The tip of the shovel made an awful clanking noise as it struck something hard in the soil.
He frowned slightly and stared down at the ground. This is off to a slow start, he thought aloud. Drawing the top of his forearm across his forehead, he wiped away what had already become a significant amount of sweat. Not usually prone to sweating under normal circumstances, he had noticed lately that short bursts of intense exertion seemed to leave him soaking wet. He stared down and frowned a bit again.
Holding the top of the shovel with his left hand, he leaned awkwardly against it. He crossed one leg over the other for support and squinted at the sun while shielding his eyes with his free hand. A bead of sweat rolled down the front of his nose and he did his very best to ignore it, but quickly succumbed and wiped it away with a dirty hand.
Inhaling sharply, he set the tip of the shovel back down into the shallow hole that was forming. As he slowly let that breath out, he placed his foot on the top of the spade and kicked down. The metal scraped and groaned as it slid past small rocks and thick roots. He threw this lump of dirt on top of the pile that was steadily growing.
This was a crazy plan, they told him.
It didn’t make any sense.
He would just get hurt.
For the first time during this hot, humid afternoon, he smiled to himself. Because they didn’t know. They didn’t understand.
He wasn’t exactly sure where this path would lead him but he knew where he wanted to go. For the first time in his slow, dull life, he knew something he wanted. Monkey was going to do something real.
And so, he dug…
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Saturday, August 23, 2008
The Pauli Effect
Wolfgang Pauli was an Austrian theoretical physicist. He was a close friend of Carl Jung. He was a believer in synchronicity.
He was also the namesake of the "Pauli effect".
What is the Pauli effect?
Well, Pauli had the strange ability to make devices stop working. He became known as a serious jinx when in the room during any experiment. Devices would break, things would fall over, experiments would fail...
Even a close friend banned him from coming anywhere in the vicinity when an experiment was going on.
The Pauli effect...
Also know as the "Sorak effect".
See, the Sorak family seems to have a curse. Things fall apart whenever we are around. Or simple things go bad.
Just ask my father. Or my brother. Or consult any vehicle we have ever known.
A perfect example: The first car I owned at age 16 was bought from one of my dad's work friend's son. He had owned it for a while - it ran perfectly. I went over there to test drive it - ran perfect. Drove it home after purchasing it - ran perfect.
The next morning, I tried to start it.
Wouldn't start.
Proceeded not to start for the remainder of my ownership.
Things like this happen all the time.
My car in Illinois is a wonderful ghetto-rigged machine. The hood is tied down, I have a plastic figure wedged in the dashboard to prevent rattling, I have wedged anything from hygiene bags to peanut butter jars between the seat and the stick shift to prevent the rattling, my dashboard lights don't work, the emergency brake has repeatedly failed since the warranty expired, and my rear sway bar is currently tied up to the underside of my car after failing in a thunderstorm during the middle of the night on my way back from San Francisco.
Or ask my brother's Corvette that has been out of commission in my parent's garage for longer than he was able to drive it...
Or my father's car, constantly under repair...
It doesn't end there. It includes electronics. Or anything with moving parts. We are just bad luck.
Which brings me to Jenny's car.
First, about a month ago, we were visiting her friend Lena in Örebro. Everyone was planning to go to this outdoor concert and I was going to drive. It was remarkably hot that day and the car was like an oven.
As soon as I opened the car, I put in the key and rolled down all four windows. We all hopped in, I started the car, and we tried to roll up the windows a bit.
Click.
The driver side rear window wouldn't roll up.
It was stuck down in the door.
This resulted in an adventure for Jenny and I for the remainder of the evening. We purchased a toolkit, tried to get the door open, and, upon failure, I attempted to think of every MacGuyver way to get that sucker back up again.
Her window has been taped over with black plastic since that day. We still haven't fixed it.
Oops.
Last week, we were cooking dinner and realized we needed something else from the store. I volunteered to drive there and took off. There is a dirt and gravel road connecting Jenny's road to a main road and I was driving down this, twisting and turning. Suddenly, another car was coming. The road isn't wide enough for two cars, so I drove halfway on the road and halfway on the grass.
Not realizing it, I hit something.
(Un)luckily, the other car happened to be Jenny's parents.
Who happened to think I was driving crazy (in my defense, I wasn't... I'm a bit terrified of these Swedish roads and drive quite slow...)
And who said I hit a rock.
We didn't discuss the matter and everything seemed fine.
But Jenny's mom called the next day when we were in Norrköping at Jenny's school, three hours north. There was a bunch of oil in the driveway.
After a quick inspection, sure enough, I had cracked the oil pan.
It was Saturday and car shops wouldn't be open until Monday.
We proceeded to continually refill the oil for the next five days while trying to figure out what to do... polluting the Earth in the meantime. Through a series of emails with my father, he suggested everything from filling the crack with bar soap to supergluing a piece of aluminum over it to JB Weld to bubblegum.
In the end, I paid a shop to put on a new oil pan.
Total cost?
3,100 SEK.
I'll leave the conversion to you if you're interested in figuring out how much that is in dollars.
Oops.
I'm awesome.
He was also the namesake of the "Pauli effect".
What is the Pauli effect?
Well, Pauli had the strange ability to make devices stop working. He became known as a serious jinx when in the room during any experiment. Devices would break, things would fall over, experiments would fail...
Even a close friend banned him from coming anywhere in the vicinity when an experiment was going on.
The Pauli effect...
Also know as the "Sorak effect".
See, the Sorak family seems to have a curse. Things fall apart whenever we are around. Or simple things go bad.
Just ask my father. Or my brother. Or consult any vehicle we have ever known.
A perfect example: The first car I owned at age 16 was bought from one of my dad's work friend's son. He had owned it for a while - it ran perfectly. I went over there to test drive it - ran perfect. Drove it home after purchasing it - ran perfect.
The next morning, I tried to start it.
Wouldn't start.
Proceeded not to start for the remainder of my ownership.
Things like this happen all the time.
My car in Illinois is a wonderful ghetto-rigged machine. The hood is tied down, I have a plastic figure wedged in the dashboard to prevent rattling, I have wedged anything from hygiene bags to peanut butter jars between the seat and the stick shift to prevent the rattling, my dashboard lights don't work, the emergency brake has repeatedly failed since the warranty expired, and my rear sway bar is currently tied up to the underside of my car after failing in a thunderstorm during the middle of the night on my way back from San Francisco.
Or ask my brother's Corvette that has been out of commission in my parent's garage for longer than he was able to drive it...
Or my father's car, constantly under repair...
It doesn't end there. It includes electronics. Or anything with moving parts. We are just bad luck.
Which brings me to Jenny's car.
First, about a month ago, we were visiting her friend Lena in Örebro. Everyone was planning to go to this outdoor concert and I was going to drive. It was remarkably hot that day and the car was like an oven.
As soon as I opened the car, I put in the key and rolled down all four windows. We all hopped in, I started the car, and we tried to roll up the windows a bit.
Click.
The driver side rear window wouldn't roll up.
It was stuck down in the door.
This resulted in an adventure for Jenny and I for the remainder of the evening. We purchased a toolkit, tried to get the door open, and, upon failure, I attempted to think of every MacGuyver way to get that sucker back up again.
Her window has been taped over with black plastic since that day. We still haven't fixed it.
Oops.
Last week, we were cooking dinner and realized we needed something else from the store. I volunteered to drive there and took off. There is a dirt and gravel road connecting Jenny's road to a main road and I was driving down this, twisting and turning. Suddenly, another car was coming. The road isn't wide enough for two cars, so I drove halfway on the road and halfway on the grass.
Not realizing it, I hit something.
(Un)luckily, the other car happened to be Jenny's parents.
Who happened to think I was driving crazy (in my defense, I wasn't... I'm a bit terrified of these Swedish roads and drive quite slow...)
And who said I hit a rock.
We didn't discuss the matter and everything seemed fine.
But Jenny's mom called the next day when we were in Norrköping at Jenny's school, three hours north. There was a bunch of oil in the driveway.
After a quick inspection, sure enough, I had cracked the oil pan.
It was Saturday and car shops wouldn't be open until Monday.
We proceeded to continually refill the oil for the next five days while trying to figure out what to do... polluting the Earth in the meantime. Through a series of emails with my father, he suggested everything from filling the crack with bar soap to supergluing a piece of aluminum over it to JB Weld to bubblegum.
In the end, I paid a shop to put on a new oil pan.
Total cost?
3,100 SEK.
I'll leave the conversion to you if you're interested in figuring out how much that is in dollars.
Oops.
I'm awesome.
Monday, August 18, 2008
If a Cluttered Desk is a Sign of a Cluttered Mind...
NORRKÖPING - Jenny and I drove up to Norrköping to check out a school. She was informed at the last possible moment that she was accepted to the graphic design program, so now we're here. She's in class checking things out and deciding whether it is right for her.
And me? Well, I'm here...
See, getting an apartment at the last possible moment is not quite as easy here as it is somewhere like good ol' BloNo. There's a process and rules and lots of other things involved, which really just means I have absolutely no idea how it works.
So Jenny's mom talked to someone she knows and this girl, someone Jenny had never met before, has let us borrow her apartment for a week because she's not here.
It's one thing to stay at someone's place when you don't really know them. Maybe they are some nice strangers that let you crash on their couch. Yeah, it's a little awkward when you are sitting around, but maybe you can find some things to talk about and get to know each other a little better. Maybe make a new friend even.
It is even more strange to stay in someone's apartment when they are not there. And you have never met them.
I don't even know what this girl looks like. The only pictures in the apartment are pictures of her horse, which she clearly loves dearly.
It's a nice apartment. The size is good, the things are nice...
But...
It's still a little uncomfortable.
Yeah, yeah, part of the reason is the whole "she's-not-here-and-I-don't-know-who-this-person-is" thing. But the other part is that it is just so...
Clean.
The place is spotless. I mean... spotless.
Everything is organized perfectly and in order. There is a symmetry to everything. It's all nice and straight.
I know this is coming from the guy who puts all his CDs and DVDs in alphabetical order... but that's purely because I wouldn't find anything otherwise. Just too much of it. Overall, my things exist in a state of controlled chaos. I know where the things are. I know what clean looks like. And I do dishes really slow because I insist on everything I eat off of being spotless.
I'm not like this. Never have been. Never will be. It's not in my blood. I'm too much of a pack rat.
And now I'm terrified.
I feel like I'm going to dirty the whole place up. Well, to be perfectly honest, we already have. Not like dirt dirt. But it sure doesn't look like it did when we showed up. We've already discussed how we're going to have to spend the whole last day scrubbing everything to get it back into mint condition.
I type at the coffee table in the living room and there is a black bamboo centerpiece with four candles on it.
And I've messed it up. My computer has pushed up against it and it is definitely not centered anymore. And I think I may have moved one of the candles...
Uh oh.
I feel like we have broken in to this place. Like we aren't supposed to be here and have to remember how it all looked before we showed up. Otherwise... someone might know we were here.
Everything is color-coordinated as well. Something I could never pull off. I mean, it has a great look to it. But I just love random objects way too much. I can't go to garage sales or flea markets without being drawn to all the amazing treasure that people have just seemingly cast off for no good reason. I feel like I need to adopt weird things. I have learned to fight that urge these days and am looking forward to getting rid of most of my stuff upon returning to Illinois. But it still doesn't change the fact that I have a five-foot tall inflatable monkey (credit for that one actually goes to my sister).
Hey, wanna hear the new joke I just made up... to my self... while sitting here...? (Hmm...)
What's black and white and IKEA all over?
This apartment!
Hahahahahahahahahaha....
Ha...
...
...ha.
(Listen... you asked for it, you got it. These are the kind of posts that occur when I have writer's block and have spent weeks thinking about everything other than writing. Now you get to smile and nod and deal with it.)
And me? Well, I'm here...
See, getting an apartment at the last possible moment is not quite as easy here as it is somewhere like good ol' BloNo. There's a process and rules and lots of other things involved, which really just means I have absolutely no idea how it works.
So Jenny's mom talked to someone she knows and this girl, someone Jenny had never met before, has let us borrow her apartment for a week because she's not here.
It's one thing to stay at someone's place when you don't really know them. Maybe they are some nice strangers that let you crash on their couch. Yeah, it's a little awkward when you are sitting around, but maybe you can find some things to talk about and get to know each other a little better. Maybe make a new friend even.
It is even more strange to stay in someone's apartment when they are not there. And you have never met them.
I don't even know what this girl looks like. The only pictures in the apartment are pictures of her horse, which she clearly loves dearly.
It's a nice apartment. The size is good, the things are nice...
But...
It's still a little uncomfortable.
Yeah, yeah, part of the reason is the whole "she's-not-here-and-I-don't-know-who-this-person-is" thing. But the other part is that it is just so...
Clean.
The place is spotless. I mean... spotless.
Everything is organized perfectly and in order. There is a symmetry to everything. It's all nice and straight.
I know this is coming from the guy who puts all his CDs and DVDs in alphabetical order... but that's purely because I wouldn't find anything otherwise. Just too much of it. Overall, my things exist in a state of controlled chaos. I know where the things are. I know what clean looks like. And I do dishes really slow because I insist on everything I eat off of being spotless.
I'm not like this. Never have been. Never will be. It's not in my blood. I'm too much of a pack rat.
And now I'm terrified.
I feel like I'm going to dirty the whole place up. Well, to be perfectly honest, we already have. Not like dirt dirt. But it sure doesn't look like it did when we showed up. We've already discussed how we're going to have to spend the whole last day scrubbing everything to get it back into mint condition.
I type at the coffee table in the living room and there is a black bamboo centerpiece with four candles on it.
And I've messed it up. My computer has pushed up against it and it is definitely not centered anymore. And I think I may have moved one of the candles...
Uh oh.
I feel like we have broken in to this place. Like we aren't supposed to be here and have to remember how it all looked before we showed up. Otherwise... someone might know we were here.
Everything is color-coordinated as well. Something I could never pull off. I mean, it has a great look to it. But I just love random objects way too much. I can't go to garage sales or flea markets without being drawn to all the amazing treasure that people have just seemingly cast off for no good reason. I feel like I need to adopt weird things. I have learned to fight that urge these days and am looking forward to getting rid of most of my stuff upon returning to Illinois. But it still doesn't change the fact that I have a five-foot tall inflatable monkey (credit for that one actually goes to my sister).
Hey, wanna hear the new joke I just made up... to my self... while sitting here...? (Hmm...)
What's black and white and IKEA all over?
This apartment!
Hahahahahahahahahaha....
Ha...
...
...ha.
