May flowers

It's been a really nice May – plenty of sun, but not too warm, often quite cool, which means the spring flowers have been hanging around longer than they otherwise might. Here's a few pictures. Why Google won't let me link to the whole album I don't understand, but I'll just put them up instead.

A wood anemone, eller vitsippor på svenska.

Two birch logs surrounded by vitsippor.

They also come in blue, more rarely, and are then
called blåsippor (and  I'll bet you can figure out why).

A second posh Big City weekend

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Jennifer[attempting, for humor's sake, to sound jaded, but not really succeeding because in truth it was fun of course] “...Oh, it was lovely but so wearing to take the first long walk in the sunshine on the first even remotely warm day of the year. It’s a good thing that the crocuses have finally broken through at the church grounds to cheer us up, although watching the local youths taking their longboards down the steep steep church hill was also cheering if a little scary – of course we were going past that just as the camera decided to fuss and refuse to take pictures – typical! And then we walked down to the water past the Solidarity House (which reminded me that soon it would May Day and time to hear the various agitators giving their various agitatory speeches), and by the time we got there we were so tired from all the fresh air and exercise that we stopped for a sip (in what I must say was an extremely fussy little cup) and a bite at a lovely little place by the canal, in order to restore ourselves. The sight of the ski hill still partly covered with snow made us feel perhaps even more grateful for the sunshine and enough warmth to sit outside, not that any such prompting was needed.

“Then it was off to the Royal Opera for Culture Night in Stockholm, with the company offering us Die Fledermaus (Läderlappen på svenska) – we got a short review of the plot, which sounded to me like a typical hair-brained opera mish-mash plot of jails and masked balls and mistaken identities, or perhaps that was just my impression because she was speaking Swedish. The interior of the Opera is fine and the company was in good voice but I can’t help but feel that the view would have been a slight bit better if we had not had a basketball team sit down right in front of us, my goodness gracious, what a tall lot of boys that was. (One of them, when they stood up, was revealed to be wearing a kilt, and he claimed, to the usher behind us, that he was Scottish. Scottish he may have been, by descent perhaps, but the Glaswegian who was with me arched an acerbic eyebrow at his accent and muttered something about her arse as he continued on out to the lobby. I agree that he sounded about as Scottish as my cat, but on the other hand I do think it’s fun that the natives are taking Culture Night as an excuse to dress up in unusual folk costumes.)
selections from Johan Strauss’

“We fought our way through the throngs King Gustav III’s favorite room, the Golden Foyer (or Guldfoajén in the curious Frenchified Swedish that one often runs into with words involving luxury or comfort), which is indeed absolutely coated in gold leaf and dripping with chandeliers and includes paintings by Carl Larsson on the ceiling. I parked by the grand piano that no one was playing, thinking I’d found a clever quiet spot a bit out of the way, where I could sit and marvel unmolested. The ballet company had other plans, and I had only been there for about two minute when a fellow sat down and started to play said piano practically in my lap. A number of scruffy looking young people in sweatpants and hoodies started dancing – they turned out to be members of the ballet, here to give us More Culture after our bit of Opera. We sipped sparkling wine and watched as they contorted and flopped around, sometimes going so far as to slither around on the floor under the piano, nearly giving me a fright, and certainly giving me a laugh, and then the piano player had a hearty chuckle as well after this dancer pulled herself up off the ground by means of grabbing the piano’s other edge and giving it a mighty wrench, thereby pulling the whole instrument out of his grasp while he was playing. And she was such a tiny thing too! Whoever had the job to lock the piano’s casters? To the player’s credit, he hardly missed a beat.

“Anyway. Eventually the performance ran out, as did the bubbly, so we took a quick turn out onto the Golden Foyer’s balcony to get a view of the city and a good look at the facade. Then we were off, treated along the way to a bell concert by the church right next door to the Opera, and so we made our way back to S.’s fabulous digs on trendy Södermalm, for a late night post-theater repast of fortified wines and an assortment of amusing cheeses...”

