3.8 hours. 3.8 hours!

That’s how much sunshine Stockholm has seen in the month of November so far, according to local newspapers. And I can tell you the lack of rays has been acutely felt by Stockholm’s inhabitants. Weather is the prevalent topic of conversation on a daily basis and calling dibs on the sun lamp at work is crucial.

The only other place that is in more pain than Stockholm? Karlstad, Sweden.

1 hour of sun.

Stockholm is striking in its beauty; the buildings are straight out of an urban European novel. But one surprise about the look of the city is how even its majestic architecture and small-city charm can seem depressing in the November weather. I expected that a city so far north (so far north in fact that it would be uninhabitable if not for the Gulf Stream) would see snow once November rolled around. And though I’ve seen two snowfalls thus far, the skies are mostly grey. Very, very grey. It has been weeks since I’ve seen the sun, a luxury I forgot to enjoy in tropical Bangkok. And though the city is still elegant, the depressing blanket of grey clouds that surround it on an almost daily basis do detract from its allure.

It is a rainy, cold Sunday and the weather is so depressing that one would have to find a compelling reason to leave the house to brave the elements. But not Swedes. The weather is so typical for this time of year that to them it is a mere annoyance. People are still out and about, running errands and in particular, taking walks, an activity so loved by the English, I never thought I’d see another culture embrace it with such gusto.  On the weekends, this is the activity of choice and my best guess is that even if a meter (I’m working on using my metrics) of snow was falling, Swedes would still turn to each other with an excited look, strap on some snowshoes and crunch around.

In addition to the dank cold and heavy clouds, this time of year also brings 3:30 pm sunsets, if you could call them that. The sun stretches and yawns at about 3 pm and starts tucking in for the night, an occurrence that makes it impossible for my brain to function once it sinks below the horizon. It’s quite unfortunate for my new employers.

As I sit here writing at 1:30 pm, I try to savor the last two hours of daylight and remember this time. This glorious time when the sun is still in the sky (so to speak) at 2:30 pm. Because in a month, the sun will rise at 9 am, set at 2:30 pm and I will flee to the Canary Islands. Or hibernate. Deliberations are still underway.

In my first month in Stockholm, I bought my first apartment, started a new job and attended my first Swedish business conference (which I learned is just code for “boozefest”), subsequently learned the massive amount of alcohol Swedes can consume, became well-versed in Sweden’s infamous bureaucracy, got a massage at work that was subsidized by the company, and ate my first tunnbrödrulle _ a wrap sandwich made of mashed potatoes, a hot dog and pink shrimp salad. Yum.

In a word, Stockholm is amazing. This beautiful city so steeped in history is a marvel with its colorful buildings, beautiful people and rich culture. The most striking thing about the city is the water, which weaves its way around each of the small islands that make up the city of Stockholm. It is a bane in the winter, however, whipping biting winds through the already cold air. As far as adjustments go, the cold is the biggest. Wearing layers and layers of clothing, hats and gloves is something I haven’t done since early 2008. It even snowed while I was about two hours south of the city for a business conference, a beautiful sight that had me squealing and doing some cheerleader claps before I realized what I was doing.

The adjustment to Stockholm has been far easier than it was in Bangkok. Aside from the infuriating bureaucracy related to registering in Sweden and getting bank accounts (the fun of which will be detailed in a separate post), everything in this city has been designed to run smoothly. The government’s big brother approach is surprisingly liberating and, in many ways, gives people far more freedom than Americans, whose government’s minimal involvement is supposed to breed freedom that doesn’t really exist. Here, people (including me!) enjoy six weeks of vacation, free computer and cell phone from work, affordable housing, free health insurance, housing insurance that will reimburse you if you break something, subsidized gym memberships, efficient transportation, and free education including Swedish lessons.

There are myriad laws and regulations for everything, but all are meant to protect the people and support them if disaster should strike. There is a safety net here that doesn’t exist in America. Thousands are losing their jobs in the U.S. as the unemployment rate hit 10.2 percent in October, the highest since 1983. And those people have to rely on savings or 401Ks that have been decimated by the financial crisis. In Sweden, if you lose your job you get paid 80 percent of your salary for six months after, a luxury meant to ensure that people can still support themselves despite a financial crisis. The big mystery to me is how they are able to do this when middle class people like me are only paying a 30 percent tax rate _ the same as I paid in Thailand and less than I paid while living in NYC.