(Listen... you asked for it, you got it. These are the kind of posts that occur when I have writer's block and have spent weeks thinking about everything other than writing. Now you get to smile and nod and deal with it.)
Have I Ever Mentioned How Much I Love Bureaucracy?
So... clearly there have been a lack of updates from my end recently.
It's been a long couple of weeks, mostly concerning how complicated things have become.
Here's the deal, as plainly as it can be broken down:
I want to stay in Sweden.
There are basically three ways I can go about that - find someone to give me a job and apply for residence and work permits based on that; apply for school here, get in, and apply for a residence permit based on that; or apply for a cohabitation permit.
All have their pros and cons.
So Jenny and I went to the Migration Office after many fruitless phone calls only resulted in my speaking with machines.
The fella there informed me that there is only one way to apply and that is to return home.
Which seems incredibly redundant to me since I am trying to stay here, but who am I to argue? America has made it incredibly difficult for anyone to get in for years now.
Besides, he said they would deport me if I didn't...
He said to expect 3-6 months for them to approve a cohabitation residence permit. With one of those, I can keep renewing it and I can work here without an extra permit.
The other routes would be perhaps more difficult. A work permit requires me finding someone that will give a job to a stranger that is struggling with the language, guarantee me quality pay, insurance, and proof that they need me instead of someone from Sweden or the EU. And then I would immediately have to leave if the job came to an end. If I went for a student permit, it would mean applying for several schools, several programs, waiting to get accepted, then applying for a residence permit based on that. The bright side is that I can work without a work permit.
Or... I can apply for a cohabitation residence permit. Easy, right? All I have to do is apply, surrender my passport, fly to New York at some point when they summon me for an interview, prove to them that I am in a serious relationship and am not just a slacker, then sit back longer and wait for them to make a decision.
Oh, and then the Swedish Embassy in America informed me to expect it to take 6 months because they just aren't "getting around" to the applications very quickly...
Awesome.
Good thing I'm not prone to anxiety at all.
At this point, Jenny and I are alternating days to worry about it all. I get Mondays, Wednesday, Fridays, and alternating Sundays. She gets Tuesdays, Thursday, and Saturdays, along with filling in the Sundays in between mine.
If anyone reading this happens to know important politicians here, or people at the Embassy, or loopholes... it would be much appreciated.
So, unless I decide to go with the illegal immigrant route, my flight lands in Chicago September 14th.
Poop.
It's been a long couple of weeks, mostly concerning how complicated things have become.
Here's the deal, as plainly as it can be broken down:
I want to stay in Sweden.
There are basically three ways I can go about that - find someone to give me a job and apply for residence and work permits based on that; apply for school here, get in, and apply for a residence permit based on that; or apply for a cohabitation permit.
All have their pros and cons.
So Jenny and I went to the Migration Office after many fruitless phone calls only resulted in my speaking with machines.
The fella there informed me that there is only one way to apply and that is to return home.
Which seems incredibly redundant to me since I am trying to stay here, but who am I to argue? America has made it incredibly difficult for anyone to get in for years now.
Besides, he said they would deport me if I didn't...
He said to expect 3-6 months for them to approve a cohabitation residence permit. With one of those, I can keep renewing it and I can work here without an extra permit.
The other routes would be perhaps more difficult. A work permit requires me finding someone that will give a job to a stranger that is struggling with the language, guarantee me quality pay, insurance, and proof that they need me instead of someone from Sweden or the EU. And then I would immediately have to leave if the job came to an end. If I went for a student permit, it would mean applying for several schools, several programs, waiting to get accepted, then applying for a residence permit based on that. The bright side is that I can work without a work permit.
Or... I can apply for a cohabitation residence permit. Easy, right? All I have to do is apply, surrender my passport, fly to New York at some point when they summon me for an interview, prove to them that I am in a serious relationship and am not just a slacker, then sit back longer and wait for them to make a decision.
Oh, and then the Swedish Embassy in America informed me to expect it to take 6 months because they just aren't "getting around" to the applications very quickly...
Awesome.
Good thing I'm not prone to anxiety at all.
At this point, Jenny and I are alternating days to worry about it all. I get Mondays, Wednesday, Fridays, and alternating Sundays. She gets Tuesdays, Thursday, and Saturdays, along with filling in the Sundays in between mine.
If anyone reading this happens to know important politicians here, or people at the Embassy, or loopholes... it would be much appreciated.
So, unless I decide to go with the illegal immigrant route, my flight lands in Chicago September 14th.
Poop.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
How Someone Owes Tom and I A Writing Credit
It involves: a bad-looking beard, gibberish medical jargon, pointless references to injections, poorly developed characters, references to happenings that are never really explained, descriptions of people "going into the darkness" within, newspaper clippings, pages and pages and pages of printouts from the internet, organ transplants, close-up shots of someone underlining "Stem Cell Research" used as a dramatic device, inexplicable bad cuts back and forth between two scenes that are relatively action-free...
And a two-headed guard dog.
The newest movie from $now Bros. Films?
Nope.
It's the new X-Files movie.
While I sat and watched this atrocity, I couldn't help but think back on the nights Tom and I sat awake, slowly putting together what would be a Truly Horrible Script.
Late at night at the original Washington House, we started cobbling together a story from bits of student film footage, random story ideas written down long ago, and a list of supplies we actually had... all based around a film he made back in high school featuring our friend in a nine-year-old girl's bunny suit.
It was doomed from the beginning.
Not that we had any idea at the time. We couldn't step back far enough to really see what was on the horizon for us.
Whenever we encountered a road block (and I don't mean a stumbling point... I mean a road block with big bright letters that said "Do Not Continue!") we happily came up with something else to hurdle us over it, allowing the story to continue for some reason:
"Hey Nick, this seems like it's maybe not making much sense..."
"Well, let's create a government sponsored program/conspiracy thing! That should clear things up!"
Or:
"Hey Tom, this is starting to get a little convoluted..."
"Well, let's add another character to the mix then to help explain some things!"
Or:
"Hey Tom, it looks like I've got a square peg here..."
"Uh-oh... and I've got a round hole..."
"Let's use a BIGGER hammer then!"
We had grand plans.
And a storyboard for it all.
And revisions.
And rehearsals.
We got all of our friends involved and made a shooting schedule around them (almost exclusively taking place between the hours of midnight and 3am).
And we didn't want to wait to get started. I had just ordered an expensive camera but we wanted to get started on filming before it would arrive so we went ahead with a regular camcorder. We also didn't want to wait to go through all the trouble of finding the necessary props for the "action scenes", so we decided to save those for last, even though it would mean saving the most expensive part for last (another poor idea in retrospect).
We made our own microphones and sound equipment (poorly), figured out how to do lighting (poorly), and jumped into the deep end.
Let me say this: It was a lot of fun. We had a blast. Every night, hanging out with friends for a purpose. Everyone got involved.
And the end result was a mess.
I use "end result" loosely, seeing as how we never actually finished the film. We had no money, schedules became a problem, and we finally began to see glaring problems in the story.
Jeffery was our hero.
I was the villain (secretly...ohh-hoo!)
We had multiples "agents" from multiples "agencies" all double-crossing and triple-crossing each other for reasons that were unclear even to us.
Tom dyed his bright red hair dark brown so his transparent eyebrows and beard would actually show up on film (a definite plus that came out of this... footage I can show his children in the near future to scare the crap out of them).
The film now exists in a sort of stasis, forever to stay that way. Tom edited it as much as anyone possibly could and filled the blank spaces with text explaining what would have happened during the voids between scenes.
There's no way to finish the movie now (not that any of us see a reason to). It has been five years. People have changed or moved, sets have been destroyed or lost...
And while I sat watching the X-Files movie, full of it's ridiculous story arcs and plot devices, I couldn't help but picture the writers sitting down, saying to themselves, "We've had six years to put this together and put it off until the last weekend. Crap. Maybe we should have attended fewer conventions and played a little less Warcraft."
And I thought to myself, "This would be much better if it were just being screened to a group of giggling friends in a garage somewhere..."
And a two-headed guard dog.
The newest movie from $now Bros. Films?
Nope.
It's the new X-Files movie.
While I sat and watched this atrocity, I couldn't help but think back on the nights Tom and I sat awake, slowly putting together what would be a Truly Horrible Script.
Late at night at the original Washington House, we started cobbling together a story from bits of student film footage, random story ideas written down long ago, and a list of supplies we actually had... all based around a film he made back in high school featuring our friend in a nine-year-old girl's bunny suit.
It was doomed from the beginning.
Not that we had any idea at the time. We couldn't step back far enough to really see what was on the horizon for us.
Whenever we encountered a road block (and I don't mean a stumbling point... I mean a road block with big bright letters that said "Do Not Continue!") we happily came up with something else to hurdle us over it, allowing the story to continue for some reason:
"Hey Nick, this seems like it's maybe not making much sense..."
"Well, let's create a government sponsored program/conspiracy thing! That should clear things up!"
Or:
"Hey Tom, this is starting to get a little convoluted..."
"Well, let's add another character to the mix then to help explain some things!"
Or:
"Hey Tom, it looks like I've got a square peg here..."
"Uh-oh... and I've got a round hole..."
"Let's use a BIGGER hammer then!"
We had grand plans.
And a storyboard for it all.
And revisions.
And rehearsals.
We got all of our friends involved and made a shooting schedule around them (almost exclusively taking place between the hours of midnight and 3am).
And we didn't want to wait to get started. I had just ordered an expensive camera but we wanted to get started on filming before it would arrive so we went ahead with a regular camcorder. We also didn't want to wait to go through all the trouble of finding the necessary props for the "action scenes", so we decided to save those for last, even though it would mean saving the most expensive part for last (another poor idea in retrospect).
We made our own microphones and sound equipment (poorly), figured out how to do lighting (poorly), and jumped into the deep end.
Let me say this: It was a lot of fun. We had a blast. Every night, hanging out with friends for a purpose. Everyone got involved.
And the end result was a mess.
I use "end result" loosely, seeing as how we never actually finished the film. We had no money, schedules became a problem, and we finally began to see glaring problems in the story.
Jeffery was our hero.
I was the villain (secretly...ohh-hoo!)
We had multiples "agents" from multiples "agencies" all double-crossing and triple-crossing each other for reasons that were unclear even to us.
Tom dyed his bright red hair dark brown so his transparent eyebrows and beard would actually show up on film (a definite plus that came out of this... footage I can show his children in the near future to scare the crap out of them).
The film now exists in a sort of stasis, forever to stay that way. Tom edited it as much as anyone possibly could and filled the blank spaces with text explaining what would have happened during the voids between scenes.
There's no way to finish the movie now (not that any of us see a reason to). It has been five years. People have changed or moved, sets have been destroyed or lost...
And while I sat watching the X-Files movie, full of it's ridiculous story arcs and plot devices, I couldn't help but picture the writers sitting down, saying to themselves, "We've had six years to put this together and put it off until the last weekend. Crap. Maybe we should have attended fewer conventions and played a little less Warcraft."
And I thought to myself, "This would be much better if it were just being screened to a group of giggling friends in a garage somewhere..."
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
As Easy as Remembering How to Ride a Bike...
Apologies for the lack of posts. My time online has been limited while out of town for a couple days (it seems funny to write "out of town" while I am in another country...)
In all fairness, it was not 9 days... I posted something on the 24th. I'm just sayin'...
Anyway, more stories to whittle away at whatever may be left of this silly dignity I have been dragging around for all these years...
While in Karlshamn, we decided to take a bike ride on that first night. Jenny's brother, Johannes, had some friends at a local camp site and he wanted to say hi. All of the "adults" had ventured into town a bit earlier.
I use the term "adults" in that way because I find myself at an awkward age. Doing what I can to slow what has become hurtling towards thirty, I find it hard at times to call myself an adult. Maybe no one is really sure when to do so. Under my current circumstances, it can be especially hard to do so when you find yourself living with someone at their parents' house and visiting a bunch of older relatives. However, it seems important to use the quotation marks around "adults" when you recently saw them depart on bicycles as a giggling, drunken group, headed into town for fun and mischief.
That being said, we continue...
We grabbed the remaining bicycles (myself along with Jenny, her brother, and his girlfriend, Nila) and headed off. I wasn't sure how long the ride was into town, mostly due to barely paying attention on the way to the house, nervous from driving in a foreign country on roads I didn't know.
I found that just getting going was tough enough. The bike seemed to be built for someone considerably taller than me (a feeling that creeps in fairly often in Sweden) and my feet had a hard time reaching the ground without certain other delicate parts resting uncomfortably on the bike itself (it was at this point I recalled stories about someone I went to high school with who had an uncomfortable encounter involving this metal bar, a roadside curb, a stay in the hospital, and those "certain other delicate parts"... he was called "One-Nut" after this and I had no desire to earn myself any unfortunate nicknames at this point in my life).
I started biking along anyway on this Giant Swedish Contraption and everything was going great. Johannes decided to take a detour down a dirt path that led toward the lake. I was close behind him and Jenny was trailing behind with Nila.
I felt a bit awkward on the bike as I haven't truly ridden one in years. I sat on a couple during my time in San Francisco and pedaled in circles, but nothing that actual qualified as a bike ride. I just kept telling myself about how every attempt to use a rusty skill again is emboldened by the phrase, "It's as easy as remembering how to ride a bike..."
I smiled to myself as I got the hang of it and it felt good to have the air rushing past my face.
I even maintained this smile as I watched Johannes take a curve up ahead.
As I approached the curve, I calmly squeezed the brake handle. And then squeezed some more. Then some more.
The smile stayed frozen on my face, some magical thinking on my part that if I just stayed happy, nothing could go wrong.
This was about the time I flew into a group of bushes.
Jenny and Nila came around the bend just as I was pulling myself up and out of the bushes, lugging the bike and trying to brush debris from my jacket and hair.
Jenny tried not to laugh and asked, "What happened?"
I desperately wanted to tell her it wasn't my fault. After taking a look at the bike, I felt a rush of relief because I was able to do just that.
Looking down at the bike, we could see that the brake handle had completely broken off. The plastic had broken in two right above where it met the bike itself.
"Why didn't you just use the foot brake?" Jenny asked blankly.
Wha-? Huh?
"What do you mean the foot brake?"
"Um, you just pedal backwards to brake."
Damn these Giant Crazy Swedish Contraptions.
I had to explain that I had never been on ten-speed that had foot brakes. You either had hand brakes or foot brakes, unless you were in grade school and had an awesome BMX bike with white tires that left white skidmarks on the asphalt and had both foot and hand brakes (yeah, I had one).