Language notes part 8: A very multicultural moment

JenniferMy lecture in Swedish class today was about the official languages in Sweden. Swedish is one of them (duh, you say, but it was only in 2009 that it was decreed to be the official language), and additionally there are five minority languages. Today's lecture was about them, and we listened to a bit of each one. The Very Multicultural Moment came I realized I was getting a lecture in Swedish, while sitting in a building called The English Park, listening while the lecturer (an ethnic Lapp) played us a CD of a reading of 'The Very Hungry Caterpillar' translated into Yiddish. Yes, Yiddish is one of Sweden's official minority languages. Betcha didn't know that!

The others, for the terminally curious, are Finnish, Lappish (many kinds), Romani chib (again, many kinds), and a sort of Swedified Finnish called Meänkieli.

Want more multiculture? How about Sofia Jannok singing 'Waterloo' in Lappish?

A weekend in Stockholm, unexpectedly posh

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Jennifer A couple of weekends ago I had the pleasure of going down to Stockholm to see Verdi's Requiem performed by the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra at the Royal Concert Hall. Some of you may know that Verdi's Requiem is among my favorites of classical music. It's overwrought, bombastic, melodramatic, and just plain fun. This performance was no let-down. I was especially impressed by the Eric Ericson Chamber Choir, which was 78 voices strong at this evening's show. Swedes sing well, and they sing well in groups; to hear a professional choir sing this piece was truly memorable. What was unexpected, and also a somewhat memorable, was that the king and queen were there, and their seats were only about two rows down and a dozen seats or so towards the center of our right-side first balcony seats. They were sitting so close that we weren't allowed to leave our own seats right after the performance, not until the royals had made their getaway. (There. I have now been Personally Inconvenienced by royalty. Down with the monarchy!) Frankly I was surprised at that actual royal heads were actually there, although I don't know why – I suppose this sort of thing happens all the time if one frequents the Royal Concert Hall. For some reason I still don't take that name very seriously – by which I mean that I don't expect anything that calls itself the 'royal' this-or-that will have anything to do with actual royals. But that leads to ruminations about the nature of being an American living in a country with a king that are perhaps best suited to a later post...

An aside: Yes, yes, I know I've been promising 'later posts' about things for at least a year now. Well, this is me, trying to get back into it!

The next day was sunny and warm-ish (meaning over freezing, anyway), and we went into town for a little window and sundry shopping. We wandered eastward to the area of Stockholm called Östermalm, which is where the idle rich hang out. When I went with my friend K. for 'brat spotting' a couple years ago, this is the area that we went to. If you are going to see women in fur coats, this is where you'll see them. (And we did in fact see a couple.) It's a beautiful, old, well-preserved part of town, with pretty buildings often with fantastic little details, like this great wooden door. A food market building, Saluhallen, is on the square here; the army museum is in this neighborhood, as well as the music museum, which used to be the navy's bakery. I took a few pictures with my ailing old camera; a link to the whole gallery is up at the top of the post.

All the wandering about was eventually wearisome, and we started to cast about for somewhere to have a bite of something to eat. We wandered by the Royal Theater, which is reputed to have a good bar/restaurant, but it wasn't open, so we wandered back to the fancy mall, Sturegallerian, for refreshments. It's a fancy mall, as you will see just by its homepage... suffice to say it's the kind of 'mall' that has a Bentley dealership tucked behind it. We sat upstairs and had a nice view over one of the mall's courts, where they have a stand selling baked goods and various other tasty treats. This being a couple weeks before Easter, they had a corner devoted to chocolates. In hopes of springtime – the court was decorated with pastel-painted and flower-bedecked bicycles hanging from the ceiling, which I found charming and cheerful.


