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.
