the "Sven who is the son of Sven." The name just makes me giggle. I wonder if I should have his name called out on the loudspeaker at the airport.

"Will Sven Svenson please report to the information booth. Sven Svenson..."

I picture a tall blond guy, real short hair and a big smile. Funky glasses that are small, octangular wearing an odd-colored suit. Not teal green like the Frenchies would wear, but tweed and something in fall colors, burnt orange maybe. And his English will be better than mine. He will not slur all the words together, but articulate each one with such precision that he makes me wonder how long he lived in the US. So perfectly easy to understand ..... I will know he's Swedish though when he pronounces the Js. When "job" becomes "yob."

After Borlange, I head back down to Stockholm. I will see Magnus ... and Rolf .. Lars... Jonus ... and maybe Matts. Matts promised me last time he would take me on a great moose hunt. I can just imagine ....sitting in a hunting bluff, trying to stay warm by slugging down serious hard liquor. I don't think the moose are nearly as dangerous as all the drunk Swedes in the bluff carrying loaded guns. The fierce hunters.

I wonder if the bluff would be like the ice fishing huts I have seen in Minnesota out on the lakes. The ones with TVs, beds, small heaters.

Well, it's time to land ... to land in Stockholm and then find the flight to Borlange. To sit on the runway for more time then the flight ... and then to find Sven who will take me to more Svens. More Sven Svensons. More great moose hunters disguised in tweed jackets.