Everyone laughed at me (I've become resistant to feeling any shame when this occurs anymore) and Jenny insisted on switching bikes with me. My pride was damaged a bit and, as I would discover later, so was my elbow, but I was fine and we continued the rest of the way to town.
As we biked toward town, I felt myself huffing and puffing as we mounted what were essentially gentle slopes in the terrain. I switched gears, I stood up on the pedals... nothing made it as easy as it always looked when other people did it.
By the time we finally reached town, several kilometers away, I was hoping that a nice farmer would come by in his pickup truck when we were ready to leave for Jenny's aunt's house, offering to give us a ride in the back of his truck since we looked like such nice kids.
Allow me to make a couple points before wrapping this up.
First, I am currently in the best shape of my life since getting out of college. I feel better, I lost weight, I've been walking the hills of San Francisco... I'm much healthier than I have been in 5 years.
Second, I set out traveling almost one year ago. Before I left on my road trip in my car, my initial plan was to bike across the country. I was going to get a bike, a small tent, a sleeping bag, and the bare essentials, load onto a bike, and trek to the ocean and back.
I told this plan to my family and friends and was almost universally told I was insane. I recall one night in particular, sitting outside of Tom's grandmother's cabin late one night with Tom and Meighan. Meighan became angry and told me I was completely nuts and was going to die out there. That seemed to be the consensus from everyone. Only one person was supportive. After Meighan went to bed that night, Tom looked at me and said, "You should do it. I believe in you."
And I intended to. I only chose not to because I kept pushing back the start date of my trip for money reasons. As it grew later in the year, I became aware that leaving in October would mean I would need to bike south immediately just to avoid freezing to death. This would add 2,000-plus miles to my trip... one way. Financially speaking, it would end up costing the same to drive my car there and back as it would to buy a bike, all the necessary supplies, and support myself on the way.
So I opted to drive.
And it all worked out great.
Now, I will say this once. Once.
As I biked along that road to town, huffing and puffing those few kilometers, I thought back to last summer and one question jumped into my head:
"What the hell was I thinking?!"
In all fairness, it was not 9 days... I posted something on the 24th. I'm just sayin'...
Anyway, more stories to whittle away at whatever may be left of this silly dignity I have been dragging around for all these years...
While in Karlshamn, we decided to take a bike ride on that first night. Jenny's brother, Johannes, had some friends at a local camp site and he wanted to say hi. All of the "adults" had ventured into town a bit earlier.
I use the term "adults" in that way because I find myself at an awkward age. Doing what I can to slow what has become hurtling towards thirty, I find it hard at times to call myself an adult. Maybe no one is really sure when to do so. Under my current circumstances, it can be especially hard to do so when you find yourself living with someone at their parents' house and visiting a bunch of older relatives. However, it seems important to use the quotation marks around "adults" when you recently saw them depart on bicycles as a giggling, drunken group, headed into town for fun and mischief.
That being said, we continue...
We grabbed the remaining bicycles (myself along with Jenny, her brother, and his girlfriend, Nila) and headed off. I wasn't sure how long the ride was into town, mostly due to barely paying attention on the way to the house, nervous from driving in a foreign country on roads I didn't know.
I found that just getting going was tough enough. The bike seemed to be built for someone considerably taller than me (a feeling that creeps in fairly often in Sweden) and my feet had a hard time reaching the ground without certain other delicate parts resting uncomfortably on the bike itself (it was at this point I recalled stories about someone I went to high school with who had an uncomfortable encounter involving this metal bar, a roadside curb, a stay in the hospital, and those "certain other delicate parts"... he was called "One-Nut" after this and I had no desire to earn myself any unfortunate nicknames at this point in my life).
I started biking along anyway on this Giant Swedish Contraption and everything was going great. Johannes decided to take a detour down a dirt path that led toward the lake. I was close behind him and Jenny was trailing behind with Nila.
I felt a bit awkward on the bike as I haven't truly ridden one in years. I sat on a couple during my time in San Francisco and pedaled in circles, but nothing that actual qualified as a bike ride. I just kept telling myself about how every attempt to use a rusty skill again is emboldened by the phrase, "It's as easy as remembering how to ride a bike..."
I smiled to myself as I got the hang of it and it felt good to have the air rushing past my face.
I even maintained this smile as I watched Johannes take a curve up ahead.
As I approached the curve, I calmly squeezed the brake handle. And then squeezed some more. Then some more.
The smile stayed frozen on my face, some magical thinking on my part that if I just stayed happy, nothing could go wrong.
This was about the time I flew into a group of bushes.
Jenny and Nila came around the bend just as I was pulling myself up and out of the bushes, lugging the bike and trying to brush debris from my jacket and hair.
Jenny tried not to laugh and asked, "What happened?"
I desperately wanted to tell her it wasn't my fault. After taking a look at the bike, I felt a rush of relief because I was able to do just that.
Looking down at the bike, we could see that the brake handle had completely broken off. The plastic had broken in two right above where it met the bike itself.
"Why didn't you just use the foot brake?" Jenny asked blankly.
Wha-? Huh?
"What do you mean the foot brake?"
"Um, you just pedal backwards to brake."
Damn these Giant Crazy Swedish Contraptions.
I had to explain that I had never been on ten-speed that had foot brakes. You either had hand brakes or foot brakes, unless you were in grade school and had an awesome BMX bike with white tires that left white skidmarks on the asphalt and had both foot and hand brakes (yeah, I had one).
Everyone laughed at me (I've become resistant to feeling any shame when this occurs anymore) and Jenny insisted on switching bikes with me. My pride was damaged a bit and, as I would discover later, so was my elbow, but I was fine and we continued the rest of the way to town.
As we biked toward town, I felt myself huffing and puffing as we mounted what were essentially gentle slopes in the terrain. I switched gears, I stood up on the pedals... nothing made it as easy as it always looked when other people did it.
By the time we finally reached town, several kilometers away, I was hoping that a nice farmer would come by in his pickup truck when we were ready to leave for Jenny's aunt's house, offering to give us a ride in the back of his truck since we looked like such nice kids.
Allow me to make a couple points before wrapping this up.
First, I am currently in the best shape of my life since getting out of college. I feel better, I lost weight, I've been walking the hills of San Francisco... I'm much healthier than I have been in 5 years.
Second, I set out traveling almost one year ago. Before I left on my road trip in my car, my initial plan was to bike across the country. I was going to get a bike, a small tent, a sleeping bag, and the bare essentials, load onto a bike, and trek to the ocean and back.
I told this plan to my family and friends and was almost universally told I was insane. I recall one night in particular, sitting outside of Tom's grandmother's cabin late one night with Tom and Meighan. Meighan became angry and told me I was completely nuts and was going to die out there. That seemed to be the consensus from everyone. Only one person was supportive. After Meighan went to bed that night, Tom looked at me and said, "You should do it. I believe in you."
And I intended to. I only chose not to because I kept pushing back the start date of my trip for money reasons. As it grew later in the year, I became aware that leaving in October would mean I would need to bike south immediately just to avoid freezing to death. This would add 2,000-plus miles to my trip... one way. Financially speaking, it would end up costing the same to drive my car there and back as it would to buy a bike, all the necessary supplies, and support myself on the way.
So I opted to drive.
And it all worked out great.
Now, I will say this once. Once.
As I biked along that road to town, huffing and puffing those few kilometers, I thought back to last summer and one question jumped into my head:
"What the hell was I thinking?!"
Friday, July 25, 2008
My Self-Esteem Room
One day, I hope to have a self-esteem room.
Early each morning, I will rise and make a pot of coffee.
Walking slowly with my fresh cup of joe, I will pull that secret book in my bookcase. You know I can't tell you which one...
The bookcase will slowly slide open and I will step inside.
The walls of my Self-Esteem Room will be covered with photos.
Photos of people during that brief second, that important moment, right before they fall. Immediately following the trip.
You know that look.
People at their most vulnerable, the place we have all been.
I will stand in my robe.
I will sip my coffee.
I will smile.
And I will say,
"Everything is going to be alright today."
Early each morning, I will rise and make a pot of coffee.
Walking slowly with my fresh cup of joe, I will pull that secret book in my bookcase. You know I can't tell you which one...
The bookcase will slowly slide open and I will step inside.
The walls of my Self-Esteem Room will be covered with photos.
Photos of people during that brief second, that important moment, right before they fall. Immediately following the trip.
You know that look.
People at their most vulnerable, the place we have all been.
I will stand in my robe.
I will sip my coffee.
I will smile.
And I will say,
"Everything is going to be alright today."
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Spooooooooon!
KARLSHAMN - "I am trying not to panic."
I made this statement very slowly and carefully. Pronouncing each word precisely as I looked Jenny in the eyes, more so for myself and my own state of mind than anything else.
She looked at me very seriously (this was the last time she would be able to for the next hour or so) and said quietly, "OK..."
We were in Karlshamn visiting her aunt and uncle. It was a fairly small town that seemed to be mostly a vacationing spot. There was ample camping nearby and a carnival had taken over the center of town for the weekend. Most of her family had left for the lake a while before to go water-skiing and tubing. A couple of people remained.
I continued to stare at her, not knowing how to say what I had to say while knowing full well there was really only one way to spit it out.
She continued to stare back, looking a bit concerned but certainly less concerned than myself. "What's wrong?" she asked. "You look like you're going to cry..."
Let's step back a few minutes.
I'm in the bathroom (yeah, I know... way too much bathroom discussion lately...) As I'm going to the bathroom, I glance downward and notice something peculiar.
Huh, I think to myself. I was staring at a small scratch but for the life of me couldn't recall scratching myself or accidentally getting anything stuck in a zipper recently.
I found myself still staring and feeling utterly confused. Something wasn't adding up right and I could feel my brain trying to make connections between what I knew and what my consciousness wanted to be aware of...
A memory flashed through my head. Nothing old. In fact, a memory of a conversation I had just an hour before.
"What do you call the tiny mosquitoes that bite you and you have to pull them out?" Jenny asked.
We were standing outside with her cousin's wife, Stina. I was confused but had become used to this feeling when discussing bugs here. There seem to be a wide variety of insects I have never encountered and there are different names for them. For instance, Älmhult is infested with mosquitoes. Not necessarily any different mosquitoes than what I am used to Illinois, except that here there are names for the different ones.
In a past conversation I was asked what we call a tiny mosquito.
"Oh. 'Tiny Mosquito.'"
And then what we call the really big mosquitoes.
"Oh. 'Big Freakin' Mosquitoes.'"
Apparently, we are kind of boring in America with our logic. Here there are separate names for all the different kinds.
So, as we are standing outside with Stina and Jenny is describing this mosquito, I find myself confused.
"Gee... I don't know any mosquito you have to pull out."
We discuss it for a second as they try to explain to me what they mean.
Aha, I realize they just mean a bloodsucker.
"'Tick.' You mean a 'tick.'"
We all find ourselves nodding. I explain that the ticks I am used to are not small at all and are quite large. They tell me about the ticks they have there. Rather small little things.
Let's jump forward again, shall we?
As I was saying, this conversation flashed through my head very quickly in the bathroom as my brain struggled to get this information through to the conscious part of me.
It succeeded in doing so right around the time I saw the scratch move.
Now let's jump forward to the kitchen.
"Seriously... are you OK?" Jenny asked, beginning to look very concerned.
I asked her, "Do you remember the conversation we had earlier?" I desperately wanted her to just get it so I didn't have to talk anymore.
"Which one?"
"The one outside... about the ticks?" I whispered.
"Oh... did you get one?" The concern started to slip out of her voice. I pictured her thinking, No big deal.
I just stared.
"Where is it?" she asked.
I kept staring. I widened my eyes just a bit and did my very best to shoot mind-bullets at her, sending the information through without actually having to say it myself.
"Where?" she asked again.
I kept staring but glanced downward.
A smile cracked her face. I realized, as I resisted crying like I kind of wanted to, this was the last time she was going to take me seriously for the remainder of the day.
"Nej..." she said as she started to turn away. It soon wouldn't matter. Turning away wasn't going to prevent me from hearing the laughter.
As the sheer panic started to wear its way through, Jenny fought back laughter and tears to bravely ask Stina if she had a pair of tweezers. Stina went out to look through a bag in her car and brought some back up to the house.
"Where's it at?" she asked.
I just smiled politely and said, "Can I have the tweezers, please?"
As I stood in the bathroom door, Jenny let me know in a cracking voice as she fought back giggles that she had pulled ticks out before for people.
"You know... If you need any help."
I shut the bathroom door and locked it.
As I stared down at my new nemesis, my anxiety was kind enough to create a series of horrible scenarios that involved gushing blood, tick heads staying behind to cause terrible infections, and finally culminating with the fear that a doctor would deliver the line, "We are going to have to amputate."
I gritted my teeth, grabbed hold with the tweezers, and yanked.
And yanked.
And yanked.
And yanked.
That sucker was not coming easy and this went on about 20 times.
Tears almost came at one point.
Then... I won.
As I stared at the little bugger, crushed and intact (head and all), I realized I have never felt so guilt-free about killing anything before in my life.
I said goodbye to what little remained of my dignity as the news slowly filtered through all of Jenny's family over the course of the day.
Stina walked up at one point, holding the tweezers, and just simply asked, "Did you clean them?"
I nodded. She chuckled and walked away.
The good news is that a great rhyme came out of the whole ordeal:
Nick got a Tick on his...
Oh, jeez. Would you look at the time. Gotta go!
I made this statement very slowly and carefully. Pronouncing each word precisely as I looked Jenny in the eyes, more so for myself and my own state of mind than anything else.
She looked at me very seriously (this was the last time she would be able to for the next hour or so) and said quietly, "OK..."
We were in Karlshamn visiting her aunt and uncle. It was a fairly small town that seemed to be mostly a vacationing spot. There was ample camping nearby and a carnival had taken over the center of town for the weekend. Most of her family had left for the lake a while before to go water-skiing and tubing. A couple of people remained.
I continued to stare at her, not knowing how to say what I had to say while knowing full well there was really only one way to spit it out.
She continued to stare back, looking a bit concerned but certainly less concerned than myself. "What's wrong?" she asked. "You look like you're going to cry..."
Let's step back a few minutes.
I'm in the bathroom (yeah, I know... way too much bathroom discussion lately...) As I'm going to the bathroom, I glance downward and notice something peculiar.
Huh, I think to myself. I was staring at a small scratch but for the life of me couldn't recall scratching myself or accidentally getting anything stuck in a zipper recently.
I found myself still staring and feeling utterly confused. Something wasn't adding up right and I could feel my brain trying to make connections between what I knew and what my consciousness wanted to be aware of...
