Wednesday, October 04, 2006
I'm a Loser Baby
Åker pendeltåg, jag är en loser baby, jag har ingen körkort.
-This is a line from a Markoolio song that was popular when we first moved to Sweden. Translation: I ride the commuter train, I'm a loser baby, I have no driver's license.
It was the end of summer 2005. I relaxed on a chaiselounge on a sparkling white Greek beach shaded by a palmleaf umbrella. As a waitress placed an ice-cold drink on the little table next to me, I fished a book out of my beach bag, turned to a random page, and read:
The tread on snow tires must be at least three millimeters deep. You are required to have snow tires on your car from 1 December to 31 March.
I slammed the book shut and threw it on the table, almost toppling my sweating tropical drink.
“It’s 90 degrees in the shade! I just can’t get into winter tires right now!” I said.
“Well, you’d better if you plan on taking your Swedish drivers test in October!” KA said.
It wouldn’t surprise me if all the gorillas at the San Diego Zoo have California driver’s licenses. (In fact, I’m sure I’ve seen a few gorillas behind the wheel on the I-15 at rush hour!) Passing the theory part of the California driver’s license test is as easy as 1-2-3: 1) Grab a Department of Motor Vehicles study brochure, 2) whip through it out in the parking lot, and 3) march right in and take the test. Don’t forget your ipod and headset so you won’t get bored during the 20 or so minutes it takes to get through it. Then you just need to pass the driving test, which usually goes well as long as you don’t hit anyone.
KA, who had already gotten his Swedish driver’s license, continued his lecture.
“A couple of your American friends tried to wing it, and they had to take the test again. It’s late August now, and even though we’re on vacation, you’d better use your beach time wisely.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, less than enthusiastically.
KA grabbed the hefty paperback book off the table and thumbed to a page. “You think you could take the test today? You think you don’t need to study? OK. What does a round sign that contains three small black circles that form the shape of an upside-down triangle mean?
“What? I don’t know. ‘Caution: Bowling ball crossing,’maybe? Is that really in there?”
“Yes, that’s really in there. And anything in this book is fair game for the test.”
“What is the formula for calculating how long it takes for you to stop the car if you’re travelling at 60 kilometers per hour?” he continued.
“A math problem? They expect you to work a math problem while you’re speeding down the road at 60 kilometers per hour? How safe is that? You know how bad I am at math. Whatever’s in front of me would be road kill by the time I got that figured out.”
“Well, you’ll have to know the answer to that, and maybe even to this: How much light does a moose reflect from a distance of 50 meters at night?”
Now I’m sure he’s playing with me. “And what is the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow?” I countered with a line out of ‘Monty Python and the Holy Grail.’
“Yeah, go ahead and laugh. But you’d best be studying the Swedish terminology if you’re going to take the test in Swedish. Bet you won’t be laughing so hard when you realize you don’t know what “boggitryck” means.
“Bogey trick? Doesn’t ‘bogey’ have something to do with golf? Is ‘bogey trick’ the same as a hat trick? Why are we suddenly talking about sports? And just one question for you: might any part of the test actually deal with traffic regulations?”
“Yeah, they get to that eventually, but they want you to be a well-rounded driver.”
“Great! I drove for almost 20 years in Southern California traffic without any accidents.”
KA shot me a stern glance.
“Well, none where anyone got hurt anyway, and I have to know differential calculus to get my license here?”
“It’s just simple algebra, for Pete’s sake!”
My quest to be a well-rounded driver continued at home through the month of September, where I used an interactive CD to help me remember such facts as the difference between a car’s service weight, its incidental weight, and its total weight. At the end of each module, I took a test. The CD announced each wrong answer with the blare of a car horn. KA said he could tell when I finished a module because it sounded like a rush hour traffic jam.
By early October, my study book looked as if I’d left it out in the rain and jumped up and down on it. Maybe I did. Dog-eared and dirty, the book sported dozens of curling post-it notes that stuck out between pages like little mocking tongues. I had highlighted so much text that nothing stood out.
When I finally felt that I could calculate stopping distances at various speeds without the aid of a calculator, I booked the test.
The Swedish DMV has a great way to distract you from your nervousness while you’re in the waiting room. You get to use the harshly-lit self-service photo booth to take the picture that will appear on your license for the next 10 years.
You get three shots, and you pick the best of the three. Hmm. This was a tough decision. Did I want the one that looked like I had to pee really, really, badly? Or how about the one that looked as if I had just been notified I have syphillis? The third one was a possibility. It was just butt ugly—it looked as if I had awoken after a hard night of drinking and didn’t know where I was. By the time I pushed the ‘butt ugly’ button, it was test time.
A group of about 50 of us were ushered into the test hall. To make a long story at least a little shorter, 70 questions and 50 minutes later, I passed! That was one test down and two to go! I now had the first part of my boggitryck, um I mean hat trick. On to the slippery track and the road test!
*Boggitryck is the force that a vehicle imparts to the road at the point of its double-axel. Or something like that.
-This is a line from a Markoolio song that was popular when we first moved to Sweden. Translation: I ride the commuter train, I'm a loser baby, I have no driver's license.
It was the end of summer 2005. I relaxed on a chaiselounge on a sparkling white Greek beach shaded by a palmleaf umbrella. As a waitress placed an ice-cold drink on the little table next to me, I fished a book out of my beach bag, turned to a random page, and read:
The tread on snow tires must be at least three millimeters deep. You are required to have snow tires on your car from 1 December to 31 March.
I slammed the book shut and threw it on the table, almost toppling my sweating tropical drink.
“It’s 90 degrees in the shade! I just can’t get into winter tires right now!” I said.
“Well, you’d better if you plan on taking your Swedish drivers test in October!” KA said.
It wouldn’t surprise me if all the gorillas at the San Diego Zoo have California driver’s licenses. (In fact, I’m sure I’ve seen a few gorillas behind the wheel on the I-15 at rush hour!) Passing the theory part of the California driver’s license test is as easy as 1-2-3: 1) Grab a Department of Motor Vehicles study brochure, 2) whip through it out in the parking lot, and 3) march right in and take the test. Don’t forget your ipod and headset so you won’t get bored during the 20 or so minutes it takes to get through it. Then you just need to pass the driving test, which usually goes well as long as you don’t hit anyone.
KA, who had already gotten his Swedish driver’s license, continued his lecture.
“A couple of your American friends tried to wing it, and they had to take the test again. It’s late August now, and even though we’re on vacation, you’d better use your beach time wisely.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, less than enthusiastically.
KA grabbed the hefty paperback book off the table and thumbed to a page. “You think you could take the test today? You think you don’t need to study? OK. What does a round sign that contains three small black circles that form the shape of an upside-down triangle mean?
“What? I don’t know. ‘Caution: Bowling ball crossing,’maybe? Is that really in there?”
“Yes, that’s really in there. And anything in this book is fair game for the test.”
“What is the formula for calculating how long it takes for you to stop the car if you’re travelling at 60 kilometers per hour?” he continued.
“A math problem? They expect you to work a math problem while you’re speeding down the road at 60 kilometers per hour? How safe is that? You know how bad I am at math. Whatever’s in front of me would be road kill by the time I got that figured out.”
“Well, you’ll have to know the answer to that, and maybe even to this: How much light does a moose reflect from a distance of 50 meters at night?”
Now I’m sure he’s playing with me. “And what is the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow?” I countered with a line out of ‘Monty Python and the Holy Grail.’
“Yeah, go ahead and laugh. But you’d best be studying the Swedish terminology if you’re going to take the test in Swedish. Bet you won’t be laughing so hard when you realize you don’t know what “boggitryck” means.
“Bogey trick? Doesn’t ‘bogey’ have something to do with golf? Is ‘bogey trick’ the same as a hat trick? Why are we suddenly talking about sports? And just one question for you: might any part of the test actually deal with traffic regulations?”
“Yeah, they get to that eventually, but they want you to be a well-rounded driver.”
“Great! I drove for almost 20 years in Southern California traffic without any accidents.”
KA shot me a stern glance.
“Well, none where anyone got hurt anyway, and I have to know differential calculus to get my license here?”
“It’s just simple algebra, for Pete’s sake!”
My quest to be a well-rounded driver continued at home through the month of September, where I used an interactive CD to help me remember such facts as the difference between a car’s service weight, its incidental weight, and its total weight. At the end of each module, I took a test. The CD announced each wrong answer with the blare of a car horn. KA said he could tell when I finished a module because it sounded like a rush hour traffic jam.
By early October, my study book looked as if I’d left it out in the rain and jumped up and down on it. Maybe I did. Dog-eared and dirty, the book sported dozens of curling post-it notes that stuck out between pages like little mocking tongues. I had highlighted so much text that nothing stood out.
When I finally felt that I could calculate stopping distances at various speeds without the aid of a calculator, I booked the test.
The Swedish DMV has a great way to distract you from your nervousness while you’re in the waiting room. You get to use the harshly-lit self-service photo booth to take the picture that will appear on your license for the next 10 years.
You get three shots, and you pick the best of the three. Hmm. This was a tough decision. Did I want the one that looked like I had to pee really, really, badly? Or how about the one that looked as if I had just been notified I have syphillis? The third one was a possibility. It was just butt ugly—it looked as if I had awoken after a hard night of drinking and didn’t know where I was. By the time I pushed the ‘butt ugly’ button, it was test time.
A group of about 50 of us were ushered into the test hall. To make a long story at least a little shorter, 70 questions and 50 minutes later, I passed! That was one test down and two to go! I now had the first part of my boggitryck, um I mean hat trick. On to the slippery track and the road test!
*Boggitryck is the force that a vehicle imparts to the road at the point of its double-axel. Or something like that.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
20 Tips for a Successful San Diego Visit
Although I’ve been back from my trip to the States for over a month now, I still think about how much I enjoyed visiting my family and friends and gettting reaquainted with my home town. The time has also given me a chance to think about some tips and advice for other former San Diegans who have lived in Sweden for more than five years and are planning to come home for a visit.
Tip #1: Always remember that the turn signal, used in Sweden to signal your intention of changing lanes, is completely meaningless in San Diego, where this pretty little blinking light is considered to be just a pretty little blinking light and is ignored by everyone. Alarmingly, only a 100 miles away in Los Angeles, it is considered a sign of agression and challenges other drivers to speed up and prevent you from changing lanes altogether, forcing you to miss your exit. And if you happen to have a rental car sticker affixed to your car while using your turn signal, you may just find yourself run off the road!
Tip #2: If you are driving a rental car, be careful with it. After all, it’s not really yours. But, if you feel that you absolutely have to acquire a big whopping dent in the fender just to see how many accident reports and insurance forms you’ll have to fill out when you return the car, at least try to be in the car when it happens. Somehow, noticing the bunged-up fender as you return to a parking lot to fetch the car is just not as dramatic or exciting as attending the actual event.
Tip #3: If your husband isn't with you on the trip because the friggin’ hedonist decided to go to Rhodes, Greece instead of visiting his inlaws, keep in touch via SMS. It’s not nearly as expensive as a long distance phone call, and you can revert to baby talk and childish spelling to communicate quicker.
