Fail: No Swedish Dip This Year

This lake was freezing, but it does not count.

I really, really hate to admit this, as it truly shows how slack my moral fiber has become after so many plush months of living in Europe, but this Thanksgiving I did not plunge into a cold body of water, as I have done for the past nine Thanksgivings of my life.

To back up, The Swedish Dip started when I was a junior in highschool, a formidable year for me when I also founded the Swedish Culture Club and succesfully completed a personal challenge to wear shorts to school for a whole year. That Thanksgiving, I decided to give the Holiday a festive, Scandinavian twist by completing what I called a "Swedish Dip": I built up significant body heat by running several miles and jumped in our swimming pool, which usually measures about fifty degrees fareinheit that time of year.

The Swedish Dip was so popular with me that I did it again next Thanksgiving. And the Thanksgiving after that. And after that, and so on. The tradition has carried on for nine years. I get warm, sometimes by playing soccer, riding bikes with my Dad, or just shooting hoops in our backyard, then I plunge in the pool, take a warm shower, and have a nap. It really makes for a great day.

But this year, I am living in Northern Italy where they do not know about Thanksgiving or The Swedish Dip. Being in a program with a dozen or so other Americans, we of course organized our own Thanksgiving dinners, but the day did not feel the same. We had to go to class, businesses were open as usual, and no one played touch football or watched an oversized, inflated Charlie Brown navigate the streets of New York. At dinner, we could not even confirm that we had eaten turkey. The bird had been purchased already cut into pieces by the butcher and tasted suspiciously of goose.

Because the day itself did not feel like a proper Thanksgiving, I did not feel the impetus to find a freezing body of water and jump into it (although I considered my options: the river close to our campus, irrigation ditches, sneaking into the outdoor pool which is closed for the winter, or skipping class to ride my bike to the nearest lake).

And again, because the day did not feel like Thanksgiving, I felt no sense of regret for ditching such a proud and storied tradition.

But later that night, once we had eaten plates of what we hoped was turkey, stuffing, potatoes, creamed corn, brussel sprouts, truffled mac n cheese, and cardoons stewed in tomato sauce (made by an Italian) and once we went around the table and shared what we were thankful for, I felt a sharp pang of regret. Now it was Thanksgiving, and it actually felt like Thanksgiving, and I had to find some cold water and throw myself into it. I got up from the table and tried to spot a nearby fountain from the balcony. They dont have fountains in our town, but if they did, no doubt I would have jumped in.

Instead, I resigned to failure. The Swedish Dip did not happen this year, and I had to give up my dream of a flawless consecutive record of dips. My only consolation will be planning the next Swedish Dip, an important dip, the 10th dip in history, a dip that will require custom t-shirt(s), and a dip that will occur in the right place: my own home, with some of my family watching (I can usually get one or two to come outside), and my little sister taking pictures.

Until then, I hang my head, and admit that Europe has made me a little bit of a sissy.