A memory flashed through my head. Nothing old. In fact, a memory of a conversation I had just an hour before.
"What do you call the tiny mosquitoes that bite you and you have to pull them out?" Jenny asked.
We were standing outside with her cousin's wife, Stina. I was confused but had become used to this feeling when discussing bugs here. There seem to be a wide variety of insects I have never encountered and there are different names for them. For instance, Älmhult is infested with mosquitoes. Not necessarily any different mosquitoes than what I am used to Illinois, except that here there are names for the different ones.
In a past conversation I was asked what we call a tiny mosquito.
"Oh. 'Tiny Mosquito.'"
And then what we call the really big mosquitoes.
"Oh. 'Big Freakin' Mosquitoes.'"
Apparently, we are kind of boring in America with our logic. Here there are separate names for all the different kinds.
So, as we are standing outside with Stina and Jenny is describing this mosquito, I find myself confused.
"Gee... I don't know any mosquito you have to pull out."
We discuss it for a second as they try to explain to me what they mean.
Aha, I realize they just mean a bloodsucker.
"'Tick.' You mean a 'tick.'"
We all find ourselves nodding. I explain that the ticks I am used to are not small at all and are quite large. They tell me about the ticks they have there. Rather small little things.
Let's jump forward again, shall we?
As I was saying, this conversation flashed through my head very quickly in the bathroom as my brain struggled to get this information through to the conscious part of me.
It succeeded in doing so right around the time I saw the scratch move.
Now let's jump forward to the kitchen.
"Seriously... are you OK?" Jenny asked, beginning to look very concerned.
I asked her, "Do you remember the conversation we had earlier?" I desperately wanted her to just get it so I didn't have to talk anymore.
"Which one?"
"The one outside... about the ticks?" I whispered.
"Oh... did you get one?" The concern started to slip out of her voice. I pictured her thinking, No big deal.
I just stared.
"Where is it?" she asked.
I kept staring. I widened my eyes just a bit and did my very best to shoot mind-bullets at her, sending the information through without actually having to say it myself.
"Where?" she asked again.
I kept staring but glanced downward.
A smile cracked her face. I realized, as I resisted crying like I kind of wanted to, this was the last time she was going to take me seriously for the remainder of the day.
"Nej..." she said as she started to turn away. It soon wouldn't matter. Turning away wasn't going to prevent me from hearing the laughter.
As the sheer panic started to wear its way through, Jenny fought back laughter and tears to bravely ask Stina if she had a pair of tweezers. Stina went out to look through a bag in her car and brought some back up to the house.
"Where's it at?" she asked.
I just smiled politely and said, "Can I have the tweezers, please?"
As I stood in the bathroom door, Jenny let me know in a cracking voice as she fought back giggles that she had pulled ticks out before for people.
"You know... If you need any help."
I shut the bathroom door and locked it.
As I stared down at my new nemesis, my anxiety was kind enough to create a series of horrible scenarios that involved gushing blood, tick heads staying behind to cause terrible infections, and finally culminating with the fear that a doctor would deliver the line, "We are going to have to amputate."
I gritted my teeth, grabbed hold with the tweezers, and yanked.
And yanked.
And yanked.
And yanked.
That sucker was not coming easy and this went on about 20 times.
Tears almost came at one point.
Then... I won.
As I stared at the little bugger, crushed and intact (head and all), I realized I have never felt so guilt-free about killing anything before in my life.
I said goodbye to what little remained of my dignity as the news slowly filtered through all of Jenny's family over the course of the day.
Stina walked up at one point, holding the tweezers, and just simply asked, "Did you clean them?"
I nodded. She chuckled and walked away.
The good news is that a great rhyme came out of the whole ordeal:
Nick got a Tick on his...
Oh, jeez. Would you look at the time. Gotta go!
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
The Next Statement is True; The First Statement is False
What if I'm just a big, fat liar?
I wrote Tom an email recently discussing the fact that I could just be making this all up.
For all anyone knows, I could have moved to Milwaukee to take an office job at a big dairy company.
How would anyone know anything differently?
No one saw a plane ticket or knows anyone "over here". I told everyone in San Francisco I was leaving to return to Illinois so I could fly to Sweden. Heck, in San Francisco, they don't even know if I was really from Illinois.
And as far as Illinois people know, I could have gone anywhere.
The only facts anyone has are these: I did receive a passport and I was dropped off outside an airport by my father, carrying two bags, contents unknown.
Sure, I've made a few phone calls to people from a strange number, but that was using a calling card, so it could be anywhere, really.
None of the pictures I have posted really place me definitely in Sweden or with any people I have allegedly met here. Just a picture of me on a beach, sitting with a wreath on my head, and standing in front of a car.
Could be Milwaukee...
Maybe I have some friends in Sweden in on the joke, sending me pictures of themselves doing fun things around and I just make up stories about it all...
As some people have commented, no one really knows what this "Jenny" girl looks like anyway... what if it is all just a big delusion?
I discussed this with Jenny and we realized the same thing.
She doesn't really know anything about me except what I have told her.
Maybe I'm not actually from Illinois. Maybe I wasn't really a drug counselor. Maybe I don't really have a mom, dad, brother, and sister.
Maybe I just escaped from some loony bin somewhere and wandered to San Francisco. I'm sure I wouldn't be the first...
No one in San Francisco really knows where I am from based on any other source than myself. What if it is all lies?
I offered to let her email some friends but then told her she would never really know because they could just be email addresses I've made up and I send the replies myself. What if no one even really reads this blog and all the comments are just different characters I have made up to make my story more convincing?
Jenny made another good point after we watched Lars and the Real Girl the other day. What if I'm not even real? What if I'm just a big, plastic boy that she carries around and her friends and family are just playing along with her delusion? Talking about the weird American "boy" with her just so she doesn't feel bad? I guess that would mean she is writing this blog entry right now, discussing her own delusion in depth through 3rd, 4th, and 5th person...
It gets even more confusing after thinking about how we discussed me as her "imaginary friend" on the first day I was here. None of her friends had talked to me or anything and maybe doubted my existence a bit. We decided it would be funny if I hid in the bushes while they arrived, giggling to myself as she introduced the empty air next to her as her "American friend Nick". We wanted to see how long we could keep it up and whether her friends would go along with it or not. Then her father met me and the plan crumbled...
Or did it?
I'm so confused...
I should probably stop talking about this before some paradox tears a hole in the Space-Time Continuum, slowly dismantling reality.
I wrote Tom an email recently discussing the fact that I could just be making this all up.
For all anyone knows, I could have moved to Milwaukee to take an office job at a big dairy company.
How would anyone know anything differently?
No one saw a plane ticket or knows anyone "over here". I told everyone in San Francisco I was leaving to return to Illinois so I could fly to Sweden. Heck, in San Francisco, they don't even know if I was really from Illinois.
And as far as Illinois people know, I could have gone anywhere.
The only facts anyone has are these: I did receive a passport and I was dropped off outside an airport by my father, carrying two bags, contents unknown.
Sure, I've made a few phone calls to people from a strange number, but that was using a calling card, so it could be anywhere, really.
None of the pictures I have posted really place me definitely in Sweden or with any people I have allegedly met here. Just a picture of me on a beach, sitting with a wreath on my head, and standing in front of a car.
Could be Milwaukee...
Maybe I have some friends in Sweden in on the joke, sending me pictures of themselves doing fun things around and I just make up stories about it all...
As some people have commented, no one really knows what this "Jenny" girl looks like anyway... what if it is all just a big delusion?
I discussed this with Jenny and we realized the same thing.
She doesn't really know anything about me except what I have told her.
Maybe I'm not actually from Illinois. Maybe I wasn't really a drug counselor. Maybe I don't really have a mom, dad, brother, and sister.
Maybe I just escaped from some loony bin somewhere and wandered to San Francisco. I'm sure I wouldn't be the first...
No one in San Francisco really knows where I am from based on any other source than myself. What if it is all lies?
I offered to let her email some friends but then told her she would never really know because they could just be email addresses I've made up and I send the replies myself. What if no one even really reads this blog and all the comments are just different characters I have made up to make my story more convincing?
Jenny made another good point after we watched Lars and the Real Girl the other day. What if I'm not even real? What if I'm just a big, plastic boy that she carries around and her friends and family are just playing along with her delusion? Talking about the weird American "boy" with her just so she doesn't feel bad? I guess that would mean she is writing this blog entry right now, discussing her own delusion in depth through 3rd, 4th, and 5th person...
It gets even more confusing after thinking about how we discussed me as her "imaginary friend" on the first day I was here. None of her friends had talked to me or anything and maybe doubted my existence a bit. We decided it would be funny if I hid in the bushes while they arrived, giggling to myself as she introduced the empty air next to her as her "American friend Nick". We wanted to see how long we could keep it up and whether her friends would go along with it or not. Then her father met me and the plan crumbled...
Or did it?
I'm so confused...
I should probably stop talking about this before some paradox tears a hole in the Space-Time Continuum, slowly dismantling reality.
Monday, July 14, 2008
I No Speak English Much Goodly
I've always felt I was able to speak fairly well.
And I've always found myself obsessing for several hours (who are we kidding...days...) when I mispronounce something, particularly when I know how to pronounce it but it somehow slips out wrong anyway. I want to grasp at the air and shove the word back into my mouth before anyone takes notice. I remember one day in particular, when I pronounced "heir" like "hair". That one stuck with me for a while...
Turns out I have a new neurosis to add to the list.
I can't pronounce t's in the middle of words.
All my life, I have never noticed this problem.
It wasn't until I was in San Francisco when this realization first began to surface.
I was speaking with my friend Alex (from Italy) and suggested we go somewhere to get some gelato.
"Eh?" he responded.
"Let's go get some gelato."
A blank stare was his only reply.
"C'mon... you have to know what gelato is. You're from Italy. You know... ge-la-to..." I found myself trying to slow it down, like he somehow had just totally lost his grasp of English.
Nothing.
"Italian ice cream?" I asked.
"Ohhhh... You mean "gela-To," he said as he slowed it down for me and worked the word out phonetically.
"Yeah. That's what I said," I replied, exasperated.
"No. You said gela-Do," he replied, correcting me.
I thought maybe it was just him, but it turned out that everyone else at the hostel from America was able to pronounce it correctly.
Great.
Maybe it is a Midwestern thing.
I found myself struggling to say it correctly, having to slow way down and sound it out phonetically, awkwardly fitting in the "t" in place of the "d".
The obsession slowly faded from my mind over time until I came here.
Then others noticed it.
"Wait... you'd like to be a 'rider'?"
"No. A 'writer'."
Blank stares.
Crap.
After some close and slightly obsessive self-analysis, I have compiled a short and far from complete list of words that I can't pronounce.
Metal/Mettle.
Writer.
Gelato.
Little.
Neurotic.
Notice.
Butter.
Batter.
Flutter.
Tomato. (Although I seem to have no problem pronouncing "potato"... go figure.)
Although this did lead to me realizing there is at least one word I can say correctly:
"Craptastic."
Great.
I end up taking English lessons from people who speak it as a second language.
More on this laDer as it develops.
And I've always found myself obsessing for several hours (who are we kidding...days...) when I mispronounce something, particularly when I know how to pronounce it but it somehow slips out wrong anyway. I want to grasp at the air and shove the word back into my mouth before anyone takes notice. I remember one day in particular, when I pronounced "heir" like "hair". That one stuck with me for a while...
Turns out I have a new neurosis to add to the list.
I can't pronounce t's in the middle of words.
All my life, I have never noticed this problem.
It wasn't until I was in San Francisco when this realization first began to surface.
I was speaking with my friend Alex (from Italy) and suggested we go somewhere to get some gelato.
"Eh?" he responded.
"Let's go get some gelato."
A blank stare was his only reply.
"C'mon... you have to know what gelato is. You're from Italy. You know... ge-la-to..." I found myself trying to slow it down, like he somehow had just totally lost his grasp of English.
Nothing.
"Italian ice cream?" I asked.
"Ohhhh... You mean "gela-To," he said as he slowed it down for me and worked the word out phonetically.
"Yeah. That's what I said," I replied, exasperated.
"No. You said gela-Do," he replied, correcting me.
I thought maybe it was just him, but it turned out that everyone else at the hostel from America was able to pronounce it correctly.
Great.
Maybe it is a Midwestern thing.
I found myself struggling to say it correctly, having to slow way down and sound it out phonetically, awkwardly fitting in the "t" in place of the "d".
The obsession slowly faded from my mind over time until I came here.
Then others noticed it.
"Wait... you'd like to be a 'rider'?"
"No. A 'writer'."
Blank stares.
Crap.
After some close and slightly obsessive self-analysis, I have compiled a short and far from complete list of words that I can't pronounce.
Metal/Mettle.
Writer.
Gelato.
Little.
Neurotic.
Notice.
Butter.
Batter.
Flutter.
Tomato. (Although I seem to have no problem pronouncing "potato"... go figure.)
Although this did lead to me realizing there is at least one word I can say correctly:
"Craptastic."
Great.
I end up taking English lessons from people who speak it as a second language.
More on this laDer as it develops.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
The Sudden Growth In Maturity Chronicles: No. 4 (or "Expand Your Vocabulary")
This hasn't exactly been my most mature day...
So let's just embrace it, shall we?
As part of my ever expanding Swedish vocabulary, I learned the word for "nipple" today:
"Bröstvårta".
Translation?
"Breast wart".
Heh.
So let's just embrace it, shall we?
As part of my ever expanding Swedish vocabulary, I learned the word for "nipple" today:
"Bröstvårta".
Translation?
"Breast wart".
Heh.
The Secret Swedish Plot to Destroy My Girlish Figure
They want to make me fat.
It's true.
I'm not delusional.
Jenny has told me of her plan to "fatten" me up (Ha! Not much of a "secret" plan when you give it all away!) She has been quite open about it.
Her mother is in on it as well. Yesterday, I went to the store with her while Jenny was at work. She immediately took me to the cookie aisle and started filling up the cart.
"You'll eat these, right?"
"Um... yeah," I stumbled as a reply.
"Oh. And some of these? And these? We'll get one of each, OK?"
I had no choice but to nod along.
I don't want to be rude.
And then for dinner last night?
Pizza.
They have studied me well. They know my weaknesses.
Pizza.
Cookies.
Cheese.
And pop.
The other day, Jenny showed me the basement and casually pointed at a case of Pepsi.
"You can have some whenever you want. We really don't drink it much."
Sure... sounds innocent enough.
But then her mother was explaining the security system to me the next day and told me how even though the house is secured at night, "it's safe to go into the basement and get a soda whenever you want."
!!!
