On being allowed to stay...forever

Erik's no Andie MacDowell and I'm not much of a Gerard Depardieu. But yesterday, we played our parts well and I got my green card. Or, as it's called in Sweden, my Permanent Uppehållstillstånd. I can live and work here as long as I want.

Early Monday morning, Erik and I arrived at the immigration office, drenched and freezing, with all our papers in order (after an early trip to the tax office). We sat in a waiting room with others like us, trying to determine which half of each couple wasn't Swedish and straining our ears to hear what languages they were speaking. Not ten minutes later, we were taken up to an interview room.

But don't get your hopes up. There were no "What kind of aftershave does he use?" questions. We were told later that it was obvious from the beginning that we weren't lying about our relationship, so they skipped the grilling and we missed out on any fun trivia questions. Instead, we were interviewed together and were each asked to describe how our relationship has developed and whether or not we're happy in it.

I hadn't been nervous before the meeting, knowing how unlikely it was that my application wouldn't be approved. But in the small, anonymous room, I sat with my legs tightly crossed, fidgety, and suddenly vulnerable. I realized the seriousness of the process, the governmental aspect of it all. I realized that I was at Sweden's mercy. Also, for all my knowledge of Erik and my confidence in our relationship, there is something strange, awkward, and lovely about declaring your affections and commitment to each other publicly. I now understand why couples who have been together for eons still stumble and cry through their wedding vows as if they're in the first throes of love. Something changes when you take those intimacies and hold them up for all to see.

A half hour after explaining that, yes, we do still like each other, my passport was returned to me with a pretty new paper in it.


To celebrate, I pissed away good Swedish kroner at an expensive salon. Well, that's not entirely true, but I feel less guilty if I pretend I was pampering myself to celebrate my ever-deepening Swedish roots instead of dipping into my Christmas budget to cover my ever-lengthening brown ones.

Regardless of the reasons for my hair appointment, it did become a celebration of sorts. As I sat in the lounge, foil in my hair, gossip magazine in my lap, and a dainty cup of strong coffee in my hand, I looked out the salon window. The Swedish afternoon was raw, rainy, willfully gray--just about as gloomy as you get--and I felt happy and at home.

Note to all jump-to-conclusions readers: this does not mean that I'm never coming back to America, it just means I don't have to.