This American Life

I have two slightly odd dreams and those of you who know me well, know them both. My dream job is being food developer for Trader Joe's. I want to travel all over the world, find incredible, slightly odd food, and help make it accessible to the Americans lucky enough to have Trader Joe's in their cities. Of which I am not one, sadly. The second dream: to write, narrate, or pitch a story that ends up on the radio show, This American Life. The rules of the game: like any good story, it should have an element of surprise and stir some emotion, it should keep you interested, the characters should go through some personal change or another, it should have a strong narrative. If you have suggestions on how I can make the following story fit those criteria, I'd appreciate it.

I spent my sophomore year of college studying abroad in Sweden. I was a religious Mormon girl from Utah, and because of that, I became involved in the Mormon church in my town of Vaxjo. Most college students never got off the campus unless it was to go to a local bar or to the train station that connected our small town to the rest of Europe. My involvement in the Mormon church connected me with a young girl, Miriam. Miriam's parents were worried about her. They were worried about her multiple piercings, her black clothes, her dyed black hair, her friends, who were also dressed in black. They hoped that if Miriam spent some time around me, the righteous girl from the heart of the Mormon church, she might choose another life style. I talked to her about the Book of Mormon, about being happy, and I gave her a gratitude journal. It was something Oprah swore could help make people happier.

I also promised to take her to Stockholm for a weekend trip. It was her first time to the big city without her parents. I booked us a room in a hostel on a boat in the center of the city. It was supposed to be a treat, but when we arrived to check in at the hostel, Miriam took one look at the boat, vetoed it, and insisted we sleep in the building that was planted firmly on the ground. The only beds left were in the co-ed room containing 20 beds. We spent the day sightseeing together and then on the busiest shopping street, she ran into friends of hers and begged to be able to spend a few hours with them (and without her chaperon). So, I headed back to the hostel, feeling lonely and a little homesick. Finding myself alone in the room, I lay down on my bed and began writing in my journal. Suddenly I heard a noise behind me. I whipped my head around to see a young man laying on his bed and waving at me. Angry at being disturbed, I gave a disgusted sniff and went back to writing. He got up from his bed and left the room.

Miriam came back to the hostel and we started preparing dinner in the hostel kitchen. The Spying Guy was also making dinner. He saw Miriam and said to her, "You know, your necklace has the symbol of my country on it," he said, pointing to the Star of David that lay among the hexagon, the amulet, and the skull, all of which were hung on chains around her neck. "What is your name?" he asked.

"Miriam," she answered softly as she inched closer to me, her face frightened.

"Ah," he said, "You must be Jewish."

"No," she said, and turned her back on him, pretending to be engrossed in boiling spaghetti.

I felt bad for my earlier disgusted sniff. "Are you from Israel?" I asked. "What is your name?"

"I am Yuval," he answered.

"I'm Linsey. And you can eat dinner with us if you want."

Dinner stretched out over an hour as Yuval filled us in on the previous three years he had spent in Europe as a traveling street musician. He was the first street musician I had ever met. Not only had I never met a street musician, I was one of the people who tended to rush past street musicians, eyes adverted, as if they were doing something slightly profane, right there in public. I saw that Yuval was proud of his profession. He felt he was contributing beauty and art to the already breathtakingly gorgeous towns and cities of Europe. After dinner, he offered us the chance to accompany him out to the streets for his evening shift. Miriam and I agreed to go and for the first time in my life, I not only made eye contact, I sat and listened to a street musician play and I loved it. He played the folk ballads of Scotland and Ireland and the folk music that I missed from America. Hearing those familiar songs made me feel at home. We stayed and listened until Yuval was forced to move on by the residents of the street.

We walked around the city as the sky grew dark. Miriam was still with us, but she's practically erased from my memory. I found myself utterly captivated with this tall, handsome, well-traveled musician. Late at night we made our way back to the hostel and went to get ready for bed. "Hey," I said. "You'll probably never make it to our town in Sweden, but if you do, you are welcome to come and stay with me. Or if you ever make it to Salt Lake City." My offer was sincere, but I also knew it was very unlikely to ever be taken. After all, our town was buried in the Swedish forest, and not even on the road from one place to another.

The next day, Miriam and I headed back to Stockholm. It was Sunday and we both had to get back to school. For the next three days, my thoughts were full of Yuval. I knew he wouldn't visit, but I thought just perhaps, he would call. On Wednesday, the phone rang and one of my dorm mates answered. "Linsey, some guy is on the phone for you."

"It's not Yuval. It's not Yuval. It's not Yuval. It's probably Dad," I whispered to myself as I walked down the hall. I was trying to crush my hopes before the voice at the other end of the line did it for me. "Hello?"

"Hi. It's Yuval. From the hostel. In stockholm. We met a while ago."

A while? it was only three days ago. "Yeah, of course. How are you?"

"Oh, I am good. I am actually here."

"What do you mean, here?"

"I mean here, in your lovely little town. I am calling from the train station."

"What? But no one comes here. How did you get here?"

"Oh, I hitched and I'd love to take you up on that offer if it still stands."

"Um, sure. Yeah. OK."

The next thing I knew, I was flying over to my friend Anne's dorm. "Anne, you gotta come! That guy I told you about from Stockholm. He's here. Now. At the train station. Who does that? You gotta come with me to meet him. I think he might be crazy. I mean, who just shows up like that?"