I try to keep an eye on Jenny whenever she gets me something to drink. I suspect the chalky substance in my coffee is a weight-gaining protein powder.
Very sneaky.
Next it will be gravy injections while I sleep.
I fear what the near future will bring.
I have created a rendering of what things will be like six weeks from now:
For now though, I eat. To protect the rest of you, of course.
And eat and eat and eat.
What is the ultimate goal of this plot? Who knows?
To cook me like a big, fat, Thanksgiving turkey? Perhaps, although Jenny being a vegetarian seems to throw this possibility into serious question.
Maybe at the end they'll just pack me up in a big shipping crate (as I will be too large to fit onto a plane, much less walk on my own). They'll use Cheetos instead of packing peanuts and put me on a big cargo ship, bound for American shores...
Eh. On second thought, it all doesn't seem so bad...
It's true.
I'm not delusional.
Jenny has told me of her plan to "fatten" me up (Ha! Not much of a "secret" plan when you give it all away!) She has been quite open about it.
Her mother is in on it as well. Yesterday, I went to the store with her while Jenny was at work. She immediately took me to the cookie aisle and started filling up the cart.
"You'll eat these, right?"
"Um... yeah," I stumbled as a reply.
"Oh. And some of these? And these? We'll get one of each, OK?"
I had no choice but to nod along.
I don't want to be rude.
And then for dinner last night?
Pizza.
They have studied me well. They know my weaknesses.
Pizza.
Cookies.
Cheese.
And pop.
The other day, Jenny showed me the basement and casually pointed at a case of Pepsi.
"You can have some whenever you want. We really don't drink it much."
Sure... sounds innocent enough.
But then her mother was explaining the security system to me the next day and told me how even though the house is secured at night, "it's safe to go into the basement and get a soda whenever you want."
!!!
I try to keep an eye on Jenny whenever she gets me something to drink. I suspect the chalky substance in my coffee is a weight-gaining protein powder.
Very sneaky.
Next it will be gravy injections while I sleep.
I fear what the near future will bring.
I have created a rendering of what things will be like six weeks from now:
For now though, I eat. To protect the rest of you, of course.
And eat and eat and eat.
What is the ultimate goal of this plot? Who knows?
To cook me like a big, fat, Thanksgiving turkey? Perhaps, although Jenny being a vegetarian seems to throw this possibility into serious question.
Maybe at the end they'll just pack me up in a big shipping crate (as I will be too large to fit onto a plane, much less walk on my own). They'll use Cheetos instead of packing peanuts and put me on a big cargo ship, bound for American shores...
Eh. On second thought, it all doesn't seem so bad...
Friday, July 11, 2008
The Ancient Swedes
ÄLMHULT/RYSSBY - As we slowly rolled past the restaurant/hotel, I became very aware of the nervous energy coursing through my body. I was feeling incredibly anxious and started to snap my fingers to a beat that only existed in my head...
Eight hours earlier, Jenny and I were the only ones waking up in the caravan. We did our best to avoid waking the others as we sorted through the wreckage that was three days of six individuals living out of a trailer.
There was a long drive ahead and we still weren't sure about whether I could drive in this country or not. Which meant Jenny had to do it all on her own. Sitting in the passenger seat, I braced myself to fight off the sunbeams and the rock,rock,rocking which would be doing its very best to try to put me to sleep.
I hadn't exactly slept soundly in the caravan. We went to bed late and had to rise early. That paired with a sun that never truly sets and a whole night's worth exhaling from the caravan's occupants left me feeling a bit like trying to sleep in an Illinois attic during the summer. I was tired.
"Just go to sleep," Jenny said. "I don't mind."
But I did.
So, I stayed up and did my best to ramble,ramble,ramble with stories from home. Whenever I could keep it up. I felt bad because I knew she had to be just as tired as me and she was the one who had to drive the whole way back.
There would be no complaining from me.
We made a quick stop through Örebro and then floored it to get back. We were running late.
Jenny's grandfather was having his 80th birthday party that day and there didn't seem to be any physical way we were going to arrive on time. Unless we skipped taking showers...
Which seemed like a pretty bad idea, neither of us having showered in three days and wearing clothes that desperately needed a washing.
It took a while, but we made it back to Älmhult and I had a chance to see Jenny's house for the first time. A very nice place in the country. Lots of stonework. I didn't take much time to look at everything though... I was focused on the whole showering thing.
After the shower, I realized I only had one clean pair of pants and one clean shirt left. Fortunately, they matched each other well and gave me a whole Dickies outfit. Unfortunately, that meant I was wearing my button-up Dickies shirt which helps make me look about fifteen years old.
Jenny printed some directions (after admitting she didn't really know where this shindig was at) and we ventured out to a nearby town.
We were running really late. The party started at 2pm. It was now 4.
Oops.
So, there we are, rolling past the front of the restaurant/hotel. Me, staring out the window, my hands playing their nervous snapping game. I usually try to keep it under control. My tell. I prefer to keep my anxiety to myself when possible...
Why was I nervous? I was about to walk into a room full of Ancient Swedes, all friends of the grandfather I hadn't met yet, as a dopey-looking American who has helped make his granddaughter very, very late to his birthday party.
Oh, did I mention that none of the Ancient Swedes speak English?
We parked. I took a deep breath. We walked in.
As we walk into the room, I see Jenny's parents, who smile. Then Jenny's brother and his girlfriend (I hadn't met them yet). And a whole lot of Ancient Swedes who seemed to be staring.
There were several details that I was unaware of until after the party.
Detail #1: I looked like this the entire time.
"Oh, you mean you were wearing that shirt the entire time?"
No. Well... yes. But more importantly, according to Jenny, I had that look on my face the entire time.
This is the day the nickname "Monkey" started.
Detail #2: Apparently, I had been mentioned.
When we walked in, people began muttering about "the American." Some pointed. I blushed a little.
I had spent most of the ride over to the restaurant/hotel going over a few Swedish phrases again and again and again in my head.
Don't forget to say, "Grattis," I told myself, wanting to make sure to wish Jenny's grandfather a happy birthday.
Jenny went over and talked to someone sitting down. I stood around, looking like this:
Suddenly she was waving me over. I had spaced out for a moment. I walked over and the man she was with stuck out his hand, greeting me in Swedish. I met his hand and started shaking, muttering, "Hi," (in English of course) and just looking dumb.
She leaned in and said, "Say, 'Grattis.'"
Huh?
"Say, 'Grattis.'"
Oh, crap. This is her grandfather.
"Uh... uh... Grattis." Every bit of Swedish I had memorized oozed slowly out of my brain and ended up on the floor somewhere. I found myself hoping no one slipped in it.
He smiled and kept shaking. My face darkened a bit more.
We went and sat down with Jenny's parents and sister, Julia. Across the table from me were Jenny's brother and his girlfriend. I sheepishly introduced myself.
"Hi. I'm Nick."
I wanted some water. But all the glasses on the table were empty.
Conversation started between everyone. I just sat, smiled, and nodded.
This was around the time when Jenny started laughing.
And had a hard time stopping until long after we had left the party.
I laughed a little, but mostly it just came out like this:
We had arrived at the very end of the party and people were ready to leave. Jenny's mom stood up and started saying bye to some people. Then Jenny stood. So I stood too.
Next thing I know, I am standing between Jenny and her mother in some sort of receiving or goodbye line. People are approaching Jenny to say some words and then moving on to me before reaching Jenny's mother.
They greet me in Swedish, smile, and start talking.
I smile and nod:
And my face darkens a bit more.
Jenny is openly laughing at me to the right.
Her mother is laughing on my left.
Me? I'm laughing out loud as well, utterly confused.
Even Uncle "Fish Cakes" is there, laughing in the background.
This one guy tries to say hi and realizes I don't speak any Swedish. He begins to speak with Jenny's mom, looking me up and down while doing so. Occasionally I pick out an "Amerikansk", maybe an "engelska", and most certainly a "Chicago".
They speak for several minutes, all the while looking me up and down, when Jenny's mother decides to paraphrase for me.
"He visited Chicago once."
Oh? Is that all? I found myself wishing more than ever that I had learned more Swedish ahead of time.
Jenny is laughing in the background again. More people are greeting me. My nodding is becoming more vigorous and the smile is frozen on my face.
I am now holding back gut-splitting laughter.
What is so funny? I think to myself.
This whole situation.
Jenny finally takes my arm.
"Do you want to get out of here?"
Yes. Not that everyone wasn't being nice. I had just grown greatly and hilariously uncomfortable greeting a line of people who don't know me and don't speak my language.
We went outside. I breathed.
The rest of Jenny's family emerged and everyone was laughing. Mostly at me.
We said bye to Jenny's family and decided to go get pizza, since we had missed the meal at the party.
As we drove off, Jenny told me about how they had been talking about me before we arrived.
She also mentioned another thing...
Detail #3: Someone had started the rumor that I was Jenny's fiancé.
I guess they kept saying it again and again while they met me in the greeting line.
They must have also been saying, "Aww. Isn't Jenny sweet? Marrying that poor, underage, "special" American boy."
I want pizza.
Eight hours earlier, Jenny and I were the only ones waking up in the caravan. We did our best to avoid waking the others as we sorted through the wreckage that was three days of six individuals living out of a trailer.
There was a long drive ahead and we still weren't sure about whether I could drive in this country or not. Which meant Jenny had to do it all on her own. Sitting in the passenger seat, I braced myself to fight off the sunbeams and the rock,rock,rocking which would be doing its very best to try to put me to sleep.
I hadn't exactly slept soundly in the caravan. We went to bed late and had to rise early. That paired with a sun that never truly sets and a whole night's worth exhaling from the caravan's occupants left me feeling a bit like trying to sleep in an Illinois attic during the summer. I was tired.
"Just go to sleep," Jenny said. "I don't mind."
But I did.
So, I stayed up and did my best to ramble,ramble,ramble with stories from home. Whenever I could keep it up. I felt bad because I knew she had to be just as tired as me and she was the one who had to drive the whole way back.
There would be no complaining from me.
We made a quick stop through Örebro and then floored it to get back. We were running late.
Jenny's grandfather was having his 80th birthday party that day and there didn't seem to be any physical way we were going to arrive on time. Unless we skipped taking showers...
Which seemed like a pretty bad idea, neither of us having showered in three days and wearing clothes that desperately needed a washing.
It took a while, but we made it back to Älmhult and I had a chance to see Jenny's house for the first time. A very nice place in the country. Lots of stonework. I didn't take much time to look at everything though... I was focused on the whole showering thing.
After the shower, I realized I only had one clean pair of pants and one clean shirt left. Fortunately, they matched each other well and gave me a whole Dickies outfit. Unfortunately, that meant I was wearing my button-up Dickies shirt which helps make me look about fifteen years old.
Jenny printed some directions (after admitting she didn't really know where this shindig was at) and we ventured out to a nearby town.
We were running really late. The party started at 2pm. It was now 4.
Oops.
So, there we are, rolling past the front of the restaurant/hotel. Me, staring out the window, my hands playing their nervous snapping game. I usually try to keep it under control. My tell. I prefer to keep my anxiety to myself when possible...
Why was I nervous? I was about to walk into a room full of Ancient Swedes, all friends of the grandfather I hadn't met yet, as a dopey-looking American who has helped make his granddaughter very, very late to his birthday party.
Oh, did I mention that none of the Ancient Swedes speak English?
We parked. I took a deep breath. We walked in.
As we walk into the room, I see Jenny's parents, who smile. Then Jenny's brother and his girlfriend (I hadn't met them yet). And a whole lot of Ancient Swedes who seemed to be staring.
There were several details that I was unaware of until after the party.
Detail #1: I looked like this the entire time.
"Oh, you mean you were wearing that shirt the entire time?"
No. Well... yes. But more importantly, according to Jenny, I had that look on my face the entire time.
This is the day the nickname "Monkey" started.
Detail #2: Apparently, I had been mentioned.
When we walked in, people began muttering about "the American." Some pointed. I blushed a little.
I had spent most of the ride over to the restaurant/hotel going over a few Swedish phrases again and again and again in my head.
Don't forget to say, "Grattis," I told myself, wanting to make sure to wish Jenny's grandfather a happy birthday.
Jenny went over and talked to someone sitting down. I stood around, looking like this:
Suddenly she was waving me over. I had spaced out for a moment. I walked over and the man she was with stuck out his hand, greeting me in Swedish. I met his hand and started shaking, muttering, "Hi," (in English of course) and just looking dumb.
She leaned in and said, "Say, 'Grattis.'"
Huh?
"Say, 'Grattis.'"
Oh, crap. This is her grandfather.
"Uh... uh... Grattis." Every bit of Swedish I had memorized oozed slowly out of my brain and ended up on the floor somewhere. I found myself hoping no one slipped in it.
He smiled and kept shaking. My face darkened a bit more.
We went and sat down with Jenny's parents and sister, Julia. Across the table from me were Jenny's brother and his girlfriend. I sheepishly introduced myself.
"Hi. I'm Nick."
I wanted some water. But all the glasses on the table were empty.
Conversation started between everyone. I just sat, smiled, and nodded.
This was around the time when Jenny started laughing.
And had a hard time stopping until long after we had left the party.
I laughed a little, but mostly it just came out like this:
We had arrived at the very end of the party and people were ready to leave. Jenny's mom stood up and started saying bye to some people. Then Jenny stood. So I stood too.
Next thing I know, I am standing between Jenny and her mother in some sort of receiving or goodbye line. People are approaching Jenny to say some words and then moving on to me before reaching Jenny's mother.
They greet me in Swedish, smile, and start talking.
I smile and nod:
And my face darkens a bit more.
Jenny is openly laughing at me to the right.
Her mother is laughing on my left.
Me? I'm laughing out loud as well, utterly confused.
Even Uncle "Fish Cakes" is there, laughing in the background.
This one guy tries to say hi and realizes I don't speak any Swedish. He begins to speak with Jenny's mom, looking me up and down while doing so. Occasionally I pick out an "Amerikansk", maybe an "engelska", and most certainly a "Chicago".
They speak for several minutes, all the while looking me up and down, when Jenny's mother decides to paraphrase for me.
"He visited Chicago once."
Oh? Is that all? I found myself wishing more than ever that I had learned more Swedish ahead of time.
Jenny is laughing in the background again. More people are greeting me. My nodding is becoming more vigorous and the smile is frozen on my face.
I am now holding back gut-splitting laughter.
What is so funny? I think to myself.
This whole situation.
Jenny finally takes my arm.
"Do you want to get out of here?"
Yes. Not that everyone wasn't being nice. I had just grown greatly and hilariously uncomfortable greeting a line of people who don't know me and don't speak my language.