Tip #4: Don’t worry about your husband getting bored sitting there in Greece all by his lonesome. Greece is, of course, the cradle of democracy and philosophy, and home to some of the most spectacular historical sites in the world. He’s certain to be soaking up the culture, and will eagerly SMS you about the thought-provoking experiences he’s having, so you can share his experiences:
I visit H20 prk.
I slide down bg slide, I no skerd.
I get bg wedgy.
Tip #5: Keep your ears open for the latest slang, especially if you frequently find yourself knowing less American slang than most Swedes you know. If you listen closely to your brother, you may pick up such gems as “kookstick,” which means an excentric person, and “banana hammock,” which is a very brief mens’ undergarmet (use your imagination). Picking up new slang is one thing. Figuring out how to work your new vocabulary into a conversation is another. Just try weaving “banana hammock” into a conversation during afternoon break!
Tip #6: When your mother has reached the age where it takes her 30 minutes to toddle 10 feet, resist the temptation to walk beside her and pretend you are announcing a horse race: . . .And it’s Mom, careening around the last curve like greased lightning!. . .She’s far and away in the lead!. . .She’s hit the straightaway at full speed now!. . . Coming down the home stretch!!! It’s about then you’ll get wacked with the cane.
Tip #7: Despite everything you hear about how unhealthy American food has become over the years, it is simply not true. You’ll be able to find a bountiful harvest of fresh, wholesome salads on most any menu. The 300 candied walnuts, pound of sweet muffins, and sludgy, maonnaise-based dressing that come with the salad are just there to weigh the plate down so it doesn’t blow away.
Tip #8: Don’t worry that your husband won’t be able to manage by himself on the beaches of Greece alone. Of course he can! He’s an adult, for heaven’s sake! Don’t let him make you feel sorry for him with SMSs such as this:
Wnt to beach.
Cudnt reach all my bak w/sunblck.
Got werd snbrn. Bak & sholdrs
look like Rorschach test.
Tip #9: No matter how things were when you left San Diego, be aware that life has improved significantly over the past several years to the point where San Diegans, and possibly Americans in general, have absolutely no problems whatsoever. You’ll be pleased to know that all problems have been replaced with issues! For example, instead of having problems in school, a kid has issues in school. People have issues to work out, or issues with drugs or alcohol. Given Americans’ obsession with euphamisms, I guess that’s OK, but somehow, Houston, we have an issue! just doesn’t have the right ring to it.
Tip #10: The correct answer to the question, “What kind of restaurant do you want to go to tonight?” is “Mexican.” That answer remains correct for the first four evenings, and even for a couple of lunches. On the fifth evening, however, the correct answer is, “Restaurant? Actually, I was hoping we could swing by the pharmacy and pick up some GasX.”
Tip #11: If you are invited to a Friday night sing-along at the beach by your cousin and you tell her you can’t sing, you’ll be issued a kazoo instead. Be aware, though, that your cousin’s husband will also be playing the kazoo. He’s been practicing, and he’ll sound like the Herb Alpert. You’ll sound like a fog horn.
Tip #12: Hang on to your kazoo. It may come in handy when you’re stuck in heavy traffic and need something to keep you amused while you listen to the radio. Songs that are good with kazoo accompanyment include “Bohemian Radsody,” “Take it easy” (you play backup on that one), and almost any Chicago song (yes, I tested these.) Be discrete when you play, however. A kazoo can be mistaken for a crack pipe if you happen to be stuck in traffic next to a police car.
Tip #13: Don’t take the enthusastic greetings shouted to you from across the store by clothing boutique personnel as a sign that they are genuinely excited to see you. There’s a simple explanation: It’s a cheap asset protection technique wrapped in phoney friendliness. They just want you to know that they know you have entered the store so you won’t steal anything. What is harder to explain is Nathan the waiter, who introduced himself (not unusual in the States) and then wanted me to introduce myself, too (very unusual anywhere)! I’m still trying to figure that one out. Maybe if I were to steal a salt shaker, he could tell the police, “Karen did it!”
Tip #14: I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Be prepared for chit-chat from strangers any time, anywhere. For example, you may be asked for sightseeing tips in a public restroom, or you could be beseiged by a boy in the botanical gardens who wants to discuss carniverous plants. Just smile and go along with it—these people aren’t dangerous, they’re just American. If you feel uncomfortable about it, console yourself with the fact that you’ll be back home in Sweden soon, where you will be completely ignored by everyone.
Tip #15: If you get some American cash to take with you, be sure to check it thoroughly before you go to the States. For one thing, you’re used to using Swedish crowns now, so even the idea of American money may seem almost “foreign” to you. American coins, for example, feel thinner and lighter compared to Swedish coins. Furthermore, the United States Treasury Department has actually changed the design of some of the bills, making them a sort of parchment color. The time to marvel at these changes is in the privacy of your own home, and not sitting in a restaurant with your friends. When it’s time to pay the bill, you don’t want to embarass them by feeling up all the quarters as if you had discovered a new tactile thrill or by holding a $10 bill in the air and exclaiming loudly, “What’s this? Is this a real 10-spot? Who are they trying to fool!”
Tip #16: If your brother is a cop in the horse patrol, it is OK to pet the horse, but ask permission first. The animal is after all, an actual law enforcement officer, as evidenced by the badge attached to one of the straps on his riding tack. Do not under any circumstances, however, ask any questions about how the equine officer is cared for. You will receive detailed information about the hygeine routine for Officer Horse’s hindquarters--information with a high “Yuck”-factor that will not significantly enrich your life.
Tip #17: When you make a nostalgic visit to the local pub where you had your first drink so many years ago and the drunk standing next to you says, "Check this out," and starts shouting to the singer, “Hey! Play Bon Jovi! Play Bon Jovi!” but it’s an Irish pub with an Irish singer singing Irish folk songs, the nostalgic moment is ruined. It’s time to leave.
Tip #18: You will frequently meet Americans who have the impression that Sweden is a country full of of loose morals and gorgeous women. Before you choose to enlighten these people, try to find out if they perceive you as falling into one or both of these categories by virtue of the fact that you have chosen Sweden as your home. Then make your decision accordingly.
Tip #19: If you have an American friend of Swedish ancestery who is gluten intolerant, it is a nice gesture to bring her as many gluten-free goods as you can from Sweden. Since this genetically-transmitted illness has its origins in the Nordic countries, such goods are much more plentiful in Sweden than they are in the US. It is not cool, however, to eat handfull after handfull of the gluten-free cookies yourself if she happens to open a box to have with coffee.
Tip #20: If you plan on visiting your former boss and his wife, and you can’t decide what kind of present you should take for their adorable two-year old daughter, may I suggest a Pippi Longstockings doll. The child’s parents will be thrilled that you introduced their daughter to a character with no parents who does exactly as she pleases, and who probably abuses steroids to boot.
Well, I could go on forever (heck, I think I already have gone on forever), with helpful tips, but I hope you get the idea. With a little thought and planning, you, too, can have an enjoyable visit to the Old Country.
Tip #1: Always remember that the turn signal, used in Sweden to signal your intention of changing lanes, is completely meaningless in San Diego, where this pretty little blinking light is considered to be just a pretty little blinking light and is ignored by everyone. Alarmingly, only a 100 miles away in Los Angeles, it is considered a sign of agression and challenges other drivers to speed up and prevent you from changing lanes altogether, forcing you to miss your exit. And if you happen to have a rental car sticker affixed to your car while using your turn signal, you may just find yourself run off the road!
Tip #2: If you are driving a rental car, be careful with it. After all, it’s not really yours. But, if you feel that you absolutely have to acquire a big whopping dent in the fender just to see how many accident reports and insurance forms you’ll have to fill out when you return the car, at least try to be in the car when it happens. Somehow, noticing the bunged-up fender as you return to a parking lot to fetch the car is just not as dramatic or exciting as attending the actual event.
Tip #3: If your husband isn't with you on the trip because the friggin’ hedonist decided to go to Rhodes, Greece instead of visiting his inlaws, keep in touch via SMS. It’s not nearly as expensive as a long distance phone call, and you can revert to baby talk and childish spelling to communicate quicker.
Tip #4: Don’t worry about your husband getting bored sitting there in Greece all by his lonesome. Greece is, of course, the cradle of democracy and philosophy, and home to some of the most spectacular historical sites in the world. He’s certain to be soaking up the culture, and will eagerly SMS you about the thought-provoking experiences he’s having, so you can share his experiences:
I visit H20 prk.
I slide down bg slide, I no skerd.
I get bg wedgy.
Tip #5: Keep your ears open for the latest slang, especially if you frequently find yourself knowing less American slang than most Swedes you know. If you listen closely to your brother, you may pick up such gems as “kookstick,” which means an excentric person, and “banana hammock,” which is a very brief mens’ undergarmet (use your imagination). Picking up new slang is one thing. Figuring out how to work your new vocabulary into a conversation is another. Just try weaving “banana hammock” into a conversation during afternoon break!
Tip #6: When your mother has reached the age where it takes her 30 minutes to toddle 10 feet, resist the temptation to walk beside her and pretend you are announcing a horse race: . . .And it’s Mom, careening around the last curve like greased lightning!. . .She’s far and away in the lead!. . .She’s hit the straightaway at full speed now!. . . Coming down the home stretch!!! It’s about then you’ll get wacked with the cane.
Tip #7: Despite everything you hear about how unhealthy American food has become over the years, it is simply not true. You’ll be able to find a bountiful harvest of fresh, wholesome salads on most any menu. The 300 candied walnuts, pound of sweet muffins, and sludgy, maonnaise-based dressing that come with the salad are just there to weigh the plate down so it doesn’t blow away.
Tip #8: Don’t worry that your husband won’t be able to manage by himself on the beaches of Greece alone. Of course he can! He’s an adult, for heaven’s sake! Don’t let him make you feel sorry for him with SMSs such as this:
Wnt to beach.
Cudnt reach all my bak w/sunblck.
Got werd snbrn. Bak & sholdrs
look like Rorschach test.
Tip #9: No matter how things were when you left San Diego, be aware that life has improved significantly over the past several years to the point where San Diegans, and possibly Americans in general, have absolutely no problems whatsoever. You’ll be pleased to know that all problems have been replaced with issues! For example, instead of having problems in school, a kid has issues in school. People have issues to work out, or issues with drugs or alcohol. Given Americans’ obsession with euphamisms, I guess that’s OK, but somehow, Houston, we have an issue! just doesn’t have the right ring to it.
Tip #10: The correct answer to the question, “What kind of restaurant do you want to go to tonight?” is “Mexican.” That answer remains correct for the first four evenings, and even for a couple of lunches. On the fifth evening, however, the correct answer is, “Restaurant? Actually, I was hoping we could swing by the pharmacy and pick up some GasX.”
Tip #11: If you are invited to a Friday night sing-along at the beach by your cousin and you tell her you can’t sing, you’ll be issued a kazoo instead. Be aware, though, that your cousin’s husband will also be playing the kazoo. He’s been practicing, and he’ll sound like the Herb Alpert. You’ll sound like a fog horn.
Tip #12: Hang on to your kazoo. It may come in handy when you’re stuck in heavy traffic and need something to keep you amused while you listen to the radio. Songs that are good with kazoo accompanyment include “Bohemian Radsody,” “Take it easy” (you play backup on that one), and almost any Chicago song (yes, I tested these.) Be discrete when you play, however. A kazoo can be mistaken for a crack pipe if you happen to be stuck in traffic next to a police car.