After a month in Stockholm I feel as if I’ve lived here for ages. It is so comfortable and easy to be here. The only frustration is the language barrier, though my complaints are minimal as Swedish is an elegant and musical language that I’m happy to just sit and listen to. This month has been a whirlwind of appointments, social engagements, errands and apartment hunting. But I am well on my way to settling in for good. We move into our new apartment in a very desirable neighborhood next month and tonight’s trip to the largest IKEA in the world (!) is one of many, I’m sure.

For now, I’m happy to spend time with my handsome Swede, enjoy time with my new friends and eat smackebröd _ a hard, flat bread (really called knäckebröd but I always bungle it so I have given up) that initially tastes like cardboard but when it is spread with butter might actually be the cure for depression.

Music by Movits!

I have spent months planning _ filling out job and residence permit applications, researching winter weather patterns, learning about the tall and blond inhabitants of my new home, and unloading not-so-prized belongings on friends.

I have kept quiet for months, barely able to keep my secret from all of you, waiting until everything was lined up before I shook your worlds.

But now it is finally official: I’m moving to Stockholm.

The move is a terribly exciting one for me as I’ve wanted to move back to Europe since living in London for a year in college. It is also a chance to learn Swedish, a strange and beautiful language that makes everyone who speaks it sound like they’re tripping over their tongues. And I have a new job that will hopefully bring new challenges.

But why Sweden, you might ask? It’s cold, dark and Swedes eat fermented fish like potato chips (ok I made that up, but I want to impress upon you the scariness of fermented fish consumption). I am moving to the land of banana-flavored caviar in a tube and ketchup on pasta (yes you read that right) for love. After falling for a Swede earlier this year and his unexpected departure from Bangkok over the summer, I decided it was time for a change.

My time in Bangkok has been an incredible adventure but I’ve grown weary of the language barrier, the cultural differences I can’t seem to adapt to, and the suffocating heat. During the past year I have often missed the West and longed to move to a country that feels more like home. And Stockholm’s lovely old buildings, cosmopolitan attitude, excellent English-language speaking abilities and wintry weather are just what I’ve been missing.

Have no fear, though. Urban Pilgrim will be reporting from Sweden starting October 10 and will be better than ever. I am hopeful the excitement and curiosities of Stockholm will breathe new life into this blog, as I chronicle moving to yet another international city I’ve never been to.

In the meantime, I will enjoy my dwindling time here and a trip to Thailand’s Railay Beach this week. Photos of what I hear is the most beautiful beach in Thailand will be shared!

Goodbye slow walkers who block the sidewalk, sewer smell in the morning and stifling heat!

Well, for two weeks at least.

After 14 months away I am finally going home for a desperately needed visit. My travel arrangements are set, my souvenirs for folks at home are bought and my bags are packed _ with sweaters. Lots and lots of sweaters.

A year in 95 F/35 C temperatures means my blood has thinned _ a fact evidenced by my blanket-sized woolly sweater I wear in my over-air conditioned office. The temperatures in New York City, though not cold by any standard, will be celebrated with layers of sweaters and hats and pants. Nantucket promises to be even chillier with its ocean breezes and early morning fog. And you know what that means? Yeah you do. Long johns.

But more than my celebration of days without perspiration, it is a chance for me to see my nearest and dearest. For weeks I have imagined nothing but hugging my dad for the first time in over year, of laughing with my two sisters as we drive up to Nantucket, and drinking a beer with my mom while we battle over heath care in the U.S. I have been reading up Mom. Watch out.

It is a chance for me to hug my best friend for the first time since we parted in tears, spending a week in her apartment gossiping about all that we’ve missed and all that we have planned. And I get to spend a week in NYC properly catching up with my closest friends over BBQ dinners and bottles of wine.

(Incidentally I will be consuming a bottle a day to celebrate being able to buy $10 bottles and the departure from a country that charges $30 for a bottle of crap from Australia. No offense Australia.)

The trip to NYC is also an opportunity to revisit my most favorite of places, a city in which I feel infinitely comfortable and content. I will walk through Central Park, roam the city streets to see what has changed in this past year, and finally drink a well made cocktail. I anticipate these activities will take up about 20% of my day.

The other 80% you might wonder? I will be spending that in every brightly-lit, well-stocked and sale-sign-adorned shoe store I can find. I will try on every shoe they have. I will annoy and frustrate sales clerks. And I will love every minute. Because I have a primal need for this kind of shoe therapy; I have spent a year with the same old ratty, torn, unraveling shoes because of Asians’ miniature feet. (Well they’re not all mini. Ladyboys have huge feet. But I couldn’t bring myself to shop at their store. I’m already freakishly tall here. I don’t need to raise questions.)

