With what was left of my summer salary, I bought a one-way ticket to New York City. When I arrived, Mom offered me a choice between a new car or a trip to Sweden. Knowing I could always get a car, I opted for a trip with a group called Experiment in International Living. Carrying a backpack and a small suitcase, I took an old steamship to Rotterdam and a train to Stockholm, where I was placed with a Swedish family. The Roones had never met an American until I walked through the door. I burst into their sedate family like ice cream over pickles. It was pure culture clash. We looked at each other with total bewilderment. For my welcoming meal, they served me a bowl of curdled milk, a traditional dish called filmjölk. It smelled like old socks. When I spooned it to my mouth, a long, elasticlike string of icky goop remained in the bowl. My stomach turned. It pleaded with me not to eat it. The whole family watched as I put my spoon back down in the bowl.