We went outside. I breathed.
The rest of Jenny's family emerged and everyone was laughing. Mostly at me.
We said bye to Jenny's family and decided to go get pizza, since we had missed the meal at the party.
As we drove off, Jenny told me about how they had been talking about me before we arrived.
She also mentioned another thing...
Detail #3: Someone had started the rumor that I was Jenny's fiancé.
I guess they kept saying it again and again while they met me in the greeting line.
They must have also been saying, "Aww. Isn't Jenny sweet? Marrying that poor, underage, "special" American boy."
I want pizza.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
The Peace and Love Festival: Part 2
BÖRLANGE - Hope everyone wants to hear about bathroom behavior...
I decided to use some of the time while we waited for my camera to charge to visit the bathroom. Our accommodations by the new camping spot were less than favorable and I thought it would be nice to visit a real bathroom.
Thirty minutes later, I returned to the cafe. Turns out I wasn't the only one with the bathroom idea, either. I waited and waited and waited along with a crowd of other festivalers. Oh well.
In other interesting bathroom news, the term "McDonald's" took on a whole new meaning. See, right next to the mall was a McDonald's (sadly, they are almost as prevalent here as in America). The McDonald's was open late. And most importantly... had a bathroom.
We had some lovely trees to go visit if we felt the call of "No. 1". There was very little privacy there and we probably had an audience from the inhabitants of the nearby apartments, but no one really cared.
"No. 2"? Well, that was something else entirely...
I'll give credit to Albert for coining the term "going to McDonald's". He went into great detail one of those afternoons about how that term will never mean the same thing to him again. How sometimes he felt like he really needed to go to "McDonald's"... How sometimes he felt it would just be nice to sit in "McDonald's"... And how at other times he felt it was a very healthy decision to make sure he visited "McDonald's"...
Hmm... I think I'm done with this now...
Anyway, that afternoon we sat around and waited for the performances to start. We had the distinct pleasure of hearing lots of new music from our new friends...
See, the night before, Jenny had talked to some people that were parked very near us. Turns out one of them was a musician. He had recorded a couple of songs and had a demo put together. The other guy? His biggest freakin' fan...
That night we heard a song about someone taking the musician's guitar. A nice enough song with a good sound to it. I enjoyed it.
The second time I heard it I also enjoyed it.
The third and fourth times in an hour, the song started to grate on my nerves a bit.
After hearing the song 34 times over the next twelve hours, I found that I had suddenly developed a new "Most Hated" song. Good news, Guns 'N' Roses version of "Knockin' on Heaven's Door"... You're off the hook!
I chill ran through my spine whenever I saw this "fan" stroll over to the radio of their car, bobbing his head in his silly hat and awful blue shirt I watched him wear continuously over the next three days. Whenever that stroll was happening, it could only mean one thing: He was going to turn the song on again.
The song played continuously over the next few days, with this "fan" making sure to go to every camp and tell everyone about his musician friend. I felt bad for the musician. He seemed a bit embarrassed by his friend's behavior.
By the last night, I was ready to cut the battery cables of their car or steal the radio. I couldn't take it much more...
Each time I would hear the song lyrics, "I don't wanna talk about it..." I would shout, "Then don't talk about it anymore!"
I was trying to behave. Really. I was.
Other than that, the festival was wonderful.
Hanging out by the caravan that afternoon, everyone was in high spirits.
Jenny's cousin started the Gnome Mafia.
Jenny spent some time drawing on everyone.
And Tobias, Albert, and Jesper found an amusing ad in the paper. Apparently, Sweden is a bit more reserved about printing ads for sex toys than we are America. But some newspaper printed one anyway. Here you can see the guys studying it closely...
The first show we went to see was Thåström, a favorite among everyone else there but totally new to me.
While we waited, I snapped some picture. I'm trying to figure out what my fascination is with taking pictures looking down at feet. I know, I know... first thing you'll say is "foot fetish", but you're wrong. I can't explain what it is though. Maybe the angles?
Anyway, Thåström was good. I didn't understand a word of what he said, but I know I liked the music.
After that show and grabbing a bite to eat, we headed over to see the Sex Pistols. Everyone in the groups had the same thing on their mind:
None of us were all that interested in seeing the Sex Pistols, but we all wanted to be able to say we did...
Let me preface the next part by saying this: I can't play an instrument. Or sing. Or write a song. I know this. That is why I am not in a band. That is also why I have no right probably to say what I am about to say next...
...but...
The Sex Pistols are a bit out of date and irrelevant now.
Sorry.
Seeing Johnny Rotten up on stage, flopping around, and knowing full well that he is stinking rich at this point in life makes it a bit hard to listen to him sing about the corruption of the world.
Let's be honest with ourselves.
They had one good record.
More than 30 years ago.
And were the punk version of a "boy band" after having been put together by a manager and had their image and style designed for them.
Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the mark they made on popular culture. They played an important role in the early beginnings of some of my favorite music.
But there's only so long I can listen to them bitch about a record company in "E.M.I." after 30 years because it is one of the few songs in their list of hits.
And the song "No Future" kind of sticks out like a sore thumb at a festival called "Peace and Love".
That's all. I'm done now.
People in the crowd seemed to enjoy the show they put on. We stayed for about 10 minutes or so.
Some of us went back to the caravan for a bit and then headed back into the festival to meet up by one of the main gates.
I really like this picture but, again, with the feet! I dunno...
We saw Kent next, a band I was also entirely unfamiliar with. Apparently kind of an emo-esque band that people seem to like but don't want to admit they do. The put on a good show and it reminded me a bit of the Muse performance at Lollapalooza last year.
I liked the pictures I took mostly because they turned out looking like a UFO was landing...
The next day was a bit rainy and I think it sapped a bit of energy in the group. We all sat around most of the day. No one really had the energy to go into the festival and we only ended up seeing one show that day. I had wanted to see DeVotchka... but just didn't bother.
We were all stinking quite a bit by that point. Three days without showers. Wearing most of the same clothes. Sleeping in the same slightly warmer than comfortable caravan.
Just the way a festival should be.
The next morning, Jenny and I woke much earlier than everyone else, although considerably later than we should have. We were due back in Älmhult so we could attend her grandfather's 80th birthday party.
Quickly grabbing our things and trying not to wake everyone else up, it looked like we were going to be late...
I decided to use some of the time while we waited for my camera to charge to visit the bathroom. Our accommodations by the new camping spot were less than favorable and I thought it would be nice to visit a real bathroom.
Thirty minutes later, I returned to the cafe. Turns out I wasn't the only one with the bathroom idea, either. I waited and waited and waited along with a crowd of other festivalers. Oh well.
In other interesting bathroom news, the term "McDonald's" took on a whole new meaning. See, right next to the mall was a McDonald's (sadly, they are almost as prevalent here as in America). The McDonald's was open late. And most importantly... had a bathroom.
We had some lovely trees to go visit if we felt the call of "No. 1". There was very little privacy there and we probably had an audience from the inhabitants of the nearby apartments, but no one really cared.
"No. 2"? Well, that was something else entirely...
I'll give credit to Albert for coining the term "going to McDonald's". He went into great detail one of those afternoons about how that term will never mean the same thing to him again. How sometimes he felt like he really needed to go to "McDonald's"... How sometimes he felt it would just be nice to sit in "McDonald's"... And how at other times he felt it was a very healthy decision to make sure he visited "McDonald's"...
Hmm... I think I'm done with this now...
Anyway, that afternoon we sat around and waited for the performances to start. We had the distinct pleasure of hearing lots of new music from our new friends...
See, the night before, Jenny had talked to some people that were parked very near us. Turns out one of them was a musician. He had recorded a couple of songs and had a demo put together. The other guy? His biggest freakin' fan...
That night we heard a song about someone taking the musician's guitar. A nice enough song with a good sound to it. I enjoyed it.
The second time I heard it I also enjoyed it.
The third and fourth times in an hour, the song started to grate on my nerves a bit.
After hearing the song 34 times over the next twelve hours, I found that I had suddenly developed a new "Most Hated" song. Good news, Guns 'N' Roses version of "Knockin' on Heaven's Door"... You're off the hook!
I chill ran through my spine whenever I saw this "fan" stroll over to the radio of their car, bobbing his head in his silly hat and awful blue shirt I watched him wear continuously over the next three days. Whenever that stroll was happening, it could only mean one thing: He was going to turn the song on again.
The song played continuously over the next few days, with this "fan" making sure to go to every camp and tell everyone about his musician friend. I felt bad for the musician. He seemed a bit embarrassed by his friend's behavior.
By the last night, I was ready to cut the battery cables of their car or steal the radio. I couldn't take it much more...
Each time I would hear the song lyrics, "I don't wanna talk about it..." I would shout, "Then don't talk about it anymore!"
I was trying to behave. Really. I was.
Other than that, the festival was wonderful.
Hanging out by the caravan that afternoon, everyone was in high spirits.
Jenny's cousin started the Gnome Mafia.
Jenny spent some time drawing on everyone.
And Tobias, Albert, and Jesper found an amusing ad in the paper. Apparently, Sweden is a bit more reserved about printing ads for sex toys than we are America. But some newspaper printed one anyway. Here you can see the guys studying it closely...
The first show we went to see was Thåström, a favorite among everyone else there but totally new to me.
While we waited, I snapped some picture. I'm trying to figure out what my fascination is with taking pictures looking down at feet. I know, I know... first thing you'll say is "foot fetish", but you're wrong. I can't explain what it is though. Maybe the angles?
Anyway, Thåström was good. I didn't understand a word of what he said, but I know I liked the music.
After that show and grabbing a bite to eat, we headed over to see the Sex Pistols. Everyone in the groups had the same thing on their mind:
None of us were all that interested in seeing the Sex Pistols, but we all wanted to be able to say we did...
Let me preface the next part by saying this: I can't play an instrument. Or sing. Or write a song. I know this. That is why I am not in a band. That is also why I have no right probably to say what I am about to say next...
...but...
The Sex Pistols are a bit out of date and irrelevant now.
Sorry.
Seeing Johnny Rotten up on stage, flopping around, and knowing full well that he is stinking rich at this point in life makes it a bit hard to listen to him sing about the corruption of the world.
Let's be honest with ourselves.
They had one good record.
More than 30 years ago.
And were the punk version of a "boy band" after having been put together by a manager and had their image and style designed for them.
Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the mark they made on popular culture. They played an important role in the early beginnings of some of my favorite music.
But there's only so long I can listen to them bitch about a record company in "E.M.I." after 30 years because it is one of the few songs in their list of hits.
And the song "No Future" kind of sticks out like a sore thumb at a festival called "Peace and Love".
That's all. I'm done now.
People in the crowd seemed to enjoy the show they put on. We stayed for about 10 minutes or so.
Some of us went back to the caravan for a bit and then headed back into the festival to meet up by one of the main gates.
I really like this picture but, again, with the feet! I dunno...
We saw Kent next, a band I was also entirely unfamiliar with. Apparently kind of an emo-esque band that people seem to like but don't want to admit they do. The put on a good show and it reminded me a bit of the Muse performance at Lollapalooza last year.
I liked the pictures I took mostly because they turned out looking like a UFO was landing...
The next day was a bit rainy and I think it sapped a bit of energy in the group. We all sat around most of the day. No one really had the energy to go into the festival and we only ended up seeing one show that day. I had wanted to see DeVotchka... but just didn't bother.
We were all stinking quite a bit by that point. Three days without showers. Wearing most of the same clothes. Sleeping in the same slightly warmer than comfortable caravan.
Just the way a festival should be.
The next morning, Jenny and I woke much earlier than everyone else, although considerably later than we should have. We were due back in Älmhult so we could attend her grandfather's 80th birthday party.
Quickly grabbing our things and trying not to wake everyone else up, it looked like we were going to be late...
Let's Get In Touch...
Several people have written about how to get in touch with me.
I check all the comments left here, so that is one surefire way.
Otherwise, I'd love to keep in touch through email.
Write me at ixnay19 at yahoo dot com (hate to let those internet bots get a hold of the address...)
I'd love to have the email of anyone out there that reads this... including some of my friends, some of which I don't actually have real email addresses for or have lost them over time.
If you don't hear back from me within a couple days, just resend a message. Yahoo is not so great about making sure all my mail gets to me and doesn't get send to junk mail.
Thanks!
I check all the comments left here, so that is one surefire way.
Otherwise, I'd love to keep in touch through email.
Write me at ixnay19 at yahoo dot com (hate to let those internet bots get a hold of the address...)
I'd love to have the email of anyone out there that reads this... including some of my friends, some of which I don't actually have real email addresses for or have lost them over time.
If you don't hear back from me within a couple days, just resend a message. Yahoo is not so great about making sure all my mail gets to me and doesn't get send to junk mail.
Thanks!
Monday, July 7, 2008
The Internet Reads My Thoughts...
SWEDEN - The Internet has been spying on me.
It knows where I live.
All the banners on all the pages I visit now advertise things in Swedish...
Get out of my head!
It knows where I live.
All the banners on all the pages I visit now advertise things in Swedish...
Get out of my head!
Sunday, July 6, 2008
The Peace and Love Festival: Part 1
BÖRLANGE - Jenny drove the whole way to the festival that day. I sat shotgun, staring at the passing countryside through my window. I can't seem to get enough of taking it all in. It is a beautiful country here, sometimes reminding me of places through the Midwest, with rolling hills, deciduous trees, and livestock. Other times, we are surrounded by tall, thin pine trees on all sides. All the trees here seem to stretch up into the sky, lean but strong.
We pulled over into a small rest stop for some coffee in the afternoon/evening. It was a nice, cozy place with some character, quite different from the rest stops I have become accustomed to at home, as either faceless buildings that house automatic machines and underkept bathrooms or big, bright gas stations.
We had a bit of coffee while standing there and I randomly pointed at the words labeling the objects around me. I had been doing this most of the time anyway, but the newly purchased dictionary had aroused a heightened sense of the mysteries that surrounded me at all times.
We continued on our way, with Jesper in the backseat, occasionally joking with us but mostly focusing on savoring his lollipop.
Along the way, a bit of stress arose as we received a phone call informing us that the rest of the crew had arrived at the festival but had hit a snag: A camping site had never been booked. The tickets said that camping was included but apparently this meant that a camping spot in the festival was supposed to be booked ahead of time.
Oops.
We continued on our way and held firm to the belief that things would work out alright.
When we arrived, we realized that a lot of the town had been taken over by the festival. There were signs everywhere pointing towards "Peace and Love". It would certainly be nice to see more of those signs around all the time, as if it were that easy.
