Olivia met us at Central Station in Stockholm where we boarded a train headed southwest to Skövde enroute to the small town of Skara, situated between Vänern and Vättern Lakes. Vänern is the third largest lake in Europe while Vättern is the second largest in Sweden. The northern Vaestra Goetaland region is primarily agricultural growing rye, wheat, and oats. The area suffered significantly from the 19^th century Swedish famine and in 1868, my great, great grandfather, John Freburg (born Johannes Larsson), left the family farm there to seek a better life in the U.S. Two years ago, after my mom posted a photo of her great grandparents on Facebook, we received a message from a woman in Skara named Birgit who had a copy of the very same picture. “Probably,” she said, “we are relatives!”

When we learned the SAS voyage would include a stop in Sweden we began planning. With each passing week, we prayed that COVID wouldn’t interfere. Birgit had made all the arrangements, and as we arrived at the station, I felt both excited and nervous. I gave mom a big hug and with a collective deep breath, we stepped off the train into the arms of family.

The connection was immediate and obvious as we drove to Birgit and her husband, Pers’, home in Skara. We enjoyed the best coffee I’ve ever tasted and talked non-stop, a ritual the Swedes call Fika – relationship accompanied by coffee. And we spent three magical days stepping back in time, tying together missing pieces, and building relationships.

Birgit Gustafsson, known as Bibbi, is my mom’s third cousin. She is warm and kind and full of zest. A history buff and avid researcher, she has compiled books and pages about her ancestry. One photo had her stumped. It was a picture of her grandmother, Alma, as a teen and an unknown young woman with the caption, Visitors from America.

“This is where it all started,” she beamed. Hours exploring the archives in the Skara library, following hints on Ancestry.com, and ultimately finding the Freburg Family Facebook page led her to identify the American visitor as Hannah Freburg, the daughter of John. Father and daughter had returned to Sweden for a visit in 1907. When Bibbi reached out to us on Facebook and compared notes with Mom, the mystery was solved.

Bibbi’s enthusiasm was contagious. Well-versed in Semester at Sea lingo from following Facebook and this blog, she grinned as she handed us our field program packet and introduced herself as our trip liaison. Pers, and her sister, Elizabet, who are equally warm and kind, served as additional tour guides. We stayed in the historic, recently renovated Skara Hotel and visited the church, museum and shops there. Skara is cozy, comfortable, and easily walkable. We saw the train station where John Freburg left his home to seek new opportunities in America and tied together family stories while perusing scrapbooks. While we visited, Pers worked in the kitchen unfolding a magnificent smorgasbord that introduced us to many new Swedish treats like reindeer, wild boar, and pickled herring and included dishes familiar from my childhood like dense rye bread and creamy rich Oost kaka with lingenberries. On our last night we enjoyed a Västergötland specialty called grynkorv, a sausage made with barley, minced pork, and allspice.

Together we explored the area and learned about the extensive lock system on the Göta Canal that connects Lake Vänern to the Baltic Sea. We visited the farm where Bibbi’s grandmother lived and traveled to Fredsberg, the area in Toreboda from which John Freburg took his name. We visited the church he attended and imagined we were sitting in the same pew he did over a hundred years prior. Exploring two cemeteries, we found the headstones of several relatives and learned that in Sweden, cemetery plots are leased and must be renewed over time, or they are reused by someone else. As such, some ancestors were in the cemetery, but their graves were no longer marked, and the names of others were found on the backs of headstones that had been turned and recycled.

Though everything in Sweden was new to us, the familiarity was uncanny. The farmsteads along the highway were so much like those in my childhood home of Phelps County Nebraska. Like Phelps County, this region lies along the path of the annual crane migration. At Lake Hornborgasjön, we watched thousands of cranes dancing and resting on their journey back from Spain. Their distinctive call was another reminder of home. And when we reached the farm Sörgården Borreboda where John Fraser was born, we felt like we belonged. Red and blue Dala horses and Scandinavian candles adorned the tables just like at my grandma’s house, and on a shelf in the den sat the exact same ceramic piggy bank I had as a child. The home has been in the family 400 years. Bibbi’s older brother, Karl-Johan Gustafsson lives there now with his wife, Maryanne, and they invited us to join them for Easter dinner. We gathered around the table with three generations descended from cousins John and Alma and shared an extraordinary paskbord with meatballs, sausage, salmon, herring, potatoes, fruit, cheese, desserts and more, all prepared by Marianne. Third, fourth and fifth cousins broke bread and became friends. After dinner, we were treated to traditional, and not so traditional, Swedish songs on the violin, guitar, and piano. Singing, clapping and toasting to family, we shared gratitude for one another and promised to stay in touch. It was hard to say good-bye when we boarded the train to Stockholm, and I tried to imagine how it must have felt to my great-great-grandfather so many years ago. In the end, at Easter dinner and other visits, we met 21 family members and built relationships that will hopefully extend for generations to come. Fika in Fredsburg. How lucky are we?