by Kay Dygert

“Kay, I want to be the first to congratulate you. You’ve
been selected to go to Stockholm.”

I was elated when my boss called to say that I’d been chosen to represent the United States at the World Allergy Symposium in Stockholm, Sweden.

For the past two years, I had focused all my efforts to prove myself as a senior sales representative at a rapidly growing biomedical company. Now, all that hard work was beginning to pay off. I’d recently been promoted to a management position and now I had the opportunity to attend a prestigious international conference in the city where my great grandparents had been born which was icing on the cake.

My employer outlined a list of my responsibilities for the eight-day symposium. On the first day, I would deliver a preliminary marketing presentation to the executives of the Danish division including the president of the company, president and vice president of marketing, and a group of scientists. For the remainder of the conference, I would oversee our booth, distribute literature, and answer questions. It was a tremendous opportunity for me to network and get acquainted with the managers from Denmark who would be staying at the same hotel that my company had booked me in.

Since this represented my first trip abroad and I was there on behalf of the company, I was appreciative that the Denmark group would mentor and provide me with some direction in a foreign country.

I could hardly wait to share the good news with my husband. His excitement was contagious and we celebrated together. He knew how hard I’d worked and promised I wouldn’t have to worry about the kids while I was gone. He would take over the shuttling of our two children to their numerous weekly activities.

A couple weeks later, as I boarded the plane at Los Angeles International Airport (LAX), I had mixed emotions. Sad and a little scared to leave my family, but giddy at the prospect of spending eight days in Stockholm. I had practiced my presentation until it was polished. I’d studied everything that I could find on international travel, and gathered plenty of reading material for the flight.

Before I left, the Danish division requested my flight information and arrival time. I complied and assumed it meant they would send someone to meet me when I landed, especially since they knew this was my first trip to Sweden. I was traveling alone, and I did not speak the language.

When I arrived at the Stockholm airport, exhausted from the 13-hour flight, I glanced around the terminal, expecting to see a driver waving a sign with my name on it. No one came forward.

Suddenly it hit me! I was in a foreign country and I was really, truly alone. The airport looked much different from LAX. All the signs were in Swedish; silly me, had I been expecting English subtitles? I felt lost and a quiet panic began to set in. After a while, I abandoned the hope that a driver was trying to find me.

I headed toward the street with my baggage and the new realization that I was entirely on my own. I said a quick prayer asking for guidance.

I don’t know if it was heaven sent, but the taxi that pulled up next to me was driven by a man who spoke enough English to tell me that he could get me to the hotel. I took a deep breath and laid my head back on the seat…knowing I’d conquered the situation. The panic subsided and I was confident I could handle whatever else was on my plate.

Upon entering the hotel, I was relieved the woman behind the counter spoke English. After checking in, my first order of business was to connect with my Danish colleagues, “Can you please tell me the room numbers for the Danish group?”

“Ah, no I’m sorry. That party has not checked in.”

“Do you know when they are arriving?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

I was puzzled and disappointed. My colleagues should have already arrived. I was eager to meet them and discuss tomorrow’s itinerary over a nice dinner. The front desk clerk continued, “I have a message for you … your presentation has been moved …”

Not only had the presentation been moved to a different location, it would now require a train trip to get there. Hailing from Southern California, the only train I’d been on was the one that circled the perimeter of Disneyland. I had no experience and was certainly not adept at reading train schedules and boarding passes.

Panic returned like an unwelcome visitor and started a slow burn in my stomach. If tomorrow’s presentation had been moved and the Danish group was missing, then perhaps I was supposed to be at a different hotel. I asked the clerk if she could tell me how to get to the train station. Her answer was curt and uninformative. I looked around to see if there was anyone else who could help me. There wasn’t. I hadn’t learned the word, Concierge yet.

After checking in, I headed straight for my room. At least I’d have time to relax and get organized. Once inside, I began hanging up clothes. I selected my “power suit” to wear the next day and noticed that it was wrinkled—badly. I called the front desk to ask for an iron. The clerk said they had an iron, but someone had already checked it out. She would send it to me as soon as they returned it. I told her that I needed it before tomorrow morning. “Sorry,” was her response, “there is nothing I can do until it’s returned.” I tried not to clench my teeth as I thanked her and hung up the phone.

Wondering what else could go wrong, I continued unpacking. When I got to the bottom of the suitcase, there was a small travel iron in the side pocket left over from a previous trip. I’d forgotten it was there. My heart rejoiced as I gleefully retrieved it and unsuccessfully tried to plug it in. Then, I remembered, “Uh oh, the electrical adaptors.” I was grateful I had purchased them and congratulated myself for buying the one with several different heads.

Frustration set in as I worked with the plugs and none of them fit. I began to think about solutions to my ironing dilemma. At first, I considered trying to find a local dry cleaner to do a rush job but vetoed the idea since it involved venturing outside. I decided to fill the bathtub with hot water and hang my outfit over the steam to try to remove the wrinkles.

Another obstacle … I couldn’t figure out how to turn on the faucet. Again, I reached out to the front desk clerk; I could tell she and I would not become friends. Shortly thereafter, a knock on the door announced the arrival of the faucet demonstrator.