Tip #13: Don’t take the enthusastic greetings shouted to you from across the store by clothing boutique personnel as a sign that they are genuinely excited to see you. There’s a simple explanation: It’s a cheap asset protection technique wrapped in phoney friendliness. They just want you to know that they know you have entered the store so you won’t steal anything. What is harder to explain is Nathan the waiter, who introduced himself (not unusual in the States) and then wanted me to introduce myself, too (very unusual anywhere)! I’m still trying to figure that one out. Maybe if I were to steal a salt shaker, he could tell the police, “Karen did it!”
Tip #14: I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Be prepared for chit-chat from strangers any time, anywhere. For example, you may be asked for sightseeing tips in a public restroom, or you could be beseiged by a boy in the botanical gardens who wants to discuss carniverous plants. Just smile and go along with it—these people aren’t dangerous, they’re just American. If you feel uncomfortable about it, console yourself with the fact that you’ll be back home in Sweden soon, where you will be completely ignored by everyone.
Tip #15: If you get some American cash to take with you, be sure to check it thoroughly before you go to the States. For one thing, you’re used to using Swedish crowns now, so even the idea of American money may seem almost “foreign” to you. American coins, for example, feel thinner and lighter compared to Swedish coins. Furthermore, the United States Treasury Department has actually changed the design of some of the bills, making them a sort of parchment color. The time to marvel at these changes is in the privacy of your own home, and not sitting in a restaurant with your friends. When it’s time to pay the bill, you don’t want to embarass them by feeling up all the quarters as if you had discovered a new tactile thrill or by holding a $10 bill in the air and exclaiming loudly, “What’s this? Is this a real 10-spot? Who are they trying to fool!”
Tip #16: If your brother is a cop in the horse patrol, it is OK to pet the horse, but ask permission first. The animal is after all, an actual law enforcement officer, as evidenced by the badge attached to one of the straps on his riding tack. Do not under any circumstances, however, ask any questions about how the equine officer is cared for. You will receive detailed information about the hygeine routine for Officer Horse’s hindquarters--information with a high “Yuck”-factor that will not significantly enrich your life.
Tip #17: When you make a nostalgic visit to the local pub where you had your first drink so many years ago and the drunk standing next to you says, "Check this out," and starts shouting to the singer, “Hey! Play Bon Jovi! Play Bon Jovi!” but it’s an Irish pub with an Irish singer singing Irish folk songs, the nostalgic moment is ruined. It’s time to leave.
Tip #18: You will frequently meet Americans who have the impression that Sweden is a country full of of loose morals and gorgeous women. Before you choose to enlighten these people, try to find out if they perceive you as falling into one or both of these categories by virtue of the fact that you have chosen Sweden as your home. Then make your decision accordingly.
Tip #19: If you have an American friend of Swedish ancestery who is gluten intolerant, it is a nice gesture to bring her as many gluten-free goods as you can from Sweden. Since this genetically-transmitted illness has its origins in the Nordic countries, such goods are much more plentiful in Sweden than they are in the US. It is not cool, however, to eat handfull after handfull of the gluten-free cookies yourself if she happens to open a box to have with coffee.
Tip #20: If you plan on visiting your former boss and his wife, and you can’t decide what kind of present you should take for their adorable two-year old daughter, may I suggest a Pippi Longstockings doll. The child’s parents will be thrilled that you introduced their daughter to a character with no parents who does exactly as she pleases, and who probably abuses steroids to boot.
Well, I could go on forever (heck, I think I already have gone on forever), with helpful tips, but I hope you get the idea. With a little thought and planning, you, too, can have an enjoyable visit to the Old Country.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Fall Celebration
Well, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? I was going to write a bit about my trip to San Diego, but first I want to tell you this seasonal tale. . .
There it sat, staring me down with its spherical, mindless, coal-black eyes. Its bloody-black body armor, complete with menacing spines, made it look like some sinister medieval jousting champion. I considered carefully what I was about to do. One false move, and the repulsive creature would stick me, leaving a painful, bloody wound. My thoughts raced as I calculated the best method of attack. The creature’s many spindly, segmented legs looked like they belonged on some prehistoric insect. Brown-tinged briny liquid seeped from under its formidable armor and pooled around its gaping claws. Revolted by the creature, I was losing my nerve. I had to do this quickly, or not at all. . .Slowly, as if I feared that it would recoil from the approach of my hand, I reached for it, hesitated, and felt the sudden jab. . .
“Just pick the thing up and tear its tail off! It’s just a crawdad, for cry’n out loud!”
“Ow!” I rubbed my side in the spot where my husband, KA, had just elbowed me in the ribs.
“But they’re so. . .insect-like! They remind me of spiders. . .and I HATE spiders!”
“But you’ve eaten them before. You always said that you liked them. . .”
Yes, it’s true. I do like the taste of crawfish. The Swedes, do, too. Swedish royalty has been enjoying them since the mid-1500’s. Over the centuries, the custom of consuming these arthropods, which actually are related to spiders and other multi-legged creepy-crawlies, spread throughout the masses as a celebration of the coming of Fall.
Last Saturday night, KA and I joined the masses at a traditional Swedish crayfish party. The hosts had made sure that all the right trappings were in place. . .a big tent in the garden with huge paper lanterns in the shape of smiling full moons hanging overhead, lots of bread and cheese, plenty of brännvin (which I’m convinced actually means ‘spiced kerosene’ in Swedish) and, of course, the delicacy of honor, the bottom-feeding mud bug, as crawfish are sometimes called in the US.
Liking the taste of crawfish is one thing. Even if I can overlook their prehistoric bug-like appearance, it’s how you have to get at them that really bothers me. You basically have to rip them apart with your bare hands! I mean, what other food do civilized people eat that way? Imagine someone inviting you for dinner, handing you a whole cooked chicken--head, feet, feathers, and all, and saying, “Have at it! Bon Appetit!” It amounts to the same thing doesn’t it? Of course, all of the grocery stores sell crawfish tails in little plastic tubs, all properly peeled and deveined. Believe me, I’d opt for this sanitized version if it wouldn’t get me laughed out of the country. After all, a genuine Swedish crawfish party is not only about merriment—it’s about dismemberment.
As it is, I can’t stomach much more than removing and peeling the tail. For me, that’s the only edible part. There are a lot of people, though, who have a much broader view of what is edible—such as the guy I ended up sitting next to.
While KA was busy chatting up the woman on his left, the guy on my right was telling me all about his favorite brands of beer while he proceeded to completely dismantel a crawfish as if he were a little boy disassembling a snap-together toy. I felt a swell of nausea, just like I felt back in high school biology lab when we had to slice up the frogs in formaldehyde. Yes, this dinner was quickly turning into a dissection. And once the guy had the creature in bits and pieces, each individual one received his special attention.
“THHHLLOOOUURP!”
Oh no! He’s sucking the. . .the. . .contents out of the creature’s head! I looked away, trying to hide my disgust.
“You know how making love in a canoe is similar to American beer?” he asked between sloppy slurps.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that one. They're both fu . . .”
"Attention, everyone!" I was interrupted by a heavy-set man with a red face sitting at the other side of the long table. He had picked up his copy of the song leaflet we had all received upon arrival. Looking very much like a preacher at a tent revival meeting, he began leading us enthusiastically in a song extolling the virtues of crawfish. The song ended with everyone scooping up their brännvin glasses with sticky hands and yelling “Skål!”
“They're both damn close to water!” My table companion delivered the punch line of his joke as he slammed down his empty glass and roared with laughter. He then began scooping orangish goo, which he called 'butter', out of the now unrecognizable animal’s body cavity and licking it off his pinky finger.
I quickly poured myself another shot of brännvin, not because I liked it, but to numb my senses. Not only was this guy eating entrails, he totally fumbled the punch line of the most over-told joke in all of Sweden!
When he finally did get around to peeling the only truly edible part—the tail, he ceremoniously slit out the muddy vein with his thumbnail and dangled it in front of my nose.
“Intestine!” he announced proudly, as if presenting a newborn child he had brought straight from its mother’s womb.
YUCK! I fought to stifle a gag as the red-faced man began the umpteenth crawfish song of the evening.
By now, the carnage was almost complete. Empty, broken exoskeletons were strewn about like burned-out cars. Lifeless heads and stiff limbs lay abandoned on plates. The paper moon lanterns looked down upon the macabre scene with sinister smiles while folks chatted and laughed over the broken bodies. I hung my aching head and gazed down absently with weary eyes. Determined to keep my plate from looking like an autopsy table, I had kept it as clear as possible, diligently dumping all remains every time someone brought around the big plastic body. . ., um, I mean, trash bag. The only thing laying there now in a little pool of briny dill fluid was a single black bead.
Aw, great! I broke my necklace! I put a sticky hand to my chest and felt that the beads were still intact. Then it hit me. That’s not a bead. . .It’s a spherical, mindless, coal-black EYE! AHHHH!
“What’s up with your wife?”
The man who had been sitting next to me and whom I had awkwardly scrambled over in a mad dash for the bathroom was asking for an explanation for my hasty exit.
“I don’t know.” KA shrugged. “I swear, sometimes she makes no sense to me whatsoever. As she ran by, she said something about flunking her high school biology lab.”
“Must be the brännvin,” the men said in unison.
There it sat, staring me down with its spherical, mindless, coal-black eyes. Its bloody-black body armor, complete with menacing spines, made it look like some sinister medieval jousting champion. I considered carefully what I was about to do. One false move, and the repulsive creature would stick me, leaving a painful, bloody wound. My thoughts raced as I calculated the best method of attack. The creature’s many spindly, segmented legs looked like they belonged on some prehistoric insect. Brown-tinged briny liquid seeped from under its formidable armor and pooled around its gaping claws. Revolted by the creature, I was losing my nerve. I had to do this quickly, or not at all. . .Slowly, as if I feared that it would recoil from the approach of my hand, I reached for it, hesitated, and felt the sudden jab. . .
“Just pick the thing up and tear its tail off! It’s just a crawdad, for cry’n out loud!”
“Ow!” I rubbed my side in the spot where my husband, KA, had just elbowed me in the ribs.
“But they’re so. . .insect-like! They remind me of spiders. . .and I HATE spiders!”
“But you’ve eaten them before. You always said that you liked them. . .”
Yes, it’s true. I do like the taste of crawfish. The Swedes, do, too. Swedish royalty has been enjoying them since the mid-1500’s. Over the centuries, the custom of consuming these arthropods, which actually are related to spiders and other multi-legged creepy-crawlies, spread throughout the masses as a celebration of the coming of Fall.
Last Saturday night, KA and I joined the masses at a traditional Swedish crayfish party. The hosts had made sure that all the right trappings were in place. . .a big tent in the garden with huge paper lanterns in the shape of smiling full moons hanging overhead, lots of bread and cheese, plenty of brännvin (which I’m convinced actually means ‘spiced kerosene’ in Swedish) and, of course, the delicacy of honor, the bottom-feeding mud bug, as crawfish are sometimes called in the US.