Together Anne and I biked to get Yuval and bring him back to the dorms. He swore he'd stay one night and then be back on the road. That night, we did his laundry, I made him dinner, and we hung his sleeping bag out to air. I found a spare mattress and made him a bed on the floor with my sleeping bag. At night, we got ready for bed. He came to bed wearing a button down collared shirt. "You're going to sleep in that?" I asked. "Do you want to borrow a t-shirt? No? Are you sure?"

"No, no. I always sleep in this." I found out later that he slept in the button down shirt out of consideration to me. He knew I was religious, but he didn't know much about Mormons. He thought perhaps the sight of his forearms might be just too immodest for my standards. I thought he was nuts.

The next day it snowed, which made it bad for traveling. There was more snow the day after and we slipped into a routine. I studied during the day, he spent his time playing his guitar and then exploring the area. At night he returned in time for us to cook dinner and exchange stories of the day. We lay on our separate mattresses in the dark and talked until four in the morning every night. He told me he had a girlfriend. A bit like with the shirt, he thought I would be more comfortable with him that way.

On the fifth day, he left. I hugged him goodbye. That goodbye was the beginning of a year long internet correspondence. At the end of the year, I flew to Israel. I stepped off the plane, and into his hug and I never wanted to leave his side again. We spent five weeks traveling Israel together, planning our future. There was a problem though. Mormons are supposed to marry other Mormons, just like Jews are supposed to marry other Jews. I had given up on the idea of him converting, and I knew I never would either. The idea that God had placed this man in my life was ever present for me. I mean, after all, I met him while trying to convert a young Mormon girl back to righteous ways. This conflict sent me into a bit of an existential tailspin. This combined with seeing the holy places of Christianity, Islam, and Judaism, all side by side, all with righteous people equally convinced that they were living according to God's word, shook my faith.

Yuval came back to Utah with me. He studied Mormonism. I learned Hebrew. He managed to impress my family enough that they didn't panic when I told them I was in love with a former street musician. I went back to Israel. This time I studied Mormonism. My faith continued to weaken and eventually, what was left of it shattered. I returned to Utah when my visa expired. Three weeks later, Yuval joined me. We announced we would marry in the spring. That winter, I received an email from Miriam's mother. Miriam had become an upstanding Mormon young woman. She was coming to Salt Lake to visit the heart of the Mormon church, and to do what people sometimes do when the Mormon population around them is so small- she came to date. I was tormented by the thought Miriam was coming, and now, our roles had switched. She was the righteous and I was the fallen. I felt compelled to tell her mother that I was an apostate, since apostates are considered negative influences by some Mormons.

Her mother wrote back a lovely letter, but Miriam planned to stay with other friends of the family. She would be staying in a house with framed cross stitches on the wall, and pictures of Jesus and the Salt Lake temple on the fireplace mantel. Still, she would be happy to see me for lunch or dinner if I had the time. A lunch date was arranged and Yuval and I went to pick her up. I was nervous. It had been almost two years since we had last seen each other. Her hair was no longer black, she was wearing only one necklace and one set of earrings. She had on an ankle length denim skirt. I felt nauseated. I had lost weight, cut off my hair, gotten rid of my glasses. "You look, you look great," Miriam said. She was stunned. Mormons tell stories about how righteous Mormons have a "glow about them" and fallen Mormons are not supposed to glow. But I was in love. I was marrying the man of my dreams. I had blossomed. I glowed, there was no denying it.

Miriam wanted to go to Sizzler. To enjoy the All-American All You Can Eat Buffet. I hate Sizzler, but she was my guest. I drove. I paid. We filled up our plates and sat down and started talking. I started telling her about the upcoming wedding. My eyes were pleading with her, "Understand me. Understand that I am happy. That this is better for me."

Her eyes flickered back and forth from Yuval to me and finally, she couldn't hold it in anymore. "I feel so GUILTY," she wailed. Nearby diners turned to look at us.

"What?" we asked. Stunned.

"You only know each other because of me. Because Linsey took me to Stockholm."

"Yes. That's true. And we are thrilled we know each other. Thank you. We are grateful to you."

"But you left the Church. You can't be happy now. And it's my fault!" With those words, she started to cry. I gave her a second. I was sure she would pull herself together. I mean, we were in a restaurant. And Swedes aren't usually much for drama. Her cries became sobs and I realized she was heading towards hysteria. Now even the hardest of hearing of the elderly diners tuned to look. It was clear this was escalating. All my promises of happiness and assurances that this was right for me only brought louder sobs. I pulled her from the plastic booth and out to the car. She couldn't direct me back to the house where I was staying. She couldn't speak clearly. I took her back to my house. Yuval was silent, stunned, and slowly becoming angry. She hadn't stopped sobbing by the time we reached the house. I picked up the phone. I called her mother at 10:00 at night in Sweden, explained the situation, and handed over the phone. Then I shut the door and walked out of the room. Thirty minutes later, a tear-stained 18-year old emerged from the room and handed me back the cordless phone.

"Do you want to go back to where you are staying?" I asked. She nodded. She looked even younger than the 16-year old girl I had met. My family has always been good at pretending emotional storms never happened. I tried to get her to talk about boys, clothes, sightseeing, anything during the 30 minute drive back. She was exhausted from her tears and overwhelmed. She was silent, unwilling to pretend everything was fine. I dropped her off. I don't remember if I hugged her or if she let me even touch her again before she left.

I kept in touch a bit with her mom through the years. I married under a traditional Jewish wedding cloth, outside of the Stockholm city hall. It turned out Sweden was the easiest place for a Jewish Israeli and a non-Jewish American to get married. A few years later, Miriam's mother sent me pictures of Miriam as a bride with her new husband standing outside the Stockholm Mormon temple. Cameras aren't allowed in the ceremony.