"Hey, just head this way to find Peace and Love."
In a perfect world, I suppose...
We found a place to put the car and started walking, hoping to get our passes and meet up with everyone. The rest of the crew found us and delivered the bad news: They weren't budging on the camping thing and we were going to have to find another place to camp outside the festival.
It was disappointing that during a festival called "Peace and Love" we couldn't be cut a break. Apparently the staff there seemed very tired with the question, suggesting that they had heard it a lot that day.
Around this time, I offered to go "Chicago-style" on the staff, announcing myself as an American and getting pushy.
"Do you know who I am? Do you know who my father is? Do you know what kind of people we know? Are you familiar with 'The Mafia' because I am American, after all... I'm calling my attorney!"
I asked if anyone had tried to "grease" the staff and rubbed my fingers together over imaginary bills. I told them Chicago was a city built on bribes and there seemed to be no one who didn't have a price. Jesper got a kick out of this and randomly repeated the term throughout the remainder of the festival.
Somewhere around this time, we realized we were in the wrong line, so we headed back to the car to replan. The rest of us stayed behind while Jenny and Tobias tried to find a camping site somewhere so we could leave the caravan somewhere for the night and see if there was somewhere better to go the next day.
We were able to find a spot behind an auction house and headed over there to set up for the night. It was still light out but getting later.
We set up the caravan and then some tables and chairs outside. A relaxing evening next to a highway, which was on the other side of a line of trees. Conveniently, there was a small wooded area on the other side of the building we were next to which worked very well as our "natural bathroom".
Dinner was prepared that night, a nice pasta dish, and we enjoyed it in the comforts of the cozy caravan.
The next day was beautiful. According to everyone, festivals here always seem to be plagued with rain, but this day showed signs of staying sunny throughout.
We made a new friend that day, Rudolph, who was looking for his brother Harold. We helped him as much as we can, but I think Rudolph was a little slow and wasn't much help at all. So, we eventually sent him on his way.
I also went about marking some planned "improvements" on my feet. I'm doing my best to break in this new pair of Chucks I bought, but the process is slow and occasionally painful.
A man approached us while we were there, clad in a black biker t-shirt that appeared to be from California. He spoke in Swedish to the crew, so I took my usual position of smiling and nodding.
Turns out, he lived in the house right there and informed us there was going to be an auction and we couldn't camp there. But he was very nice about it and spent the afternoon trying to find us another place to go, checking in from time to time with updates. He told us about a spot that was close to the festival and after checking it out, we decided to move there.
It was a field next to a parking lot that was a short walk from the festival and had several other campers scattered about, so at least there was some company there.
We set up camp again and prepared for entering the festival.
We were destined for checking out Miss Li, which turned out to be a really fun show at a small stage in a grassy part of town. The town had been completely taken over by the festival. Unlike festivals like Lollapalooza, which take over a park and are completely sectioned off from everything else, leaving the city to just serve as a pretty backdrop, this festival was in the center of town. There were lots of fences up and various gates which you could pass through if you had the wristband. Some stages were wedged between buildings, with the crowds filling the streets. I tried to imagine this happening in th U.S. but pictured a lot of people making a lot of phone calls to file a lot of noise complaints.
Next up was Kaizers Orchestra, which was a great show. I was really disappointed my camera had run out of battery before we headed in, because that meant I would have nothing to post up here, particularly video. The recorded music is good, but they really bring an intensity to the stage which has to be witnessed.
Because we were so close to the camping site, we were able to walk around, head back to the caravan if we wanted to, and venture back in to the festival just to catch the acts we were interested in. I went to Manu Chao with Albert and had a great time. This performance was completely unlike the recorded music. There was so much energy coming from the stage and you could see it in the crowd.
Let me say this: Swedish people love their music.
I can't stress that enough. You will see people jumping around near the stage at American festivals, but nothing like this. Entire crowds responding to the performers, pumping fists, jumping in the air, singing along.
I thought I knew my music before coming here. I've been proved wrong. I am regularly a bit embarrassed as everyone sings along to American songs, knowing all the words. I sometimes mumble the chorus...
We finished the night with Pigeon Detectives and headed back to the camp site.
The next day was just as relaxing and the weather was clear and beautiful again. Tobias had made a suitcase stereo and we sat around listening to music and getting prepared for the night ahead.
Jenny and I went to the mall, which was very close, so I could find a place to charge my camera battery. Electricity was hard to come by. We walked through the mall, only to find piles of kids huddled around every available electrical outlet. Apparently this wasn't a very original idea. We were finally able to find a restaurant that had one available outlet. I plugged in quickly and then we sat down nearby with some coffee, waiting and talking...
More to come later. I'm tired.
We pulled over into a small rest stop for some coffee in the afternoon/evening. It was a nice, cozy place with some character, quite different from the rest stops I have become accustomed to at home, as either faceless buildings that house automatic machines and underkept bathrooms or big, bright gas stations.
We had a bit of coffee while standing there and I randomly pointed at the words labeling the objects around me. I had been doing this most of the time anyway, but the newly purchased dictionary had aroused a heightened sense of the mysteries that surrounded me at all times.
We continued on our way, with Jesper in the backseat, occasionally joking with us but mostly focusing on savoring his lollipop.
Along the way, a bit of stress arose as we received a phone call informing us that the rest of the crew had arrived at the festival but had hit a snag: A camping site had never been booked. The tickets said that camping was included but apparently this meant that a camping spot in the festival was supposed to be booked ahead of time.
Oops.
We continued on our way and held firm to the belief that things would work out alright.
When we arrived, we realized that a lot of the town had been taken over by the festival. There were signs everywhere pointing towards "Peace and Love". It would certainly be nice to see more of those signs around all the time, as if it were that easy.
"Hey, just head this way to find Peace and Love."
In a perfect world, I suppose...
We found a place to put the car and started walking, hoping to get our passes and meet up with everyone. The rest of the crew found us and delivered the bad news: They weren't budging on the camping thing and we were going to have to find another place to camp outside the festival.
It was disappointing that during a festival called "Peace and Love" we couldn't be cut a break. Apparently the staff there seemed very tired with the question, suggesting that they had heard it a lot that day.
Around this time, I offered to go "Chicago-style" on the staff, announcing myself as an American and getting pushy.
"Do you know who I am? Do you know who my father is? Do you know what kind of people we know? Are you familiar with 'The Mafia' because I am American, after all... I'm calling my attorney!"
I asked if anyone had tried to "grease" the staff and rubbed my fingers together over imaginary bills. I told them Chicago was a city built on bribes and there seemed to be no one who didn't have a price. Jesper got a kick out of this and randomly repeated the term throughout the remainder of the festival.
Somewhere around this time, we realized we were in the wrong line, so we headed back to the car to replan. The rest of us stayed behind while Jenny and Tobias tried to find a camping site somewhere so we could leave the caravan somewhere for the night and see if there was somewhere better to go the next day.
We were able to find a spot behind an auction house and headed over there to set up for the night. It was still light out but getting later.
We set up the caravan and then some tables and chairs outside. A relaxing evening next to a highway, which was on the other side of a line of trees. Conveniently, there was a small wooded area on the other side of the building we were next to which worked very well as our "natural bathroom".
Dinner was prepared that night, a nice pasta dish, and we enjoyed it in the comforts of the cozy caravan.
The next day was beautiful. According to everyone, festivals here always seem to be plagued with rain, but this day showed signs of staying sunny throughout.
We made a new friend that day, Rudolph, who was looking for his brother Harold. We helped him as much as we can, but I think Rudolph was a little slow and wasn't much help at all. So, we eventually sent him on his way.
I also went about marking some planned "improvements" on my feet. I'm doing my best to break in this new pair of Chucks I bought, but the process is slow and occasionally painful.
A man approached us while we were there, clad in a black biker t-shirt that appeared to be from California. He spoke in Swedish to the crew, so I took my usual position of smiling and nodding.
Turns out, he lived in the house right there and informed us there was going to be an auction and we couldn't camp there. But he was very nice about it and spent the afternoon trying to find us another place to go, checking in from time to time with updates. He told us about a spot that was close to the festival and after checking it out, we decided to move there.
It was a field next to a parking lot that was a short walk from the festival and had several other campers scattered about, so at least there was some company there.
We set up camp again and prepared for entering the festival.
We were destined for checking out Miss Li, which turned out to be a really fun show at a small stage in a grassy part of town. The town had been completely taken over by the festival. Unlike festivals like Lollapalooza, which take over a park and are completely sectioned off from everything else, leaving the city to just serve as a pretty backdrop, this festival was in the center of town. There were lots of fences up and various gates which you could pass through if you had the wristband. Some stages were wedged between buildings, with the crowds filling the streets. I tried to imagine this happening in th U.S. but pictured a lot of people making a lot of phone calls to file a lot of noise complaints.
Next up was Kaizers Orchestra, which was a great show. I was really disappointed my camera had run out of battery before we headed in, because that meant I would have nothing to post up here, particularly video. The recorded music is good, but they really bring an intensity to the stage which has to be witnessed.
Because we were so close to the camping site, we were able to walk around, head back to the caravan if we wanted to, and venture back in to the festival just to catch the acts we were interested in. I went to Manu Chao with Albert and had a great time. This performance was completely unlike the recorded music. There was so much energy coming from the stage and you could see it in the crowd.
Let me say this: Swedish people love their music.
I can't stress that enough. You will see people jumping around near the stage at American festivals, but nothing like this. Entire crowds responding to the performers, pumping fists, jumping in the air, singing along.
I thought I knew my music before coming here. I've been proved wrong. I am regularly a bit embarrassed as everyone sings along to American songs, knowing all the words. I sometimes mumble the chorus...
We finished the night with Pigeon Detectives and headed back to the camp site.
The next day was just as relaxing and the weather was clear and beautiful again. Tobias had made a suitcase stereo and we sat around listening to music and getting prepared for the night ahead.
Jenny and I went to the mall, which was very close, so I could find a place to charge my camera battery. Electricity was hard to come by. We walked through the mall, only to find piles of kids huddled around every available electrical outlet. Apparently this wasn't a very original idea. We were finally able to find a restaurant that had one available outlet. I plugged in quickly and then we sat down nearby with some coffee, waiting and talking...
More to come later. I'm tired.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
The Sudden Growth In Maturity Chronicles: No. 3
I snapped this picture while eating in Örebro. It's not very clear and I forgot to get a closer one.
The drink selections are as follows:
Coca-Cola.
Coca-Cola Light.
Fanta.
And...?
Slut.
I giggled.
I was then informed it is pronounced "sloot" and means "empty."
I pretended I didn't hear that and continued to bring shame to my friends and family back home.
Sorry.
The drink selections are as follows:
Coca-Cola.
Coca-Cola Light.
Fanta.
And...?
Slut.
I giggled.
I was then informed it is pronounced "sloot" and means "empty."
I pretended I didn't hear that and continued to bring shame to my friends and family back home.
Sorry.
Hedgehogs, Baby Pigeons, and The Tube
ÖREBRO - We traveled to Örebro in order to stay at Lena's apartment before the festival. The drive up was spent with Jenny, Tobias, music, and the occasional incident of me passing out in the backseat.
For all the not sleeping I tend to do, I sure have a problem staying awake in a car. Ever since I was a child, all you have to do is throw me in a car, have a little sunlight shining down on me, play some music, and sit back as I slump against the car door and start drooling on myself. Someone should get on inventing some sort of Auto Car that pumps in artificial sunlight while driving in a pattern on the highway. People like me would be sleeping for as long as you programmed it to go. Ten, fifteen hours?
Anyway, the ride up was successful and I had a chance to see Jenny's old apartment. It still contains a large majority of her stuff.
We were looking around and I found myself in the middle of a plastic sleeve/tube thing that was probably meant for a small child or a animal, waddling around, when Jenny's friend Siobhan arrived and walked in.
Strange look.
Pause.
"Hi, I'm Nick."
"I know."
Ha. Excellent first intro.
Tobias and I set out to try to get some pizza for a late dinner before the place closed down the road. No luck.
But, on the way back, I spotted a hedgehog, which I thought was great. He was a quick little bugger, but after scurrying behind him, I was able to snap a picture.
Jenny started making some pasta instead and we all sat around talking. Siobhan took ample opportunities through the evening to embarrass Jenny and I had some chuckles about it. Until I got embarrassed, of course.
On the balcony outside, a family of pigeons had taken up and the babies were there all the time. Not really a good picture of them, but it was all I got.
We watched Mama Pigeon regurgitate meals over the next 12 hours or so. Lovely.
Lots of listening to music through the evening and a late night overall. I have no idea when and how long I actually slept that night. The sun shone through most of the night and I didn't have a clock. I slept off and on, but felt good through it all.
Jenny, Siobhan, and I ventured out to shop the next day and picked up supplies for the festival. I took some money out of the ATM and felt like a rich man, flashing around a massive wad of Swedish cash that really only amounted to around $300. I had grand plans that day to become a Big Swedish Hip Hop Star and flash my cheddar on screen. As long as it gets sent over to America, no one will know how poor I really am.
(In related news, the dollar has slipped even more this week and my dollars don't even convert to a full 6 kronor anymore. It was exchanging for more than 6 kronor when I showed up here. Get your crap together, America!)
We grabbed a bit of lunch in what was kind of like a shopping mall/center and then headed back to the apartment. We dropped Jenny off and Siobhan was nice enough to drive me back in town for to look for a Swedish-English dictionary or some sort of book I could use to start learning something. Why didn't I get one before I left? Good question.
We found one at a reasonable price in one store and I settled on it after price comparing with some other ones in a more "upscale" bookstore. Be grateful for book prices back home. One regular sized book I found for learning Swedish cost around $50. I settled on a $10 dictionary and started learning random words.
When we returned, everyone else had left except Jenny. They took the trailer and were off to the festival. I went upstairs and helped her finish packing things. Then we were off to grab Jesper.
After a short stop at Jesper's, a visit with his dog, and helping him with some things, we were finally off to the festival...
For all the not sleeping I tend to do, I sure have a problem staying awake in a car. Ever since I was a child, all you have to do is throw me in a car, have a little sunlight shining down on me, play some music, and sit back as I slump against the car door and start drooling on myself. Someone should get on inventing some sort of Auto Car that pumps in artificial sunlight while driving in a pattern on the highway. People like me would be sleeping for as long as you programmed it to go. Ten, fifteen hours?
Anyway, the ride up was successful and I had a chance to see Jenny's old apartment. It still contains a large majority of her stuff.