Liking the taste of crawfish is one thing. Even if I can overlook their prehistoric bug-like appearance, it’s how you have to get at them that really bothers me. You basically have to rip them apart with your bare hands! I mean, what other food do civilized people eat that way? Imagine someone inviting you for dinner, handing you a whole cooked chicken--head, feet, feathers, and all, and saying, “Have at it! Bon Appetit!” It amounts to the same thing doesn’t it? Of course, all of the grocery stores sell crawfish tails in little plastic tubs, all properly peeled and deveined. Believe me, I’d opt for this sanitized version if it wouldn’t get me laughed out of the country. After all, a genuine Swedish crawfish party is not only about merriment—it’s about dismemberment.
As it is, I can’t stomach much more than removing and peeling the tail. For me, that’s the only edible part. There are a lot of people, though, who have a much broader view of what is edible—such as the guy I ended up sitting next to.
While KA was busy chatting up the woman on his left, the guy on my right was telling me all about his favorite brands of beer while he proceeded to completely dismantel a crawfish as if he were a little boy disassembling a snap-together toy. I felt a swell of nausea, just like I felt back in high school biology lab when we had to slice up the frogs in formaldehyde. Yes, this dinner was quickly turning into a dissection. And once the guy had the creature in bits and pieces, each individual one received his special attention.
“THHHLLOOOUURP!”
Oh no! He’s sucking the. . .the. . .contents out of the creature’s head! I looked away, trying to hide my disgust.
“You know how making love in a canoe is similar to American beer?” he asked between sloppy slurps.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that one. They're both fu . . .”
"Attention, everyone!" I was interrupted by a heavy-set man with a red face sitting at the other side of the long table. He had picked up his copy of the song leaflet we had all received upon arrival. Looking very much like a preacher at a tent revival meeting, he began leading us enthusiastically in a song extolling the virtues of crawfish. The song ended with everyone scooping up their brännvin glasses with sticky hands and yelling “Skål!”
“They're both damn close to water!” My table companion delivered the punch line of his joke as he slammed down his empty glass and roared with laughter. He then began scooping orangish goo, which he called 'butter', out of the now unrecognizable animal’s body cavity and licking it off his pinky finger.
I quickly poured myself another shot of brännvin, not because I liked it, but to numb my senses. Not only was this guy eating entrails, he totally fumbled the punch line of the most over-told joke in all of Sweden!
When he finally did get around to peeling the only truly edible part—the tail, he ceremoniously slit out the muddy vein with his thumbnail and dangled it in front of my nose.
“Intestine!” he announced proudly, as if presenting a newborn child he had brought straight from its mother’s womb.
YUCK! I fought to stifle a gag as the red-faced man began the umpteenth crawfish song of the evening.
By now, the carnage was almost complete. Empty, broken exoskeletons were strewn about like burned-out cars. Lifeless heads and stiff limbs lay abandoned on plates. The paper moon lanterns looked down upon the macabre scene with sinister smiles while folks chatted and laughed over the broken bodies. I hung my aching head and gazed down absently with weary eyes. Determined to keep my plate from looking like an autopsy table, I had kept it as clear as possible, diligently dumping all remains every time someone brought around the big plastic body. . ., um, I mean, trash bag. The only thing laying there now in a little pool of briny dill fluid was a single black bead.
Aw, great! I broke my necklace! I put a sticky hand to my chest and felt that the beads were still intact. Then it hit me. That’s not a bead. . .It’s a spherical, mindless, coal-black EYE! AHHHH!
“What’s up with your wife?”
The man who had been sitting next to me and whom I had awkwardly scrambled over in a mad dash for the bathroom was asking for an explanation for my hasty exit.
“I don’t know.” KA shrugged. “I swear, sometimes she makes no sense to me whatsoever. As she ran by, she said something about flunking her high school biology lab.”
“Must be the brännvin,” the men said in unison.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Those Left Behind on Death Row
Do you ever wonder what goes on in your home when you’re away?
With its human inhabitants away on vacation, their humble apartment dozes in the hazy light that filters through half-closed blinds. The decorative pillows are arranged neatly on the sofa, all four chairs are pushed in under the dining room table, and all non-essential electrical appliances have been either turned off or unplugged. It is completely quiet, except for that odd snapping sound the TV makes now and then and some sort of commotion coming from the kitchen, where three houseplants, a drooping Peace Lilly, an Anthurium, whose red, heart-shaped flowers were now tinged with brown, and a stoic, unnaturally green Zamioculcas sit together up to their pot rims in a sinkfull of water. A fourth plant, a carnivorous Sarracenia with long, hollow tubes that are one-way death tunnels to any bug that wanders into them, sits off to the side in its own pot of water.
Peace Lilly: “Whose brilliant idea was this? We’re all gonna get root rot sitting here up to our stems in water like this! None of us are swamp plants, except for maybe Ol’ Bug Breath over there.”
Sarracenia: “You’re just jealous that KA likes me better than all of you. He always makes sure I get lots of water and even an occasional insect treat. The only reason he waters you is because he happens to be in the neighborhood with the watering can. You’d better be grateful for me and him, because if it were left up to Karen to water us, we’d all be leafless and lifeless by now.”
Anthurium: “I guess they thought this would keep us from drying out until they get back. At least it gets us off of Death Row for a week or two. Huh! Death Row. Almost every home in Sweden has a shelf in each window filled with happy, well cared for plants. But considering how it’s been for us here, ‘Death Row ‘ is a fitting name for our miserable little shelf, isn’t it? We get no fertilizer, hardly any water, and I don’t know about you guys, but I’m so root-bound I feel like one of those ladies we saw on the Discovery Channel who had their feet tied up to keep them from growing.”
Peace Lilly: “Last year they took us to the neighbor downstairs when they left for vacation. That place was nice—she had lots of lush, healthy houseplants. It was like going to a spa! We lived like royalty there. I actually thought I’d bloom again after that. Why didn’t they take us there this year?”
Anthurium: “Don’t you remember? She moved away. It’s just as well. That woman made me nervous.”
Peace Lilly: “Nervous? Why?”
Anthurium: “She’s a vegetarian! Don’t you know what vegetarians eat?”
Peace Lilly: “Yeah, I do. They eat vegetables, not house plants, you numbskull!”
Sarracenia: “I guess that’s why I got to go to Karen’s job to get looked after. I’m a carnivore and maybe it was against that lady’s principles to feed me meat.”
Anthurium: “Somehow, I don’t think she would consider that eating animal flesh and eating bugs is the same thing.”
Sarracenia: “Anyway, at Karen’s job there was this guy who fed me flies—mmmm! I can still taste those big, juicy. . .”
Peace Lilly: “Alright already! That’s enough! No one wants to hear about your 'fine dining experience' at Karen’s job. We need to think of a way to get out of this swamp!”
Anthurium: “You think it’s a swamp now, just wait another couple of weeks. The mildew and mold that’s gonna grow here will be the only flora left in this apartment. But what can we do?"
Peace Lilly: “I wish this stupid Zamioculcas would contribute some ideas here. All he does is sit there and do nothing. Just look at him. He’s a really weird green color. Never grows any new leaves—never loses any, either. And never says a word to us. Just sits there like a big, dumb—Oh my gosh, you don’t think he’s…artificial, do you?”
Anthurium: “Oh, come on! That’s absolutely creepy! Anyway, who’d be dumb enough to put an artificial plant in water like this?”
Peace Lilly and Sarracenia: “Karen.”
Anthurium: “Right. I could actually believe that. Neither she nor her husband seem to know much about plants. I’ve heard Karen say that her co-workers feel sorry for her office plants and come in and pluck dead leaves from them and even give them water sometimes.”
Peace Lilly: “What! She has plants at work, too?"
Sarracenia: “You bet your buds she does, I saw them when I was there. They didn’t look much better than we do. There was this pathetic little miniature palm tree with a twisted trunk, and a dried-up spider plant whose children were starving for water, too.
Anthurium: “Oh no! Not even the children get care? That’s outrageous! There ought to be a law…”
Peace Lilly: “Forget about them! There’s nothing we can do for them! We’ve got to think about our situation right now. Come on you guys—help me come up with some ideas.”
Sarracenia: “Hey! I know! We can wait 30 million years!
Peace Lilly: “30 million years? What are you talking about?”
Sarracenia: “By then at least one of us will have evolved legs and could go for help!”
Peace Lilly: “You idiot! Why don’t you go eat worms—No, I take that back, you’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you, you larvae-lover!”
Sarracenia: “Yes, as a matter of fact, I would just love to slowly suck the innards out of a big, fat worm. . .”
Peace Lilly: “Aw, here we go again! You’re making me sick! Even my aphids are ready to upchuck!”
Sarracenia: “You started it!”
Anthurium: “Stop it, you two! This bickering isn’t helping. Listen, maybe it’s hopeless. Maybe we should just end it all, like Amaryllis did a few Christmases ago, remember?
Peace Lilly: “Of course, who could forget? What a bright bulb she was! So statuesque, such a beautiful bloom. Then she got stuck on Death Row with us, but she wasn’t tough enough to take it. She broke down and jumped off the shelf one afternoon.”
Sarracenia: “I remember KA came home and found her broken body on the floor surrounded by her shattered pot. He told Karen that the pot had become unbalanced because Amaryllis had grown so quickly, but we know the truth, don’t we?”
Peace Lilly: “Yes. It was truly tragic. But I refuse to give up, and neither should any of you! Come on. . think!”
As the hapless houseplants try in vain to use their collective brainpower to come up with a way to escape their plight, a thought occurs to Anthurium:
“Hey—I think I know why we’re having such a hard time with this.”
Peace Lilly and Sarracenia: “Why’s that?”
Anthurium: “You know when someone is really, really stupid and people say: “He’s got the brains of a houseplant?”
Peace Lilly and Sarracenia: “Yeah. So?”
Anthurium: “Well, that’s the kind of brains we have! we’ve got the brains of a houseplant.”
Peace Lilly: “Dang! I guess that means we’re hosed, doesn’t it?”
Sarracenia: “Yeah. What a bummer!”
As the houseplants resign themselves to spending the next few weeks in the kitchen sink, Karen and KA enjoy their vacation, secure in the knowledge that all is as it should be at home: The decorative pillows are arranged neatly on the sofa, all four chairs are pushed in under the dining room table, and all non-essential electrical appliances have been either turned off or unplugged. And they don’t even think about their houseplants—after all, they have plenty of water, and even a little hazy light that filters through half-closed blinds.
With its human inhabitants away on vacation, their humble apartment dozes in the hazy light that filters through half-closed blinds. The decorative pillows are arranged neatly on the sofa, all four chairs are pushed in under the dining room table, and all non-essential electrical appliances have been either turned off or unplugged. It is completely quiet, except for that odd snapping sound the TV makes now and then and some sort of commotion coming from the kitchen, where three houseplants, a drooping Peace Lilly, an Anthurium, whose red, heart-shaped flowers were now tinged with brown, and a stoic, unnaturally green Zamioculcas sit together up to their pot rims in a sinkfull of water. A fourth plant, a carnivorous Sarracenia with long, hollow tubes that are one-way death tunnels to any bug that wanders into them, sits off to the side in its own pot of water.
