For her first-year composition class, Alea Eyre records her introduction to an unfamiliar location.

1

The amount of noise and movement bustling around me was almost electrifying. As soon as I stepped off the plane ramp, I was enveloped into a brand new world. I let all my heightened senses work together to take in this new experience. Fear and elation collided in my head as I navigated this new adventure by myself. I was thirteen years old and just taking the final steps of a lonely twenty-six-hour journey across the world from Hawaii to Sweden.

2

I had never seen so many white folks in one place. Hundreds crowded and rushed to be somewhere. The busy airport felt like a culture shock but not in a bad way. Blonde hair whipped past me, snuggled in caps and scarves. Skin tucked in coats and jeans appeared so shockingly white it almost blinded me. Delicate yet tall and sturdy people zipped around me as if they had to attend to an emergency.

3

A music-like language danced around my ears, exciting me as I drew closer to the baggage claim. The sound was so familiar yet seemed so distant. I had heard it inconsistently since childhood with the coming and going of my three half sisters. It unfurled off native speakers’ tongues, rising and falling in artistic tones. For the past few months, I had studied my Swedish language book diligently, attempting to match my untrained tongue to the rolling R’s and foreign sounds. On paper, the language looked silly, complicated, and unpronounceable. When spoken correctly, it sounded magical and delighted the ears. As I walked swiftly, trying to keep up with the general pace of this international airport, my ears stayed perked up, catching bits and pieces of conversations.

4

The building was cavernous and had modern wooden architecture that accentuated every corner. Floor to ceiling windows brightened each area, letting in ample light and a view of the dreary early spring surroundings. I felt my eyes widen as I viewed the melting, slushy brown snow and bright green grass peeking up beneath it. Endless birch trees spread before me, and vibrant flowers dotted their roots. Everything inside and out felt so clean and new; even all of the people looked fresh and well dressed. The true Europeans that I had read about for so long were now displayed up close. Pale as they were, none of them looked as if they were sick, overweight, or druggies. I was taken aback, used to the vivid rainbow of shapes, colors, sizes, and overall variety of my Honolulu neighborhood. Every race and social class crammed into the concrete blocks of apartments in my hometown. Everything there felt dirty and unpredictable, but here in Stockholm, everything felt like a lily-white world.

5

As I neared the head of the line at customs, sets of eyes from every direction lingered on me. I was still a child, traveling by myself and sticking out against the array of white with my thick dark hair and almond-colored skin. I figured that my features kept them guessing. I was obviously not white, black, or Middle Eastern, but a mix of many different races and cultures that were completely foreign to them. Even back home, people could never guess what my blood combination was. I soon learned that Sweden has extremely strict immigration rules, and hardly anybody can get in. The country took in some Middle Eastern refugees during past wars, but other than that, blonde-haired blue-eyed Swedes turn up around every corner.

6

With my passport stamped and luggage in tow, I descended down a steep escalator, sandwiched in among a family of five. Listening intently to the lilt of their language, I tried to pick up on what they were discussing. Only able to translate a few simple words, I felt discouraged. Exhaustion was creeping up on me both mentally and physically as the initial adrenaline started to wear off. The flights to get here were lengthy and cramped, while the layovers were stressful and rushed. Jet lag settled in and clouded my already foggy head. I needed the luxury of rejuvenating sleep as soon as possible.

7

Finally, the escalator neared the ground floor. I surveyed the crowd anxiously, winding my way through the masses of people. My sister was supposed to be here somewhere, ready to begin a five-month-long period of dealing with my adolescent hormones. I came here to live and learn, go to a Swedish school, and be immersed in a foreign culture. I spotted her, all the way at the end of the floor, near the sets of doors that led to this new world. She stood there, completely still and silent, but smiling and relieved that I actually made it. Her belly filled out the coat she wore, blossoming with her first child. Her hair was long and silky, and her eyes bright and earnest. She glowed with happiness, now looking like a mother. I fell into her arms, feeling ecstatic after not seeing her for years. We left the airport together, beaming as we walked through the crisp, freezing air. As we neared the car, I reached down and touched the melting snow. My virgin hands explored this new texture, and my nerves tingled. Feeling content, I slid into the car and prepared myself for the exciting journey ahead of me.

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