We were looking around and I found myself in the middle of a plastic sleeve/tube thing that was probably meant for a small child or a animal, waddling around, when Jenny's friend Siobhan arrived and walked in.
Strange look.
Pause.
"Hi, I'm Nick."
"I know."
Ha. Excellent first intro.
Tobias and I set out to try to get some pizza for a late dinner before the place closed down the road. No luck.
But, on the way back, I spotted a hedgehog, which I thought was great. He was a quick little bugger, but after scurrying behind him, I was able to snap a picture.
Jenny started making some pasta instead and we all sat around talking. Siobhan took ample opportunities through the evening to embarrass Jenny and I had some chuckles about it. Until I got embarrassed, of course.
On the balcony outside, a family of pigeons had taken up and the babies were there all the time. Not really a good picture of them, but it was all I got.
We watched Mama Pigeon regurgitate meals over the next 12 hours or so. Lovely.
Lots of listening to music through the evening and a late night overall. I have no idea when and how long I actually slept that night. The sun shone through most of the night and I didn't have a clock. I slept off and on, but felt good through it all.
Jenny, Siobhan, and I ventured out to shop the next day and picked up supplies for the festival. I took some money out of the ATM and felt like a rich man, flashing around a massive wad of Swedish cash that really only amounted to around $300. I had grand plans that day to become a Big Swedish Hip Hop Star and flash my cheddar on screen. As long as it gets sent over to America, no one will know how poor I really am.
(In related news, the dollar has slipped even more this week and my dollars don't even convert to a full 6 kronor anymore. It was exchanging for more than 6 kronor when I showed up here. Get your crap together, America!)
We grabbed a bit of lunch in what was kind of like a shopping mall/center and then headed back to the apartment. We dropped Jenny off and Siobhan was nice enough to drive me back in town for to look for a Swedish-English dictionary or some sort of book I could use to start learning something. Why didn't I get one before I left? Good question.
We found one at a reasonable price in one store and I settled on it after price comparing with some other ones in a more "upscale" bookstore. Be grateful for book prices back home. One regular sized book I found for learning Swedish cost around $50. I settled on a $10 dictionary and started learning random words.
When we returned, everyone else had left except Jenny. They took the trailer and were off to the festival. I went upstairs and helped her finish packing things. Then we were off to grab Jesper.
After a short stop at Jesper's, a visit with his dog, and helping him with some things, we were finally off to the festival...
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Göteborg
GOTHENBURG - We arrived in Gothenburg at Tobias' apartment in the evening, with the sun shining brightly.
My first order of business was to hang my clothes up to dry. They had been sitting, soaking in themselves, for the entire drive. Soon the apartment was decorated with a mish-mash of black and gray t-shirts and pants and lots of my boxers.
Hmm...
Jenny and I were growing hungry and decided to venture out for dinner. A noticeable difference between America and Sweden is the fact that things close at a reasonable hour here. There don't seem to be 24 shops everywhere, no Denny's, and there sure as hell aren't any WalMarts. And I'm not complaining. It's refreshing.
However, it can leave some slim pickings on a Sunday evening.
We were able to find pizza and an Indian restaurant side-by-side.
"Let's get pizza," Jenny said. I felt like she was wanting to make sure I didn't feel completely lost and de-Americanized.
"What about Indian?" I asked.
She told me there weren't many Indian restaurants in Sweden, usually only in the big cities, and there weren't too many of those. Also, unlike places like San Francisco which seem to be very vegetarian-friendly, Sweden doesn't have as many meat-free options.
She again said we should get pizza, but I just smiled and suggested Indian instead. She looked happy about this and we ordered some food.
The woman running the restaurant was very friendly and seemed almost shocked that Jenny spoke Swedish.
"Where are you from?" she asked.
"Um... Sweden."
Funny.
She spoke English, too, which was helpful.
We headed to the convenience store next door to grab something to drink and I caved immediately. Ran straight for the Pepsi.
I've been proud of myself having cut back so much on pop while in San Francisco (and I will continue to stubbornly keep my Midwestern roots and refer to it as "pop", so stay back, Soda Nazis!) Let's just say I had a major relapse while in Illinois and sucked down way too many cans of the sugary stuff in a short period of time. I still feel the sugar withdrawal at times, wanting to beg, "C'mon... just one candy bar! I can handle just one!"
Anyway, Pepsi in hand, we ventured out to return to the apartment.
At some point, we were walking up some steps and I heard a loud crunch, like I had stepped on glass. I assumed it was just that... for a moment. Than Jenny cried out, "Simon!"
I had stepped on a snail.
I felt awful.
On the way down the stairs earlier, I hadn't noticed them. This is part of the reason why I spend so much time looking down at the ground while walking. I'm worried I'm going to step on some poor innocent bugs or little creatures. I devote a lot of walking time worrying about this. Like some intense Jain. Except that I'm still not really a vegetarian for some silly reason.
Jenny had noticed him though. And decided to call him Simon. And now I killed him.
Again, I felt awful. I kept hearing the crunch and imagined destroying that perfect shell in one silly step. Damn.
There wasn't a lot of time to dwell on it, though (don't worry, Jenny would bring it up several times of the following days). Because soon after, the sky split open and an ocean of water began pouring down on us. Intense rainfall. We were soaked in seconds.
It continued for the rest of the walk home, defying all odds and raining harder as time went on. We really couldn't do anything but laugh. I was excited to see some lightning, too.
Again, my secret fascination with the thought of being struck by lightning crept in again. I just watched a news piece today about a man in Minnesota who was struck by lightning. And lived. So not fair... What about me? And my latent superpowers?
Anyway, we were soaked to the bone and had no choice but to walk straight through deep puddles. No worries. There wasn't a dry spot left.
We had a nice moment in the rain and headed inside.
Now I was stuck with clothes on that were completely soaked and the rest of my clothes hanging up to dry after a wash. Clothing options were severely limited.
Dinner was good and I enjoyed some of the best naan I've ever had. The meal hit the spot and I probably ate more than was necessary, but just found myself having a hard time finding a good place to stop.
We talked through the evening, slept well, and lounged around the next day. There were big plans to visit a park in Gothenburg and see the seals, but, as it turns out, I am a Time Eater.
Hours just seem to slip by as I go "blah blah blah..."
Tobias arrived and we headed out into the city to run errands. First on the list: finding me a new adapter as the one Radio Shack sold me was a Worthless Fire Hazard. I suppose I should always check labels more closely, but I just assumed Radio Shack wouldn't sell an item marketed as "A Worthless Fire Hazard."
That's what I get for assuming.
We then visited the rehearsal space Tobias and Albert use for music. It was a great space in a warehouse and reminded me a bit of the visits I made to WESN's studio.
Tobias was nice enough to share some of the music he and Albert made and also to allow me to screw around on the drums for a while as he played. Very tolerant of him...
Video to follow as soon as the internet stops being so difficult...
Anyway, we were there for quite a while and I was just happy to get to play. I never did learn an instrument and was always too self-conscious to try when there were instruments available to me, especially when living with the band. One of the few regrets I still carry around.
We left and went to the market to get fixings for dinner. Jenny was going to make Taco Pie.
I spent the walk to the store telling a story about my time in Pennsylvania, The Game, an attempted hospital break-in, and a road cone. In another moment of synchronicity, I came upon this store in the shopping center as soon as I finished the story.
Whatever. I thought it was funny.
I walked around, probably slack-jawed, at the market, taking it all in. Completely the same while being totally different. I guess I just really have a thing for taking in all the differences and similarities between cultures. It was an endless source of entertainment and thought for me while in America, just the variety of cultures we have surrounding us all the time and the different things you can see going from one part of a city to the next. The same goes for me being in another country.
My favorite product thus far? Tubes of cheese.
I first saw this at the shop near the house during Midsummer. Tubes that look like toothpaste, but instead of minty-goodness, they contain a variety of cheese spreads mixed with various things, like bacon, ham, herbs, or shrimp. I suppose not so different from the tubs of cheese spread in America... I just enjoy it.
We returned to the apartment and Jenny prepared dinner. It was really good. Crust, veggie meat, green peppers, tomatoes, and some cheese I probably can't pronounce the name of. I had seconds and made sure to have more the next day for lunch.
We all talked, Jenny and Tobias caught up on Doctor Who, and I attempted to put my adapter to use while doing some writing.
Later, Tobias was discovered in the living room playing with a Lego car. He then began constructing a catapult.
He sure looked happy...
The next day my clothes were finally dry and we packed up to head out to Örebo to meet Lena for the festival.
And, of course, I felt obliged to grace everyone with my best Dumb Donald impression...
With that said and done, we loaded the car and headed north.
My first order of business was to hang my clothes up to dry. They had been sitting, soaking in themselves, for the entire drive. Soon the apartment was decorated with a mish-mash of black and gray t-shirts and pants and lots of my boxers.
Hmm...
Jenny and I were growing hungry and decided to venture out for dinner. A noticeable difference between America and Sweden is the fact that things close at a reasonable hour here. There don't seem to be 24 shops everywhere, no Denny's, and there sure as hell aren't any WalMarts. And I'm not complaining. It's refreshing.
However, it can leave some slim pickings on a Sunday evening.
We were able to find pizza and an Indian restaurant side-by-side.
"Let's get pizza," Jenny said. I felt like she was wanting to make sure I didn't feel completely lost and de-Americanized.
"What about Indian?" I asked.
She told me there weren't many Indian restaurants in Sweden, usually only in the big cities, and there weren't too many of those. Also, unlike places like San Francisco which seem to be very vegetarian-friendly, Sweden doesn't have as many meat-free options.
She again said we should get pizza, but I just smiled and suggested Indian instead. She looked happy about this and we ordered some food.
The woman running the restaurant was very friendly and seemed almost shocked that Jenny spoke Swedish.
"Where are you from?" she asked.
"Um... Sweden."
Funny.
She spoke English, too, which was helpful.
We headed to the convenience store next door to grab something to drink and I caved immediately. Ran straight for the Pepsi.
I've been proud of myself having cut back so much on pop while in San Francisco (and I will continue to stubbornly keep my Midwestern roots and refer to it as "pop", so stay back, Soda Nazis!) Let's just say I had a major relapse while in Illinois and sucked down way too many cans of the sugary stuff in a short period of time. I still feel the sugar withdrawal at times, wanting to beg, "C'mon... just one candy bar! I can handle just one!"
Anyway, Pepsi in hand, we ventured out to return to the apartment.
At some point, we were walking up some steps and I heard a loud crunch, like I had stepped on glass. I assumed it was just that... for a moment. Than Jenny cried out, "Simon!"
I had stepped on a snail.
I felt awful.
On the way down the stairs earlier, I hadn't noticed them. This is part of the reason why I spend so much time looking down at the ground while walking. I'm worried I'm going to step on some poor innocent bugs or little creatures. I devote a lot of walking time worrying about this. Like some intense Jain. Except that I'm still not really a vegetarian for some silly reason.
Jenny had noticed him though. And decided to call him Simon. And now I killed him.
Again, I felt awful. I kept hearing the crunch and imagined destroying that perfect shell in one silly step. Damn.
There wasn't a lot of time to dwell on it, though (don't worry, Jenny would bring it up several times of the following days). Because soon after, the sky split open and an ocean of water began pouring down on us. Intense rainfall. We were soaked in seconds.
It continued for the rest of the walk home, defying all odds and raining harder as time went on. We really couldn't do anything but laugh. I was excited to see some lightning, too.
Again, my secret fascination with the thought of being struck by lightning crept in again. I just watched a news piece today about a man in Minnesota who was struck by lightning. And lived. So not fair... What about me? And my latent superpowers?
Anyway, we were soaked to the bone and had no choice but to walk straight through deep puddles. No worries. There wasn't a dry spot left.
We had a nice moment in the rain and headed inside.
Now I was stuck with clothes on that were completely soaked and the rest of my clothes hanging up to dry after a wash. Clothing options were severely limited.
Dinner was good and I enjoyed some of the best naan I've ever had. The meal hit the spot and I probably ate more than was necessary, but just found myself having a hard time finding a good place to stop.
We talked through the evening, slept well, and lounged around the next day. There were big plans to visit a park in Gothenburg and see the seals, but, as it turns out, I am a Time Eater.
Hours just seem to slip by as I go "blah blah blah..."
Tobias arrived and we headed out into the city to run errands. First on the list: finding me a new adapter as the one Radio Shack sold me was a Worthless Fire Hazard. I suppose I should always check labels more closely, but I just assumed Radio Shack wouldn't sell an item marketed as "A Worthless Fire Hazard."
That's what I get for assuming.
We then visited the rehearsal space Tobias and Albert use for music. It was a great space in a warehouse and reminded me a bit of the visits I made to WESN's studio.
Tobias was nice enough to share some of the music he and Albert made and also to allow me to screw around on the drums for a while as he played. Very tolerant of him...
Video to follow as soon as the internet stops being so difficult...
Anyway, we were there for quite a while and I was just happy to get to play. I never did learn an instrument and was always too self-conscious to try when there were instruments available to me, especially when living with the band. One of the few regrets I still carry around.
We left and went to the market to get fixings for dinner. Jenny was going to make Taco Pie.
I spent the walk to the store telling a story about my time in Pennsylvania, The Game, an attempted hospital break-in, and a road cone. In another moment of synchronicity, I came upon this store in the shopping center as soon as I finished the story.
Whatever. I thought it was funny.
I walked around, probably slack-jawed, at the market, taking it all in. Completely the same while being totally different. I guess I just really have a thing for taking in all the differences and similarities between cultures. It was an endless source of entertainment and thought for me while in America, just the variety of cultures we have surrounding us all the time and the different things you can see going from one part of a city to the next. The same goes for me being in another country.
My favorite product thus far? Tubes of cheese.
I first saw this at the shop near the house during Midsummer. Tubes that look like toothpaste, but instead of minty-goodness, they contain a variety of cheese spreads mixed with various things, like bacon, ham, herbs, or shrimp. I suppose not so different from the tubs of cheese spread in America... I just enjoy it.
We returned to the apartment and Jenny prepared dinner. It was really good. Crust, veggie meat, green peppers, tomatoes, and some cheese I probably can't pronounce the name of. I had seconds and made sure to have more the next day for lunch.
We all talked, Jenny and Tobias caught up on Doctor Who, and I attempted to put my adapter to use while doing some writing.
Later, Tobias was discovered in the living room playing with a Lego car. He then began constructing a catapult.
He sure looked happy...
The next day my clothes were finally dry and we packed up to head out to Örebo to meet Lena for the festival.
And, of course, I felt obliged to grace everyone with my best Dumb Donald impression...
With that said and done, we loaded the car and headed north.
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