Rushing into the fast food restaurant where Frida, Karin and Marit were waiting for me, hurriedly starting to tell the story about the sweet old man in the Victorian museum as an excuse for me being late, I was struck by how shrill my voice sounded.
I had been speaking and hearing only English (and far too much German for my taste) for more than five weeks. The only Swedish that I had come in contact with was in the form text and when I sang for the horses.
So, hearing myself speak for those first fifteen minutes felt so utterly strange. Speaking Swedish, I seemed to have a higher pitch to my voice, and I spoke so much faster and, just generally, so much more. It’s like I am another person.
The English me speaks with a deep voice, she’s slow and thoughtful and careful with her articulation. The Swedish me is like a geysir, constantly bubbling over with words and crazy ideas and associations and anecdotes. The Finnish me is probably still stuck somewhere between nineth grade and high school. And the people who know me in one tounge, would probably not recognize me in another at first. I feel slightly confused myself.
Katja Malmborg 
HEI KATJA. KIRJOITAN VARMUUDEN VUOKSI SUOMEKSI – ETTEI UNOHDU SINULTA. ÄITISI ANTOI MINULLE OSOITTEEN JA OLEN NYT VAELLELLUT SIVUILLASI. HIENOLTA NÄYTTÄÄ. TUNTUU IHANALTA ELÄMÄNMATKALTA JA TOIVOTTAVASTI LÖYDÄT ITSELLESI PALJON MERKITYKSELLISTÄ. TERVEISIN ERJA
Ihanaa, Erja! Joo, tää matka on ihan mahtava. Mä olen tapanut niin paljon erilaisia ihmisiä, tulee kestää aika paljon aikaa ennenkun mä ymmärrän kaiken mitä olen oppinut.
Hali!