Peace Lilly: “Whose brilliant idea was this? We’re all gonna get root rot sitting here up to our stems in water like this! None of us are swamp plants, except for maybe Ol’ Bug Breath over there.”
Sarracenia: “You’re just jealous that KA likes me better than all of you. He always makes sure I get lots of water and even an occasional insect treat. The only reason he waters you is because he happens to be in the neighborhood with the watering can. You’d better be grateful for me and him, because if it were left up to Karen to water us, we’d all be leafless and lifeless by now.”
Anthurium: “I guess they thought this would keep us from drying out until they get back. At least it gets us off of Death Row for a week or two. Huh! Death Row. Almost every home in Sweden has a shelf in each window filled with happy, well cared for plants. But considering how it’s been for us here, ‘Death Row ‘ is a fitting name for our miserable little shelf, isn’t it? We get no fertilizer, hardly any water, and I don’t know about you guys, but I’m so root-bound I feel like one of those ladies we saw on the Discovery Channel who had their feet tied up to keep them from growing.”
Peace Lilly: “Last year they took us to the neighbor downstairs when they left for vacation. That place was nice—she had lots of lush, healthy houseplants. It was like going to a spa! We lived like royalty there. I actually thought I’d bloom again after that. Why didn’t they take us there this year?”
Anthurium: “Don’t you remember? She moved away. It’s just as well. That woman made me nervous.”
Peace Lilly: “Nervous? Why?”
Anthurium: “She’s a vegetarian! Don’t you know what vegetarians eat?”
Peace Lilly: “Yeah, I do. They eat vegetables, not house plants, you numbskull!”
Sarracenia: “I guess that’s why I got to go to Karen’s job to get looked after. I’m a carnivore and maybe it was against that lady’s principles to feed me meat.”
Anthurium: “Somehow, I don’t think she would consider that eating animal flesh and eating bugs is the same thing.”
Sarracenia: “Anyway, at Karen’s job there was this guy who fed me flies—mmmm! I can still taste those big, juicy. . .”
Peace Lilly: “Alright already! That’s enough! No one wants to hear about your 'fine dining experience' at Karen’s job. We need to think of a way to get out of this swamp!”
Anthurium: “You think it’s a swamp now, just wait another couple of weeks. The mildew and mold that’s gonna grow here will be the only flora left in this apartment. But what can we do?"
Peace Lilly: “I wish this stupid Zamioculcas would contribute some ideas here. All he does is sit there and do nothing. Just look at him. He’s a really weird green color. Never grows any new leaves—never loses any, either. And never says a word to us. Just sits there like a big, dumb—Oh my gosh, you don’t think he’s…artificial, do you?”
Anthurium: “Oh, come on! That’s absolutely creepy! Anyway, who’d be dumb enough to put an artificial plant in water like this?”
Peace Lilly and Sarracenia: “Karen.”
Anthurium: “Right. I could actually believe that. Neither she nor her husband seem to know much about plants. I’ve heard Karen say that her co-workers feel sorry for her office plants and come in and pluck dead leaves from them and even give them water sometimes.”
Peace Lilly: “What! She has plants at work, too?"
Sarracenia: “You bet your buds she does, I saw them when I was there. They didn’t look much better than we do. There was this pathetic little miniature palm tree with a twisted trunk, and a dried-up spider plant whose children were starving for water, too.
Anthurium: “Oh no! Not even the children get care? That’s outrageous! There ought to be a law…”
Peace Lilly: “Forget about them! There’s nothing we can do for them! We’ve got to think about our situation right now. Come on you guys—help me come up with some ideas.”
Sarracenia: “Hey! I know! We can wait 30 million years!
Peace Lilly: “30 million years? What are you talking about?”
Sarracenia: “By then at least one of us will have evolved legs and could go for help!”
Peace Lilly: “You idiot! Why don’t you go eat worms—No, I take that back, you’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you, you larvae-lover!”
Sarracenia: “Yes, as a matter of fact, I would just love to slowly suck the innards out of a big, fat worm. . .”
Peace Lilly: “Aw, here we go again! You’re making me sick! Even my aphids are ready to upchuck!”
Sarracenia: “You started it!”
Anthurium: “Stop it, you two! This bickering isn’t helping. Listen, maybe it’s hopeless. Maybe we should just end it all, like Amaryllis did a few Christmases ago, remember?
Peace Lilly: “Of course, who could forget? What a bright bulb she was! So statuesque, such a beautiful bloom. Then she got stuck on Death Row with us, but she wasn’t tough enough to take it. She broke down and jumped off the shelf one afternoon.”
Sarracenia: “I remember KA came home and found her broken body on the floor surrounded by her shattered pot. He told Karen that the pot had become unbalanced because Amaryllis had grown so quickly, but we know the truth, don’t we?”
Peace Lilly: “Yes. It was truly tragic. But I refuse to give up, and neither should any of you! Come on. . think!”
As the hapless houseplants try in vain to use their collective brainpower to come up with a way to escape their plight, a thought occurs to Anthurium:
“Hey—I think I know why we’re having such a hard time with this.”
Peace Lilly and Sarracenia: “Why’s that?”
Anthurium: “You know when someone is really, really stupid and people say: “He’s got the brains of a houseplant?”
Peace Lilly and Sarracenia: “Yeah. So?”
Anthurium: “Well, that’s the kind of brains we have! we’ve got the brains of a houseplant.”
Peace Lilly: “Dang! I guess that means we’re hosed, doesn’t it?”
Sarracenia: “Yeah. What a bummer!”
As the houseplants resign themselves to spending the next few weeks in the kitchen sink, Karen and KA enjoy their vacation, secure in the knowledge that all is as it should be at home: The decorative pillows are arranged neatly on the sofa, all four chairs are pushed in under the dining room table, and all non-essential electrical appliances have been either turned off or unplugged. And they don’t even think about their houseplants—after all, they have plenty of water, and even a little hazy light that filters through half-closed blinds.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
My Travel List
I’ll be flying off to the States in less than a week now, and of course I’ve been busy making preparations. My previous trips back to San Diego were sort of rushed, but this one will be longer, and I’ll have more time to spend with family and friends. So this time, in addition to all the obvious stuff I need to take on such a trip, there are other things I’d like to take, too--items and experiences from Sweden that I can share that will give my family and friends an idea about how life is here. After living in Sweden for five and a half years, there are also a few cultural points I need to remember to keep myself from looking like a fool, uh, I mean foreigner, in my own homeland. A list is always a great way to make sure you don’t forget anything, isn’t it?
Karen’s “What to Take” List
1. Presents from Sweden
I’ll be dining with several of my friends in their homes, and I’d like to give each host a small present when I arrive. But what kind of present, though? Showing up with a plastic horned Viking helmet just won’t do. Everyone knows real Vikings didn’t have horns on their helmets, and on the grounds of historical accuracy, I refuse to perpetuate the myth. On the other hand, some handicrafts, such as the merry red Dalarna horse, may clash with more conservative décor and cause others to hint about leaving Christmas decorations out in the wrong season. Swedish crystal candle holders, however, are tasteful and neutral enough to blend with any decor, reasonably priced, and, regrettably, can be used as boat anchors or as a blunt murder weapon. I bought six of them. It feels like I’m smuggling bowling balls when I try to lift my carry-on bag. And then I noticed the shape of each piece. One candle holder looks distinctly like some sort of disc-shaped ninja weapon I’ve seen in a movie. Another, with its knobby form meant to look like a raspberry, looks like a little bomb. The candle wick sticking up from the top completes the look. It must be some sort of cruel joke the Swedish tourist board plays on tourists and ex-pats—they make sure the most affordable souvenirs and gifts are fragile, require a body builder to lift, and make you look like your ready to sign up with a paramilitary group.
2. Swedish food
Finding a suitable type of Swedish food to take to my American family and friends was tricky. The good stuff—such as Västerbotten cheese and messmör (sweet butter made with whey), are perishable. Other items, such as knäckebröd (hard bread), would be reduced to hard crumbs by the time I arrive in San Diego. I thought about sill, (pickled herring) because you can get it in small jars and the fact that it comes in different sauces would make people more willing to try it. But then, pickled herring is not really cooked. The pickling process means that it’s not really raw, either, but it certainly looks raw—and nothing that enters my family’s house raw stays that way for long. That jar of sill would end up in a frying pan within seconds of being opened, and would sizzle away there until it was “done,” which in my family means “incinerated.” Just thinking about how that would smell makes me queasy, let alone how it would taste. I realized that if I wanted to take some Swedish food with me, it would have to be hjortronsylt (cloudberry jam). It’s delicious on toast and ice cream, and everyone will love it. Of course, it comes in large glass jars suitable for strength training if you don’t have dumbbells handy. Lined up neatly in two little rows in the bottom of my carry-on bag, each jar of the gelatinous substance will probably look like a little canister of napalm going through the airport x-ray machine. I bought eight of them.
3. Swedish culture
I’ll be visiting my cousin and her husband, who are members of an informal singing group that meets at the beach on Friday evenings. I was thrilled when they invited me to attend one of their sessions. I’m going to take the opportunity to introduce San Diegans to Swedish snapsvisor (drinking songs) by teaching the group “Helan Går,” roughly translated, “The Whole (whatever, in this case it’s a drink) Goes.” I chose this ditty because it is short and has an easy melody—important attributes since I’ll have to sing it solo for the group at least once so they can learn it. It then occurred to me that even if I print out the text, some of the Swedish words may be difficult for Americans to pronounce. “Går” will certainly become “Gar,” so we’ll be singing in "Swenglish" about a “whole fish” instead of about drinking. So I printed out “Hell and Gore,” which is "Helan Går" translated into English phonetically. The words make absolutely no sense but sound just like the Swedish text when you sing them. My husband said that a song with a name like "Hell and Gore" would be appropriate for my singing voice. I’m still trying to figure out what he meant by that.
Karen's "Things to Remember" List
1. Remember not to say the T-word.
After moving to Sweden, it took me six months to learn to ask, “Where is the toilet?” when I was out and about in Stockholm. I don’t mean to say that I couldn’t pronounce the Swedish word—it’s pretty much the same: toalett. The problem was that I asked for neither the "toilet" nor the "toalett." I asked for the restroom, the washroom, or the ladies room when I had no intention of resting, washing, or being a lady--I just needed a toilet. In Sweden, you call a spade a spade (you really do, it’s the same word in Swedish and English), and if you need a toilet, you ask for a toilet. Any other request gets you a blank stare. Once I got used to saying toilet, I got directions instead of delays while Swedes tried to figure out what I wanted.
Things were just hunky dory until one of my first trips back to the States, where people call a spade a “manual earth moving device” and dance around unsavory subjects such as emptying one’s bladder the way Swedes dance around maypoles at Midsummer. I was at a shopping mall when I realized the rental time on my Starbuck’s coffee was up (considering how fast coffee goes through my system, I can never really say that I buy a cup of coffee). I walked up to an information booth to get directions to the nearest porcelain fixture. “Excuse me, where’s the toilet?” I asked politely. The moment the T-word left my lips, I knew I’d blown it. The expression on the face of the woman behind the counter, which had previously been cheerful and helpful when I’d approached her, suddenly hardened—her brows knit together in disapproval as she studied me with disdain over her horn-rimmed glasses. Even the perky smiley face button she wore on her blouse seemed to grimace in offense. Just at that moment, a thick gray cloud passed over somewhere way up in the heavens, dampening the bright California sunshine that had just moments before been tumbling through the huge skylight above us. I’m sure it was my imagination, but it seemed that everyone within earshot stopped what they were doing to look in my direction. It was so quiet all of a sudden. So very quiet. And I still needed a toilet.