So 12 hours out and one day of work to go I am antsy, distracted and more excited for this trip than any other I have taken. I wonder how much I have changed having spent a year immersed in another culture and another lifestyle. I wonder if my perception of the U.S. is different and if reverse culture shock will hit me square in the face. I wonder if being home will make me realize how much I’ve missed, or if it will reaffirm my choice to live overseas.

But for now I can think of only one thing: that first step on U.S. soil and seeing the NYC skyline _ the undeniable sign that I am finally home.

On July 15, 2008 I woke up in a musty New York City hotel room, my bags packed, my eyes puffy from tears and a heavy rain falling outside. I had finished saying goodbye to family, friends and my favorite city. All that was left to do was board the plane for a new and foreign city without the slightest idea of what I would meet on the other side.

A year later, I still exit the airport with the feeling that someone has hit me in the face with a smelly, wet sock _ a sensation that was all too depressing when I first stepped into the thick, fetid Bangkok air. The language barrier continues to plague my everyday efforts to grocery shop, take a taxi, pay bills, etc. I am still annoyed by the lack of common sense, lack of awareness of others in public spaces and the unwillingness to deviate from the rules, no matter how ridiculous. I have a developed an immense hatred for cab drivers that threatens to put me in a rage at the very sight of them _ something I blame on the Thai tendency to try and rip off foreigners.

But many of the quirks and characteristics about this city that initially felt scary and insurmountable have now mostly become charming qualities _ the inordinately annoying ones listed above are exempted from this category. I have found a home here populated by great friends, exotic places to travel,  luxuries I couldn’t expect at home and a friendly and relaxed environment that on most days feels like vacation.

I see elephants on the street on my way to meet friends for dinner. My ride to work on the SkyTrain costs less than $1. I eat incredible  Thai food daily. And I have traveled to places I only ever dreamed of _ Hong Kong, Beijing, Ho Chi Minh City, Taipei, Singapore and the stunning beaches of Thailand.

These material benefits have enriched my life, not only providing a comfort I didn’t expect to enjoy before the age of 30, but helping me to mature, relax my attitude and find happiness. This year has given me confidence to know I will find success no matter the challenge. To discover just how much I love and care for the people closest to me. To find my way out of the maze and confusion of my early 20s and come out the other end (in Bangkok of all places) with a surer sense of self and a confidence in my choices. And to find love _ in the unlikeliest of places, on a staircase in Hong Kong.

Bangkok was the best decision I never made. The idea of moving to a region of the world I had never seen and knew nothing about terrified me. But there was never a doubt that I was going to come here. It was one of those opportunities you don’t pass up. And despite the difficulty of overcoming those first hard months, I have developed a love and respect for this city and for every place I have visited. Asia and I now have a bond _ we fight sometimes but deep down we love each other.

I love this city, its charms and its irritating idiosyncrasies.  And when I leave it will be with a heavy heart and a hope that I get to come back some day.

The saying goes that if you can make it in New York City, you can make it anywhere. It’s a lie. It’s Bangkok that has given me the biggest and most rewarding challenge. One that has changed me, reshaped me and ultimately made my life.

So far anyway…

I’ve seen the YouTube videos. You know, the myriad ones depicting the hellish motorbike traffic in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. I was horrified, nervous about their lack of deference to traffic signals and wondering if they got their driver’s licenses out of a cereal box. So on a recent trip to HCMC what did my boyfriend and I do? We rented a motorbike and drove through it. Stoplight, shmoplight.

Our idea was brilliant, off the beaten track and adventurous. We planned to rent the motorbike in HCMC and drive the two hours down Highway 1 to the Mekong Delta. More specifically to a small town called My Tho, the gateway to the delta and right on the river. Easy cheesy.

OK, I wasn’t that naive. We had spent the day before playing chicken with the traffic at crosswalks and knew that if we were risking death on foot, being on a motorbike wouldn’t improve our chances of survival. Still, we were intrepid, negotiating with the small Vietnamese man for the softest-seated motorbike we could find. Then we put on our baby blue and hot pink helmets, stuffed the bag between us and took off.

We arrived in My Tho after three hours of sore asses, potholed highways and filthy faces. The town is small, the market nasty and the buildings crumbling. But we found ourselves in a beautiful hotel with a view of the Mekong, and just down the street from a night food market. Dinner was spent feebly trying to communicate to our waiters with hand signals, but our frustration was short-lived. Turns out, not being able to speak the language at a food market in Vietnam means you get over your preconceived notions of what tastes good and you are served the best of what they offer.

