Ain't nobody gettin' into my garbage

When I first arrived in Stockholm, bleary eyed from 16 hours of travel, I received my lease and keys from the International Coordinator. I stumbled over to our residence, all of 100m away from the school building, where I used one of my three keys to gain access to the front door. The same key can also be used for one of the elevators, the door to my hallway, and my room. Fairly straightforward. And then I was introduced to the world of codes...

We're big, we're blond, and dammit, we're secure.

In lieu of using my key for the exterior door, I can also use a code. There are other codes for the second elevator and the garbage room. So, in order to gain access to the garbage room, I exit my room (key), exit the hallway (key), descend through the elevator (code), exit through another door (key) and enter the garbage room (code). And it seems that they are procreating - on February 8th, all of the codes change and the elevator code is different for going up and going down. Good thing my schoolwork isn't very mentally taxing so I have the energy to remember all of these numbers...

Europe and its stereotypes

Faithful readers will recall that I promised in an earlier post to divulge more details on what happened at the SSE's welcome dinner for exchange students. (Now, I'm not an exchange student at the SSE, but H is, so I at least get a place at the table.) The exchange students, grouped by nationality, were obliged to present to one another--and lord help us, to the rest of us as well--little skits, PowerPoint presentations, movies, and/or whatever else took their fancy in order to introduce their nation's culture. While there were attempts to address (and even to debunk!) entrenched stereotypes, most groups were true to form. The Americans were friendly and eager to please; the Canadians were crushed by the weight of the chip on their shoulder; the Asian women were polite, deferential, and difficult to hear from the back (where I was seated); and the Austrians were deliciously earnest.

The Italian--there was only one--was completely unprepared, but gallantly agreed to improvise a speech. Upon realizing that the PowerPoint projector cast his stereotypically fluid and emphatic hand gestures into grand shadows on the screen behind him, he predictably hammed it up.

Grazie. Grazie. Yes, question. ... Hand gestures? What hand gestures?

And the French applied the cruel lash of their legendary wit against, well, almost everyone. Take, for instance, this mildly offensive, breathtakingly stupid, and devastatingly funny map which they prepared.


Recipe for getting attacked: Get right in the middle of a big group and insult all of them.

Honestly, it's been a long time since I laughed so hard. It's not so much that the stereotypes are true, or even that they're indicative. What's so funny is how they touch on each nationality's own notion of its own failings. Somehow, watching the Brits (for example) get worked up about their flirtations with booze and football hooliganism--because we all know it's not universally true--is terribly funny. Trust the French to spare no one, and I should note that they did not spare themselves, in flourishing their big, bad wits. Funny, funny, funny night.

Multimodal transportation

The Swedes, though they have traffic problems like everyone else (implying that they love their cars maybe a wee bit too well), aren't afraid of lots of different ways of getting around. From a certain vantage overlooking the central train station in Stockholm, you can see as many as six modes of transportation in one place: (1) cars, (2) trains/ trams, (3) buses, (4) bicycles, (5) boats, and (6) feet. I tried to my best to get them all in one photograph, but wasn't entirely successful.

Buses and trains and cars--oh, my!

I'm of course standing on a sidewalk; there's an actively used (even in January!) bikepath behind me; and there's a boat (which seems in fact to be a bar of some kind) slightly to the right of the photograph frame. American cities could learn a thing or two from this kind of openness to options. Who would have thought that the most successful tyrants in American history would be neither fascists nor communists, but rather industrialists.

More Swedish Oddities

H knows a great place for Swedish meatballs, which are more or less as good as advertised in American foodlore. I'll buy one order of Swedish meatballs--round-trip airfare not included--for the person who can correctly identify these (found in the "housewares" section of a 2nd-hand store in Stockholm):

Please tell me you haven't sassed the neighborhood fauna with those things.

If you think you know, please post your notions in comments. But be prepared to back up your claim, since I haven't the least idea of what they are, and I'm not that gullible.

Hasty Addition to J's Awards (#4)

In my rush to award my first honors to Sweden, I forgot to mention another award that I had wanted to bestow.

#4 – Most Frou-frou Bathroom Appliance. Okay, so imagine you walk into your bathroom and find this:

Ooh! Ooh! I know! It's a ladder to help you over the shower curtain!