“I beg your pardon?” The woman asked indignantly as if I’d hurled vile curses at her. I crossed my legs hard. If I didn’t find a toilet soon, I would be in need of a mop instead. I stammered, “Uh. . ., I. . ., Oh yeah! Can you tell me where the restroom is?” Whew! What a difference a word makes. Suddenly, all was right with the world again, or at least with that end of the mall, anyway. Expressions all around me softened in sympathy for my plight: “Oh, the poor thing has to go.” The lady behind the counter smiled indulgently and leaned forward as if she were going to divulge a juicy secret. “Take the escalator up one floor, then it’s immediately to your left.” Sunbeams gleamed on the tile below my feet to help me find my way.
“Thanks!” I said with relief.
“You’re welcome! Have a nice day!”
Had this little exchange delayed me to the point that waste water had backed up to my brain, or did that smug little smiley face on that woman’s blouse wink at me as I turned to leave?
2. Remember to use proper American identification.
Just before my last trip to the States, I received my Swedish drivers license, which I tucked into my wallet with my California drivers license. One evening, my husband and I went out to a local Mexican restaurant with his family, and three of us ordered margaritas. The drinking age in California is 21, and I know restaurant staff cannot always go by how someone looks to judge age, but of the three of us, only one of us could pass for younger than 21. It was by no stretch of the imagination me or my husband. The waiter sensibly carded my 27-year-old sister-in-law, then ignored my husband (I think he was a little insulted), then came to me.
“ID please.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
He assured me he wasn’t. Of the two drivers licenses and the passport I had on me at the time, the first thing I fished out of my purse was the Swedish drivers license. “Oh well,” I thought. “This should do it. It has my picture and my date of birth on it, even if everything else is in Swedish.” I also thought it would be a fun little experiment to see how the waiter would react to a foreign ID.
Well, you'd think I had said the “T-word.” This little piece of pink plastic set in motion a five-minute lecture on the evils of possessing or presenting anything other than an American ID. This isn’t exactly what he said, but I’m pretty sure this is how his thought process was working: “Say, what state is this from? Hey, this isn’t even in English! It’s pink!—is it her Communist party membership card?.”
I listened respectfully to the lecture, all the while thinking how absurd it was that some pimply-faced waiter young enough to be my son was questioning whether I was 21. HALLO! I turned 21 in 1982, when Ronald Reagan was president, compact discs had just come on the scene, and the Internet was in its infancy, as was the waiter. The point is, I’m no kid, and I don’t look like one, either. If I actually looked 23 years younger than the 44 years I was at the time this happened, I certainly wouldn’t be sitting at some Mexican restaurant in a podunk town in the foothills of the Sierras discussing IDs. I’d be making millions instructing others how I managed to stay so well preserved.
Somewhere in the course of his lecture, it occurred to me that this youngster just might deny me my margarita. Now, I’m not big on mixed drinks as a general rule, but I admit that I do have a weakness for margaritas. This is nothing against Swedish bartenders, but I have never, ever been served a margarita in Sweden that was worth the salt on the rim of the glass. Margaritas are not so popular here, so I guess they just gloss over the subject in bartending school. That’s why I look forward to getting a “real” margarita when I come to the States, and that’s why I suddenly began losing my patience at the prospect of being denied one. Just when I was ready to tell the waiter to kiss my American pASSport, the manager intervened and said that it was OK--I could have my margarita.
So much for my amusing little experiment.
3. Remember not to perform amusing little experiments.
Well, it’s about time for me to sit on my suitcase and see if I can get it closed. Wish me luck getting through airport security and finding a comfort station when I need one. Even if I don’t need to be comforted but just need to use the toilet. And I’ll drink a toast to Sweden and all my friends here with my first margarita--have a great summer, wherever you may be!
Karen’s “What to Take” List
1. Presents from Sweden
I’ll be dining with several of my friends in their homes, and I’d like to give each host a small present when I arrive. But what kind of present, though? Showing up with a plastic horned Viking helmet just won’t do. Everyone knows real Vikings didn’t have horns on their helmets, and on the grounds of historical accuracy, I refuse to perpetuate the myth. On the other hand, some handicrafts, such as the merry red Dalarna horse, may clash with more conservative décor and cause others to hint about leaving Christmas decorations out in the wrong season. Swedish crystal candle holders, however, are tasteful and neutral enough to blend with any decor, reasonably priced, and, regrettably, can be used as boat anchors or as a blunt murder weapon. I bought six of them. It feels like I’m smuggling bowling balls when I try to lift my carry-on bag. And then I noticed the shape of each piece. One candle holder looks distinctly like some sort of disc-shaped ninja weapon I’ve seen in a movie. Another, with its knobby form meant to look like a raspberry, looks like a little bomb. The candle wick sticking up from the top completes the look. It must be some sort of cruel joke the Swedish tourist board plays on tourists and ex-pats—they make sure the most affordable souvenirs and gifts are fragile, require a body builder to lift, and make you look like your ready to sign up with a paramilitary group.
2. Swedish food
Finding a suitable type of Swedish food to take to my American family and friends was tricky. The good stuff—such as Västerbotten cheese and messmör (sweet butter made with whey), are perishable. Other items, such as knäckebröd (hard bread), would be reduced to hard crumbs by the time I arrive in San Diego. I thought about sill, (pickled herring) because you can get it in small jars and the fact that it comes in different sauces would make people more willing to try it. But then, pickled herring is not really cooked. The pickling process means that it’s not really raw, either, but it certainly looks raw—and nothing that enters my family’s house raw stays that way for long. That jar of sill would end up in a frying pan within seconds of being opened, and would sizzle away there until it was “done,” which in my family means “incinerated.” Just thinking about how that would smell makes me queasy, let alone how it would taste. I realized that if I wanted to take some Swedish food with me, it would have to be hjortronsylt (cloudberry jam). It’s delicious on toast and ice cream, and everyone will love it. Of course, it comes in large glass jars suitable for strength training if you don’t have dumbbells handy. Lined up neatly in two little rows in the bottom of my carry-on bag, each jar of the gelatinous substance will probably look like a little canister of napalm going through the airport x-ray machine. I bought eight of them.
3. Swedish culture
I’ll be visiting my cousin and her husband, who are members of an informal singing group that meets at the beach on Friday evenings. I was thrilled when they invited me to attend one of their sessions. I’m going to take the opportunity to introduce San Diegans to Swedish snapsvisor (drinking songs) by teaching the group “Helan Går,” roughly translated, “The Whole (whatever, in this case it’s a drink) Goes.” I chose this ditty because it is short and has an easy melody—important attributes since I’ll have to sing it solo for the group at least once so they can learn it. It then occurred to me that even if I print out the text, some of the Swedish words may be difficult for Americans to pronounce. “Går” will certainly become “Gar,” so we’ll be singing in "Swenglish" about a “whole fish” instead of about drinking. So I printed out “Hell and Gore,” which is "Helan Går" translated into English phonetically. The words make absolutely no sense but sound just like the Swedish text when you sing them. My husband said that a song with a name like "Hell and Gore" would be appropriate for my singing voice. I’m still trying to figure out what he meant by that.
Karen's "Things to Remember" List
1. Remember not to say the T-word.
After moving to Sweden, it took me six months to learn to ask, “Where is the toilet?” when I was out and about in Stockholm. I don’t mean to say that I couldn’t pronounce the Swedish word—it’s pretty much the same: toalett. The problem was that I asked for neither the "toilet" nor the "toalett." I asked for the restroom, the washroom, or the ladies room when I had no intention of resting, washing, or being a lady--I just needed a toilet. In Sweden, you call a spade a spade (you really do, it’s the same word in Swedish and English), and if you need a toilet, you ask for a toilet. Any other request gets you a blank stare. Once I got used to saying toilet, I got directions instead of delays while Swedes tried to figure out what I wanted.
Things were just hunky dory until one of my first trips back to the States, where people call a spade a “manual earth moving device” and dance around unsavory subjects such as emptying one’s bladder the way Swedes dance around maypoles at Midsummer. I was at a shopping mall when I realized the rental time on my Starbuck’s coffee was up (considering how fast coffee goes through my system, I can never really say that I buy a cup of coffee). I walked up to an information booth to get directions to the nearest porcelain fixture. “Excuse me, where’s the toilet?” I asked politely. The moment the T-word left my lips, I knew I’d blown it. The expression on the face of the woman behind the counter, which had previously been cheerful and helpful when I’d approached her, suddenly hardened—her brows knit together in disapproval as she studied me with disdain over her horn-rimmed glasses. Even the perky smiley face button she wore on her blouse seemed to grimace in offense. Just at that moment, a thick gray cloud passed over somewhere way up in the heavens, dampening the bright California sunshine that had just moments before been tumbling through the huge skylight above us. I’m sure it was my imagination, but it seemed that everyone within earshot stopped what they were doing to look in my direction. It was so quiet all of a sudden. So very quiet. And I still needed a toilet.
“I beg your pardon?” The woman asked indignantly as if I’d hurled vile curses at her. I crossed my legs hard. If I didn’t find a toilet soon, I would be in need of a mop instead. I stammered, “Uh. . ., I. . ., Oh yeah! Can you tell me where the restroom is?” Whew! What a difference a word makes. Suddenly, all was right with the world again, or at least with that end of the mall, anyway. Expressions all around me softened in sympathy for my plight: “Oh, the poor thing has to go.” The lady behind the counter smiled indulgently and leaned forward as if she were going to divulge a juicy secret. “Take the escalator up one floor, then it’s immediately to your left.” Sunbeams gleamed on the tile below my feet to help me find my way.
“Thanks!” I said with relief.
“You’re welcome! Have a nice day!”
Had this little exchange delayed me to the point that waste water had backed up to my brain, or did that smug little smiley face on that woman’s blouse wink at me as I turned to leave?
2. Remember to use proper American identification.
Just before my last trip to the States, I received my Swedish drivers license, which I tucked into my wallet with my California drivers license. One evening, my husband and I went out to a local Mexican restaurant with his family, and three of us ordered margaritas. The drinking age in California is 21, and I know restaurant staff cannot always go by how someone looks to judge age, but of the three of us, only one of us could pass for younger than 21. It was by no stretch of the imagination me or my husband. The waiter sensibly carded my 27-year-old sister-in-law, then ignored my husband (I think he was a little insulted), then came to me.
“ID please.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
He assured me he wasn’t. Of the two drivers licenses and the passport I had on me at the time, the first thing I fished out of my purse was the Swedish drivers license. “Oh well,” I thought. “This should do it. It has my picture and my date of birth on it, even if everything else is in Swedish.” I also thought it would be a fun little experiment to see how the waiter would react to a foreign ID.