Upon his departure, I prepared to step in the steamy hot bathtub of water and relax. Before my big toe hit the water, a terrifying thought crossed my mind. If the electrical adaptor didn’t work on the travel iron, then it might not work on my hairdryer or curling iron, either. I was in a small room full of moist vapor and these were my only tools that kept my naturally curly hair from frizzing.

I turned to the counter and gently tried to plug in the hairdryer. Nothing. Shoving the electrical adapter into the hairdryer didn’t work either. I tried another head, then another and another, all with no luck. I had equally dismal results with the curling iron. Again, I called the front desk, promising myself that this would be the last call of the day. The same clerk answered; we were still not hitting it off very well.

“No, we do not have any spare electrical adaptors.”

“No, your Danish colleagues have not yet arrived.”

“No, the iron has not been returned.”

Exhausted and emotionally spent, I fell into bed. Sweden is so far north that part of it extends to within the Arctic Circle where the sun doesn’t set on the summer solstice. Therefore, it never got dark the whole time that I’d been there. As I laid my head on the pillow, I worried that I wouldn’t hear the small wind-up alarm clock that I brought as back up in the event of a wake-up call failure.

The next morning, I did hear the alarm clock and got myself out on time. Things were looking up, except as I headed out, I was sporting a wrinkled suit and extremely frizzy hair. I didn’t know where I was going or how I would get there. All I knew was that I was walking six blocks to the train station, which would give me plenty of time to pray for a miracle.

Just as I walked out of the hotel, the Danish group arrived. Euphoria doesn’t describe the depth of joy I felt, meeting them and discovering they had a car. My joy melted quickly and turned into dejection as I realized that every seat was occupied. Fortunately, one of the Danish managers was gracious as she agreed to stay behind to teach me how to navigate the train system. Can we call that a miracle? It felt like one.

We arrived at the new destination and I delivered my presentation on time. I convinced myself to present a relaxed facade as I imagined the audience would view my wrinkly, frizzy appearance as part of my eccentric genius. It went well and I breathed a sigh of relief. Things were finally going right and the symposium was off to a good start.

The official opening day of the conference was the next day. Since I was not required to oversee the booth that day, I decided to use the free time for sightseeing. I had hoped someone from my group of colleagues could join me; however, everyone had prior commitments. I was on my own again.

My family’s history starts in Stockholm. My great grandparents immigrated to the United States as newlyweds when they were 17 and 18 years old. Allowed to bring only a few items on the boat with them, those they selected had great meaning. My parents had preserved these treasures in a keepsake box. As a child, I remember a sense of awe about the contents in the box whenever I was lucky enough to be allowed to peek in. There was a letter from the King granting permission to leave the country. There were bibles, jewelry, and a wooden box of matches with a picture of the Grand Hotel Stockholm on the front.

Of course, the Grand Hotel Stockholm was high on my list of places to see. I was thrilled to photograph the grand old building from the same vantage point as the picture on the matchbox. My joy was tempered only by the fact that I was alone. My heart ached to have my husband and my kids sharing in the moment with me. I hoped that I could recreate my experiences for them through photos and stories.

The rest of the day was filled with events that had become commonplace: getting lost, ending up scared to death in the wrong part of town, envying people who were enjoying the city together as I braved it alone. Funny how you never notice couples and parents with children holding hands until you want to hold the hand of your loved ones and they’re not with you. When I finally remembered to exercise my option to include God by asking him to accompany me, I was much more at peace with my aloneness.

I ate most of my meals with colleagues from the Danish and Spanish divisions. America hasn’t quite yet figured it out that studying more than one language is a good thing. Europeans speak several languages, so the Spaniards could understand the Danes and vice versa. I, alone, could not figure out what everybody else was saying. Sometimes they remembered to translate for me, and sometimes they didn’t. Most of the time, I felt uncomfortable reminding them.

Since European dining is expensive, it’s common for people to linger over their meals to prolong the event. They order multiple courses of one item each. Swedish breakfast consists of fresh rolls and bread, butter, cold cuts, various cheeses, hardboiled eggs, and plain yoghurt. I missed having fruit. Lunch is usually open-faced sandwiches of salmon or reindeer. I missed having salad. My most embarrassing moment was when my colleagues took me to a country house for an authentic Swedish smorgasbord dinner. I was hungry, the food was yummy, and I piled my plate high with one of everything. When I got back to the table, I realized that the custom is to just take one item, finish it and then go back for the next. I endured some good-natured teasing from the group.

Ultimately, the trip was a wonderful experience. Some of the American doctors I met during the conference became long-time friends. By the time I got lost on my way to the airport and nearly missed my plane home, I was an old hand at asking God to guide me. It has become a practice that I continued long after returning home.

Kay Dygert lives in Orange County with her son, Michael, and two best (canine) friends, Casey and Riley. Her daughter, Erica, and family live nearby so she gets lots of quality time with her grandchildren. After visiting Stockholm, Kay used her newly found confidence to relax and enjoy herself on subsequent trips to Denmark. She’s glad that the Stockholm trip tested her mettle and strengthened her faith. She now works as a real estate agent in Southern California. You can reach her at homesfromkay@yahoo.com.

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