And the best happened to be the most succulent, juiciest and perfectly cooked pork of my life. Love songs and Hallmark cards should be written about this pork. A national day of celebration like July 4 should be created to commemorate this pork. We loved the pork, talked about it all night, tried to decipher the secret to its perfection. In fact, this post will likely spur another hour-long diatribe on our love for the pork. I will spare you a recounting of that though.

The next day we experienced the Mekong and the delta, passing fisherman’s houses anchored into the water, eating fresh fruit while listening to headache-inducing traditional music. And we became practiced at the most valuable skill in Vietnam _ avoiding the pushy sales pitches of every tout in our path. Would you like a pair of authentic Vietnamese sandals? No. Bee pollen that will cure your every ailment and make you look 15 years younger? No. Coconut candy handmade and fired in our very special kiln? No. No. No.

It was actually the last refusal that turned our previously friendly and jovial relationship with our tour guide to shit. Refusing the coconut candy was our undoing. You don’t like the candy??! Why you no buy!? We were ignored, glared at and treated like stupid tourists. I don’t really blame her though. We looked like stupid tourists. A torrential downpour had relegated us to pastel colored ponchos that made us look like cheap condoms. Flattering.

Despite our falling out, the tour was fantastic. We got in a small boat paddled by Vietnamese women down one of the deltas. We reveled in seeing such a remote corner of the world and its lush vegetation, charming tradition and raw beauty. Our battles with a busted headlight, a butt that refused to regain feeling and a maze of traffic in HCMC that inspired frantic prayers for our survival only made it better in the end. Because if you can say that you were were able to enjoy experiencing the charm and exoticism of a small Vietnamese town in spite of looking like a wet condom, you’ve done alright.

Bangkok is notorious for many things, but waiting for a traffic light to change is among the most excruciating experiences. I am an exclusive cab-taker _ chalk it up to the 15 minute walk to public transportation, the inexpensive fares and laziness. As such, it is an annoyance I endure on an almost daily basis. Sitting there I imagine the things I could get done in what feels like 20 minutes of waiting _ call my mom, write an email, do my taxes.

But I never actually measured it. Until now.

6:52

That’s right 6 minutes and 52 seconds for the light to change at Asoke and Sukhumvit at 4 pm. Is this the height of rush hour? Not really. Is there a royal motorcade blocking the intersection? Nope. Is someone suffering from cardiac arrest in the turning lane onto Sukhumvit. No! It is simply that traffic lights in Bangkok last four times as long as ones in every other major city in the world.

In a city where traffic is a perennial headache you’d think the folks in Bangkok would reevaluate their methods. Then again, the city has decided that rainy season is the time to repave the sidewalks, leaving only loose dirt for people to slog through. Brilliant guys.

After a month-long break to concentrate on work and some other matters I am back! Despite my busy schedule I have missed telling you about my adventures and have a few new stories to tell from my trip to Vietnam.

But not yet. The extensive video I shot of a motorbiking (suicide) excursion in Ho Chi Minh City is too long for an edit this week. Instead, I leave you with these (not shot by me). Grab a tissue and a friend and get ready to howl.

Thailand is a wonderful country. It is also a very very strange country. Day in and day out I see ridiculous things _ most of which don’t even phase me as I near my one year anniversary in Bangkok. Yet, the most absurd things deserve note for those living in far more conventional places. And for most of them there is one universal explanation (utter by many a befuddled expat): It’s Thailand.

Today I left work for a brief lunch break and passed a couple of Thai women, wearing wellies, pouring water on the entrance to a parking garage and using an electric floor buffer to clean it. What possible use could this have? Is it not essentially a road that will perpetually be dirty? Why do they do this? Because it’s Thailand.

I was on a motorbike after work going to the pool to get some sun. But a few minutes into my trip, I saw the forbidding clouds indicating an impending storm typical of the rainy season and decided to go home instead. But despite telling my motorbike driver the change in address, he still took me to my original destination before turning around. The whole ride home I was formulating my argument for not paying him extra as I was convinced he would try to swindle me. Turns out, he accepted my 50 baht and drove off. What’s the reason for this paranoia? Everyone tries to swindle the farangs (Westerners). Because it’s Thailand.

And last night I was about to turn onto my street when a motorbike driving through the intersection bit it. He took the turn too hard and the bike slide right out from underneath him. Did he call the cops? Was an ambulance summoned to ensure there was no massive internal bleeding? No. He just dusted off his broken mirror, dragged his bike to his discarded flip flop 10 feet away _ the only casualty of the accident _ and drove off. I was on a motorbike. Second thoughts about jumping on? Not a one. How come??

Because it’s Thailand.