Well, you'd think I had said the “T-word.” This little piece of pink plastic set in motion a five-minute lecture on the evils of possessing or presenting anything other than an American ID. This isn’t exactly what he said, but I’m pretty sure this is how his thought process was working: “Say, what state is this from? Hey, this isn’t even in English! It’s pink!—is it her Communist party membership card?.”
I listened respectfully to the lecture, all the while thinking how absurd it was that some pimply-faced waiter young enough to be my son was questioning whether I was 21. HALLO! I turned 21 in 1982, when Ronald Reagan was president, compact discs had just come on the scene, and the Internet was in its infancy, as was the waiter. The point is, I’m no kid, and I don’t look like one, either. If I actually looked 23 years younger than the 44 years I was at the time this happened, I certainly wouldn’t be sitting at some Mexican restaurant in a podunk town in the foothills of the Sierras discussing IDs. I’d be making millions instructing others how I managed to stay so well preserved.
Somewhere in the course of his lecture, it occurred to me that this youngster just might deny me my margarita. Now, I’m not big on mixed drinks as a general rule, but I admit that I do have a weakness for margaritas. This is nothing against Swedish bartenders, but I have never, ever been served a margarita in Sweden that was worth the salt on the rim of the glass. Margaritas are not so popular here, so I guess they just gloss over the subject in bartending school. That’s why I look forward to getting a “real” margarita when I come to the States, and that’s why I suddenly began losing my patience at the prospect of being denied one. Just when I was ready to tell the waiter to kiss my American pASSport, the manager intervened and said that it was OK--I could have my margarita.
So much for my amusing little experiment.
3. Remember not to perform amusing little experiments.
Well, it’s about time for me to sit on my suitcase and see if I can get it closed. Wish me luck getting through airport security and finding a comfort station when I need one. Even if I don’t need to be comforted but just need to use the toilet. And I’ll drink a toast to Sweden and all my friends here with my first margarita--have a great summer, wherever you may be!
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
You Talkin' to Me?
Du gamla, Du fria, Du fjällhöga nord
Du tysta, Du glädjerika sköna!
--- First lines from the Swedish National Song
Roughly translated, the first two lines of the Swedish National Song are:
You venerable, you free, you mountainous north,
you quiet, you joyous beauty!
Of all of the adjectives used to describe Sweden in the opening lines of the National Song, it is the “tysta,” or “quiet,” that always grabs my attention because, well, it’s such a true description of Swedes, especially when you compare them to Americans.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that Sweden is a nation of mutes—not at all. There’s nothing noisier than a Saturday night in the Stockholm subway, when everyone is ready to go out and have a good time. Almost everywhere you go, people have a cell phone or a hands-free setup in their ear, communicating with someone somewhere.
No, Swedes are not speechless, that’s for sure. But the thing that distinguishes them from their American counterparts is this: they are almost always talking to someone they know. There is a saying here in Stockholm that the only people who talk to strangers are drunks, crazies, and foreigners. The only exception to this rule is communication for informational purposes, such as when you need directions or the train is late. Then it is perfectly acceptable to ask a question and even throw in a disparaging remark about the railroad. In general, however, Swedes don’t tend to talk to strangers, at least not in public places. Makes you wonder how they get to know each other in the first place, doesn’t it?
After living in Sweden for several years, I guess I gradually got used to this lack of contact among strangers and didn’t think so much about it, that is, until one of my husband’s and my first visits back to the States. Here are just a few examples of what I like to call Strange Encounters with American Strangers.
“Hi! Where you guys from? I just flew in from Maine, and I’ll be here in California for a month. My cousin, he’s going to ship me some lobsters in a couple of weeks, overnight express, you know. Can’t go a whole month without lobster. . .”
I turned a red, jet-lagged eye in my husband’s direction as we bounced along in the airport bus on our way to the car rental place. “Is she talking to us?”
“No idea,” he replied as he stifled a yawn. “Are you talking to us?” He said to the woman sitting across from us, who confirmed that she was, indeed telling her lobster tale for our benefit.
“What a Maine-iac,” KA said under his breath as we stepped off the bus. “Glad she’s getting lobsters from her cousin. Wouldn’t be nearly as much fun getting crabs from the guy.” “Hush! That’s not funny!” I hissed. As we loaded our gear in the car and drove away, we quickly forgot about Lobster Lady.
I didn’t think about her again until a few days later, when I was out on a little shopping trip at the North County Fair mall near where I used to live in San Diego.
“Excuse me, but can you tell me if these shoes match this handbag? Uh, excuse me. . .” It didn’t register that she was trying to get my attention until I felt a light tap on my shoulder, and turned to find a well-dressed young woman standing there with shoes and handbag clutched together in outstretched hands so I could compare them. Criminy. She IS talking to me.
“Uh, sure, well, not exactly, but close enough. . .I mean, you don’t ever have your shoes and handbag so close together in real life, do you, I mean, you don’t stand on your handbag or carry your shoes under your arm with your handbag, do you? That’s not really a good answer, is it?” I found myself so flabbergasted that a complete stranger was talking to me that I had begun to babble.
“Oh, no, thank you, that helps a lot. You’re right, they don’t have to match exactly. Thanks. It’s for an outfit for my brother's wedding. . .” And ten minutes later, I knew all about her brother and his fiancée, whom I was to understand was a cute, naïve girl who was not good enough for him.
After serving as an impromptu fashion consultant, I made my way to the dressing rooms to try on a couple of items. As I stood there waiting for a vacant room, I couldn’t help overhearing a couple of ladies talking over the walls to each other as they tried on clothing:
“My son’s knee operation went really well. He’ll have some physical therapy, but then the doctor says he should be good to play football next season. We’re all really glad, because he lives for football, you know.”
“That’s great to hear! I hope everything goes well for him. Yeah, football is rough. My son’s not playing this year—decided to try out for basketball instead. He just broke up with his girlfriend last week, so he’s kind of down right now. . .”
I stood their passively listening to their conversion, until they both emerged from their rooms. That’s when I experienced a little surprise.
“It was nice to meet you! Give your son my best!”
“Yeah, it was nice meeting and talking to you, too! I shop here all the time, so maybe we’ll meet again sometime.”
“Geez! These people don’t even know each other,” I thought. How could they go on and on about personal details like that without having ever met?
It was then that I realized that Lobster Lady had set the tone for the trip. What is it that makes Americans talk so much and reveal such detail to people they have never seen before? It’s as if all Americans have a random speech generator inserted in their brains that activates whenever they see a stranger. Being an American, I must have one of these, too. That’s a scary thought—do I talk to strangers here in Sweden without realizing it? If I do, maybe people don’t think so much about it because I’m the third in that list of those who talk to strangers after drunks and crazies. Yeah, that’s really comforting.
I think part of my purpose in taking up this particular subject just now is because I’ll be travelling back to the States in a few weeks for a visit. Maybe this is just my way of reminding myself that if I hear voices, it doesn’t necessarily mean the onset of mental illness. It just means I’m back in the Good Ol’ US of A.
Du tysta, Du glädjerika sköna!
--- First lines from the Swedish National Song
Roughly translated, the first two lines of the Swedish National Song are:
You venerable, you free, you mountainous north,
you quiet, you joyous beauty!
Of all of the adjectives used to describe Sweden in the opening lines of the National Song, it is the “tysta,” or “quiet,” that always grabs my attention because, well, it’s such a true description of Swedes, especially when you compare them to Americans.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that Sweden is a nation of mutes—not at all. There’s nothing noisier than a Saturday night in the Stockholm subway, when everyone is ready to go out and have a good time. Almost everywhere you go, people have a cell phone or a hands-free setup in their ear, communicating with someone somewhere.
No, Swedes are not speechless, that’s for sure. But the thing that distinguishes them from their American counterparts is this: they are almost always talking to someone they know. There is a saying here in Stockholm that the only people who talk to strangers are drunks, crazies, and foreigners. The only exception to this rule is communication for informational purposes, such as when you need directions or the train is late. Then it is perfectly acceptable to ask a question and even throw in a disparaging remark about the railroad. In general, however, Swedes don’t tend to talk to strangers, at least not in public places. Makes you wonder how they get to know each other in the first place, doesn’t it?
After living in Sweden for several years, I guess I gradually got used to this lack of contact among strangers and didn’t think so much about it, that is, until one of my husband’s and my first visits back to the States. Here are just a few examples of what I like to call Strange Encounters with American Strangers.
“Hi! Where you guys from? I just flew in from Maine, and I’ll be here in California for a month. My cousin, he’s going to ship me some lobsters in a couple of weeks, overnight express, you know. Can’t go a whole month without lobster. . .”
I turned a red, jet-lagged eye in my husband’s direction as we bounced along in the airport bus on our way to the car rental place. “Is she talking to us?”
“No idea,” he replied as he stifled a yawn. “Are you talking to us?” He said to the woman sitting across from us, who confirmed that she was, indeed telling her lobster tale for our benefit.
“What a Maine-iac,” KA said under his breath as we stepped off the bus. “Glad she’s getting lobsters from her cousin. Wouldn’t be nearly as much fun getting crabs from the guy.” “Hush! That’s not funny!” I hissed. As we loaded our gear in the car and drove away, we quickly forgot about Lobster Lady.
I didn’t think about her again until a few days later, when I was out on a little shopping trip at the North County Fair mall near where I used to live in San Diego.
“Excuse me, but can you tell me if these shoes match this handbag? Uh, excuse me. . .” It didn’t register that she was trying to get my attention until I felt a light tap on my shoulder, and turned to find a well-dressed young woman standing there with shoes and handbag clutched together in outstretched hands so I could compare them. Criminy. She IS talking to me.
“Uh, sure, well, not exactly, but close enough. . .I mean, you don’t ever have your shoes and handbag so close together in real life, do you, I mean, you don’t stand on your handbag or carry your shoes under your arm with your handbag, do you? That’s not really a good answer, is it?” I found myself so flabbergasted that a complete stranger was talking to me that I had begun to babble.
“Oh, no, thank you, that helps a lot. You’re right, they don’t have to match exactly. Thanks. It’s for an outfit for my brother's wedding. . .” And ten minutes later, I knew all about her brother and his fiancée, whom I was to understand was a cute, naïve girl who was not good enough for him.
After serving as an impromptu fashion consultant, I made my way to the dressing rooms to try on a couple of items. As I stood there waiting for a vacant room, I couldn’t help overhearing a couple of ladies talking over the walls to each other as they tried on clothing:
“My son’s knee operation went really well. He’ll have some physical therapy, but then the doctor says he should be good to play football next season. We’re all really glad, because he lives for football, you know.”
“That’s great to hear! I hope everything goes well for him. Yeah, football is rough. My son’s not playing this year—decided to try out for basketball instead. He just broke up with his girlfriend last week, so he’s kind of down right now. . .”
I stood their passively listening to their conversion, until they both emerged from their rooms. That’s when I experienced a little surprise.
“It was nice to meet you! Give your son my best!”
“Yeah, it was nice meeting and talking to you, too! I shop here all the time, so maybe we’ll meet again sometime.”
“Geez! These people don’t even know each other,” I thought. How could they go on and on about personal details like that without having ever met?