Unless you're Swedish--or unless you've seen one too many Swedish bathrooms--your first thought is bound to be off. It's not a ladder; it's not a piece of playground equipment installed by slightly confused workmen; and it's not merely a towel rack.

But wait! There’s more! Observe a bit more closely:

Ooh! Ooh! There's a switch! It must be a telescoping ladder!

H says that it took her a day or two to find the switch, and at first she just thought it was a rather dim, rather inconveniently located night-light. And to give her credit, it does get dark around here in the winter. But it turns out that if you leave the switch in the "on" position long enough, the entire frame becomes warm to the touch.

Voila! It's not just a towel rack--it's a towel-warmer, silly! While I find this particular appliance vastly--and somewhat trivially--amusing, I should in all fairness to H note that she thinks it the most thoughtful thingy ever installed in a bathroom. She uses it every time she showers. Since I am lucky enough to see the world through her eyes from time to time, I can't help but give a nod to the inventor(s) for thoughtfulness, but I still think it deserves an award.

Swedish entropy

There's an old rule (some say a law of the universe) about gases expanding in volume to fill the space available to them. Some wit has pointed out that the same law seems to apply to desk clutter as well. I personally have observed that it also applies to furniture and place-settings when throwing a party. You distribute tables and chairs evenly throughout the space available. That is, of course, unless you’re Swedish.

Swedish party--which I attended--flagrantly in violation of the law of entropy.

H and I (by which I mean J) attended a thoroughly entertaining party last night, thrown by the Exchange Committee of the SSE. (More on some of the festivities later.) For now, notice the width of the aisles between the tables—and notice the width of the aisles left on either side of the room.

What flagrant, astonishing, and yet nonchalant defiance of the second law of thermodynamics! Have the Swedes invented entropy buffers? Have they installed them in all of their buildings? Or are they just really, really, really fond of order? So fond that they’ll risk very narrow service aisles, because several times during the evening an abruptly-rising diner nearly toppled a fully-loaded server. But at least they were serving white wine…

Fika (or the best afternoon tradition... ever)

If you don't know it already, I love going out for coffee. Wiling away an afternoon at Caffe ArtJava on Av. du Mont-Royal in Montreal is my idea of a little piece of heaven. And lo and behold, the Swedes have taken this tradition and made it one better. They've added cake.

Going out for fika ("fee-kuh")—afternoon coffee and cake—is a beloved tradition in Sweden. They enjoy it so much they've made it into a verb. They fika with colleagues, they fika with friends, they even fika at the 7-11 (not classy, I know). In the season leading up to Lent, and particularly on Shrove Tuesday, they fika with semla, a cream puff flavored with cardamom and almonds.

Many kinds of creams and puffs are commonly seen in Stockholm.

Actually, Swedish women are far from being cream puffs, but more on that later. Now, I'm off for Friday afternoon fika!

Awards given to Sweden on J's first day (#s 1-3)

I arrived in Stockholm around 20h00 local time on Tuesday 23 January 2006. Although I was a bit queasy on the last leg of the flight, I didn't develop my full-on symptoms (minor virus) until later that night. Between first setting foot on Swedish soil (or carpet, as the case may be) and crashing in a mildly delirious swoon later that night, I managed to grant Stockholm three prestigious awards.

#1 - Least Affected Greeting.
Overseas Digest observes that

in Sweden, greetings are brief and involve a minimum of physical contact. A firm and quick handshake accompanied by direct eye contact are used both as a greeting and a farewell.

All well and good, but did you know that the Swedish word for "Hello" is "Hej" (pronounced, "Hey")? That's right. Instead of "Good morning," it's "Hej." Even the Italian "Ciao" requires more labial effort and precision than "Hej." You just kind of open your mouth, contract your throat the tiniest bit, and wheeze. Talk about unaffected. I was unprepared, even as a North American.

When I stepped up to the Immigration desk at the airport, the attractive Swedish woman, looking me briefly in the eye, says, "Hej." I had just spent some 14 hours in the care of British Airways, so I said, "Good evening." It was probably the right thing to say, however, since she was being formal. I just didn't know it at the time. At least in this country all my home-grown, knee-jerk American informality will come in handy. Say they: "Hej." Says me: "Hey." And everyone's happy.