It was then that I realized that Lobster Lady had set the tone for the trip. What is it that makes Americans talk so much and reveal such detail to people they have never seen before? It’s as if all Americans have a random speech generator inserted in their brains that activates whenever they see a stranger. Being an American, I must have one of these, too. That’s a scary thought—do I talk to strangers here in Sweden without realizing it? If I do, maybe people don’t think so much about it because I’m the third in that list of those who talk to strangers after drunks and crazies. Yeah, that’s really comforting.
I think part of my purpose in taking up this particular subject just now is because I’ll be travelling back to the States in a few weeks for a visit. Maybe this is just my way of reminding myself that if I hear voices, it doesn’t necessarily mean the onset of mental illness. It just means I’m back in the Good Ol’ US of A.
Friday, May 26, 2006
Eurovision Rocks! (At least this year it did.)
Word of the day: Schlager
A type of music. You know you are listening to schlager when you hear a song for the first time and it plays in your head involuntarily for the next four days until you stumble to the first brick wall you can find and slam your head against it repeatedly to jar the insidious melody loose from your brain stem, to which it has firmly clamped itself. The tenacity of a schlager can also be compared to the experience of stepping in bubble gum. You try to wipe it off in the grass, but it just doesn't come off. . .or maybe it can be compared to. . .Oh, never mind. You get the idea.
One of the interesting cultural aspects of living in Europe is the yearly schlager contests—the Swedish version called Melodifestival that determines who gets to represent Sweden in the Eurovision Song Contest, in which qualifying countries all over Europe take part.
Schlager is to the music industry what McDonalds is to the food industry. Like McDonalds, schlager goes down easy and is absolutely everywhere. For my husband, KA, and I, though, there is a difference: we avoid McDonalds like dog doo on the sidewalk. As for Melodifestival and Eurovision, we haven’t missed a one since we’ve lived here. Sometimes when I watch these contests, I wonder if I have some serious character flaw that I should write to Dr. Phil about. I mean, the songs and singers seem to all sound and look alike, year after year. Am I just too lazy to change the channel? Am I too apathetic to strive to enjoy a higher form of entertainment (like, for instance, monster truck racing)? Am I addicted? I really do wonder sometimes.
On the other hand, KA’s reasons for watching are not so hard to figure out. And he doesn’t spent a single nanosecond wondering if it’s a good or bad thing.
KA: “Hey, here comes Ukraine's entry! Check out that chick’s, uh…, endowments!
Karen: “Oh, please! That girl can’t be more than 18 years old! She could be your daughter! Besides, her accent is so strong, I am not even sure what she’s singing…’Show me your love, show me how much you care, talk to my cat, I want your mother there?’ That can’t be right. . .”
KA: “Who needs proper English when you look like her?”
Karen: “Yeah, I guess she can just let her ta-tas do the talking.”
KA: “You’re just jealous. Anyway, here comes the Netherlands! Woah! They’re doing a Tahitian theme! Get a load of those outfits!”
Karen: “What outfits? Are those considered outfits?”
KA: “Croatia!! Look at those legs! I’ve always wanted to go to Croatia! Maybe we should book a trip. . .”
Karen: “That woman’s lips are inflated well over the recommended pounds per square inch rating. If she gets in a boating accident this summer, she could float for a week if she has to—but at least the guys backing her up have outfits based on Croatia’s traditional clothing. . .”
KA: “Does she have lips and backup singers?”
Karen: “Yeah, she does. I guess you wouldn’t notice lips or backup singers unless they were affixed to her chest or her butt. I think they should call this show the ‘Eurovision Lingerie and Seductive Dance Contest’. I swear, you’re going to burn the retinas out of your eyes of you don’t blink soon. Wait! Here comes Ireland! Brian Kennedy! Finally, something for me!”
KA: “An Irish dude singing a ballad? Bo-ring! He’ll never win!”
Karen: “I don’t care. He’s got class, and I like his ballad. If he doesn’t win it will be because he’s not an 18-year-old with a big chest and a skimpy outfit.”
KA: “Or because Carola kicks his butt all the way back to the Emerald Isle. . .”
(KA and Karen stop their bickering long enough to be entranced by the popular Swedish singer, who, unlike most of the other female contestants, needs something larger than the back pocket of her jeans in which to pack the clothing she wears for her performance.)
KA: “Wow! She has a really great set of. . . “ (Karen shoots him a withering look…) “Pipes! What a voice! She did us proud! She’s the winner!”
Karen: Yep! She was great. . .Hey! What’s up with this? Is that Finland? What’s with the monster costumes? Except for the lead singer, you can’t even tell if they’re men or women!”
KA: Yeah, that sucks! They could be really good-looking chicks under those masks and you would never know it.”
Karen: On second thought, maybe the monster costumes aren’t a bad idea. At least they’re wearing something. But who’s going to vote for a bunch of people in monster costumers singing a song with a silly name like ‘Hard Rock Hallelujah’?”
After a few more girly-groups and a performance from some Lithuanian guys who sang “We are the Winners of Eurovision” (they weren’t), it was time to vote.
A country can’t vote for its own entry, but it usually doesn’t send its highest points too far away, hoping, of course, that the favor will be returned. So, after each country dutifully gave its highest points to its closest neighbor with which it isn’t currently fighting, the winner was chosen. From among all of the push-up bras, exposed flesh, high-heels, and hairspray. . .the winner was:
KA: “Ah, man! No way! It should have been Sweden! Or maybe the Ukraine…not a bunch of dudes!”
Karen: “Don’t take it so hard! I think the keyboard player just might possibly be female—its costume looks sort of like a dress, don’t you think?”
The Finnish shock-rock group Lordi, in full monster regalia, won the 2006 Eurovision Song Contest. The lead monster said that the heavy rubber costumes are difficult to wash and therefore people do not get too close to them because of the offensive odor. So much for the sweet smell of success. Lordi will, of course, be on hand to perform their rock anthem to kick off the contest next year in Finland. Thank God we don’t have smell-a-vision, because I’ll certainly be tuning in again next year for reasons I’ll apparently never be able to explain. KA will be watching, too, for reasons he can explain without hesitation: He's hoping that the female monster will have taken some costume advice from the other female contestants.
A type of music. You know you are listening to schlager when you hear a song for the first time and it plays in your head involuntarily for the next four days until you stumble to the first brick wall you can find and slam your head against it repeatedly to jar the insidious melody loose from your brain stem, to which it has firmly clamped itself. The tenacity of a schlager can also be compared to the experience of stepping in bubble gum. You try to wipe it off in the grass, but it just doesn't come off. . .or maybe it can be compared to. . .Oh, never mind. You get the idea.
One of the interesting cultural aspects of living in Europe is the yearly schlager contests—the Swedish version called Melodifestival that determines who gets to represent Sweden in the Eurovision Song Contest, in which qualifying countries all over Europe take part.
Schlager is to the music industry what McDonalds is to the food industry. Like McDonalds, schlager goes down easy and is absolutely everywhere. For my husband, KA, and I, though, there is a difference: we avoid McDonalds like dog doo on the sidewalk. As for Melodifestival and Eurovision, we haven’t missed a one since we’ve lived here. Sometimes when I watch these contests, I wonder if I have some serious character flaw that I should write to Dr. Phil about. I mean, the songs and singers seem to all sound and look alike, year after year. Am I just too lazy to change the channel? Am I too apathetic to strive to enjoy a higher form of entertainment (like, for instance, monster truck racing)? Am I addicted? I really do wonder sometimes.
On the other hand, KA’s reasons for watching are not so hard to figure out. And he doesn’t spent a single nanosecond wondering if it’s a good or bad thing.
KA: “Hey, here comes Ukraine's entry! Check out that chick’s, uh…, endowments!
Karen: “Oh, please! That girl can’t be more than 18 years old! She could be your daughter! Besides, her accent is so strong, I am not even sure what she’s singing…’Show me your love, show me how much you care, talk to my cat, I want your mother there?’ That can’t be right. . .”
KA: “Who needs proper English when you look like her?”
Karen: “Yeah, I guess she can just let her ta-tas do the talking.”
KA: “You’re just jealous. Anyway, here comes the Netherlands! Woah! They’re doing a Tahitian theme! Get a load of those outfits!”
Karen: “What outfits? Are those considered outfits?”
KA: “Croatia!! Look at those legs! I’ve always wanted to go to Croatia! Maybe we should book a trip. . .”
Karen: “That woman’s lips are inflated well over the recommended pounds per square inch rating. If she gets in a boating accident this summer, she could float for a week if she has to—but at least the guys backing her up have outfits based on Croatia’s traditional clothing. . .”
KA: “Does she have lips and backup singers?”
Karen: “Yeah, she does. I guess you wouldn’t notice lips or backup singers unless they were affixed to her chest or her butt. I think they should call this show the ‘Eurovision Lingerie and Seductive Dance Contest’. I swear, you’re going to burn the retinas out of your eyes of you don’t blink soon. Wait! Here comes Ireland! Brian Kennedy! Finally, something for me!”
KA: “An Irish dude singing a ballad? Bo-ring! He’ll never win!”
Karen: “I don’t care. He’s got class, and I like his ballad. If he doesn’t win it will be because he’s not an 18-year-old with a big chest and a skimpy outfit.”
KA: “Or because Carola kicks his butt all the way back to the Emerald Isle. . .”
(KA and Karen stop their bickering long enough to be entranced by the popular Swedish singer, who, unlike most of the other female contestants, needs something larger than the back pocket of her jeans in which to pack the clothing she wears for her performance.)
KA: “Wow! She has a really great set of. . . “ (Karen shoots him a withering look…) “Pipes! What a voice! She did us proud! She’s the winner!”
Karen: Yep! She was great. . .Hey! What’s up with this? Is that Finland? What’s with the monster costumes? Except for the lead singer, you can’t even tell if they’re men or women!”
KA: Yeah, that sucks! They could be really good-looking chicks under those masks and you would never know it.”
Karen: On second thought, maybe the monster costumes aren’t a bad idea. At least they’re wearing something. But who’s going to vote for a bunch of people in monster costumers singing a song with a silly name like ‘Hard Rock Hallelujah’?”
After a few more girly-groups and a performance from some Lithuanian guys who sang “We are the Winners of Eurovision” (they weren’t), it was time to vote.
A country can’t vote for its own entry, but it usually doesn’t send its highest points too far away, hoping, of course, that the favor will be returned. So, after each country dutifully gave its highest points to its closest neighbor with which it isn’t currently fighting, the winner was chosen. From among all of the push-up bras, exposed flesh, high-heels, and hairspray. . .the winner was:
KA: “Ah, man! No way! It should have been Sweden! Or maybe the Ukraine…not a bunch of dudes!”
Karen: “Don’t take it so hard! I think the keyboard player just might possibly be female—its costume looks sort of like a dress, don’t you think?”
The Finnish shock-rock group Lordi, in full monster regalia, won the 2006 Eurovision Song Contest. The lead monster said that the heavy rubber costumes are difficult to wash and therefore people do not get too close to them because of the offensive odor. So much for the sweet smell of success. Lordi will, of course, be on hand to perform their rock anthem to kick off the contest next year in Finland. Thank God we don’t have smell-a-vision, because I’ll certainly be tuning in again next year for reasons I’ll apparently never be able to explain. KA will be watching, too, for reasons he can explain without hesitation: He's hoping that the female monster will have taken some costume advice from the other female contestants.