#2 - Most Apt Method for Dispensing Soap. The bathrooms at ARN are equipped with soap dispensers which function quite unlike any others I've ever encountered. Attempting to soap my hands, I tried all the "usual" techniques: pull lever forward, push lever back, press nozzle up into dispenser, etc. etc. Nothing was working. The nozzle--which is made of plasticized rubber--has a small, curved, hard plastic disc on its front--a thumb-rest, as it turns out. Although it took some minutes, I finally puzzled out how to operate the thing: you place your thumb on the disc, and then milk the rubber nozzle behind it. Soap dispenser as teat.

Got soap?

As to aptness, perhaps you remember that scene in Ingmar Bergman's The Seventh Seal when the knight is drinking a bowl of milk, and he just goes on and on about milk?

No? Then perhaps you remember this, admittedly iconic, scene best?

Well, if you ever want to be reminded about the profound connection between milk and death--and soap--in Swedish culture, just head on over to your nearest Swedish airport for immediate satisfaction.

#3 - Quietest Metro Ride. It would make sense if I were only talk about the trains themselves being quiet. You know, Swedish design and all that. And the trains are impressively quiet.

We used time-lapse photography to make things look louder.

But I'm talking mostly about the people. On our brief metro-ride from the city center, where the airport shuttle dropped us off, to our Swedish home, I observed two men board the train, talking loudly and animatedly on their cell-phones. Within 30 seconds, one had finished his call and the other was speaking in a church whisper--I doubt his interlocutor could hear him. The train was perhaps 1/4 to 1/3 full, and I heard no other conversation. None. Nada. No voices at all.

I've heard tell of the famous "Scandinavian reserve," but I didn't expect it to feel like the eerie quiet before some kind of natural disaster. I kept waiting to see all the Swedes get up and run for the high ground in advance of the tsunami or something.

Naughty and nice in paradise

En route to Stockholm, I stopped off at the Queen Mary in Long Beach, California to attend the 21 January wedding of DP, one of my college roommates. Nothing like a little oceanside SoCal in January. A bit chilly in Montreal, but balmy like anything in Long Beach. Very civilized.

A number of people have pointed out to me that Long Beach seems a bit out of the way if one is headed from Montréal to Stockholm.

Big red arrows and snide remarks are always welcome chez moi.

I'm a firm believer that one ought to attend weddings if at all possible. These days it often seems as though there's a certain tendency toward the serial rather than the faithful when it comes to matrimony, but weddings remain singular occasions. Absent the excuse of a bona fide hospital visit or act of God, you really ought to attend--especially to honor anyone you actually refer to as a "good friend."

As expected, the wedding was wonderful in that way that weddings are.

I always cry at weddings. For once, I'm being completely serious.

The bride was radiant, the groom entirely contented, and the Santas authentically bearded. (Wait for double-take... wait for it.) Yes, you read right. Santas. Beared ones. Two doors down we had a meeting of...

Amalgamated? You mean there used to be more than one of these clubs?

The Amalgamated Order of Real Bearded Santas--AORBS to those in the know--in sunny Southern California, gettin' their groove on. Believe it, Grasshopper. There's way more than just one Santa, and they evidently like to get together and let it all hang out.

All beards verified as real. No horsepucky.

I don't know about you, but I've always wondered how Santa knows about the whole naughty and nice thing. Not so much how he knows what you've been doing, but how he knows the difference between good behavior and bad behavior. Turns out the Santa Man gets his street cred on naughty from occasionally crossing over to the dark side.

Man, that's an awesome Santa costume you've--hey, wait a second. Are you smoking?!? What kind of a Santa outfit are you people running here, anyways? And where's Rudolph?

In spite--or perhaps because--of the fact that it was in all ways utterly surreal, the Santa convention provided several hours of entertainment for me and my friend MM.

Not having a beard proved only a minor obstacle to Mrs. Claus becoming a member.

L.A. definitely "keeps it real." Oh, yeah. Even M, one of the realest people I know, could hardly contain herself.

You know you've left Kansas when they ask you for ID and you show them your beard.

Oh, and you probably didn't know--in fact, I'm willing to bet $100 that you didn't know--that Santas sing the blues just like, um, everyone else. What do real bearded Santas not do?

Too bad there's no such thing as "singing the reds..."

Real bearded Santas don't make their own outfits, for one. (Though I suspect they do grow their own beards.) If you're interested in getting into the club, you simply must visit the only site "for the Professional..."

I keep telling people that if you look long enough, you can find anything on the internet. Anything.