'Springtime' remains only a hope. As I write this post two weeks later, on April 1, the ground outside my window is still covered with snow; sidewalks still have big patches of ice on them; the temperature, though above freezing on the sunny afternoons, dips down to well below freezing at night. S. noted as we were walking around that the fashion economy of Stockholm has suffered financially in the last two months, because the stores put out their lightweight spring clothing at the end of February. Apparently even Swedes are finding it mentally difficult to plan for spring when everyone is still wearing their down jackets and warmest hats during the day.

Never Mind the Bigos

JoeIt's raining in Kraków.

I've been in the dwarven city of Wrocław this week, about which I promise to say more later. Right now, though, I've had a long day, what with the getting to Kraków and all, and the being too cheap to spring for a cab. The Wrocław train station was only 3 km from my hotel, and the same in Kraków — a nice walk through the city! So I checked out of my hotel at noon, hiked to the train station, figured out what train ticket to buy — a non-trivial task in Poland, as there are several companies offering wildly different levels of service (e.g., "reserved seat in an air conditioned car," versus "standing room only for five hours because we responded to the financial crisis by selling most of our rolling stock") — bought a crappy sandwich in a bar in order to have enough coinage to get a luggage locker, then spent the next two hours dwarf hunting (that would be the more, for the later). Five hours later: Kraków! The walk to my hotel was blessedly sans the rain from the morning's forecast; nevertheless, it was already 9 pm when I got to my room. Deciding that the half of the aforementioned sandwich which I had ingested instead of throwing away was no longer cutting it, I took a quick shower, then went for food.

The rain had arrived in the meantime, but it was jut a steady sprinkle, so I set off anyway. Turns out that my hotel, which I selected in a hurry based solely on tripadvisor reviews, is a scant two blocks from a restaurant filled square in the Jewish quarter. My quick glance at the map hadn't left me expecting to be spoiled for choice, so it took me a while to choose a place; the rain had rather made up its mind to stay, unfortunately, so by the time I took a seat I was a little bit damp, a little bit cold, and bordering on more than a little bit grumpy. I ordered a plate of peirogis and a glass of beer, and spent the next several minutes bemused at the incongruity of the Swedish Christmas goat sitting atop the shelf in front of me. Then my food came, and I forgot to take a picture of it. (The goat, or the food, take your pick, because I didn't. Take a pic. Of either.)

Best. Food. Ever. I am not even kidding. Just simple dumplings with a sauerkraut and mushroom filling, topped with a smattering of caramelized onions, but it was without a doubt one of the finest things I have ever eaten (not excepting my first ever plate of Bigos — again, with the later — whence cometh the title of this post).

On the walk back, belly full of cabbage and onion and beer, I realized that Sweden, despite its best efforts, has not yet succeeded in destroying my love of cities in the rain. Its something about the sound of tires on wet pavement, the way the stop lights glint off shining sidewalks… I can't put my finger on the quality of it, but I'd always loved it. In recent years, I've started to worry that my love of rain has been deadened by moving to a truly rainy place, but tonight I think maybe its just been dented a little. Or maybe I've just had a long day, and a good beer, and some yummy onions.

Either way: it's raining in Kraków.

Scotland part one: Kilts and flags

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JenniferI was fortunate enough be able to go along with my friend and native Glaswegian S. to Scotland last month, and attend a few soccer games of the Olympics in Glasgow. I guess London figured it had enough to do with all of the usual Olympic things, and hosting soccer games was just one more thing. Hence, early round football (for both women and men) were played in satellite locations in Coventry, Manchester, and Glasgow. (Presumably everyone who cares about the Olympics has followed it as much as they cared to, so I won't say too much about them in general other than to say that I enjoyed them quite a lot, as I always do, and that the coverage by SVT, Sweden's state-run television, was fantastic.)

Of the two large cities in Scotland, Glasgow is the more modern and 'real' city. Edinburgh, by contrast, is a bit more touristy, with a castle and stuff like that. "You won't hear bagpipes and see people walking around in kilts, that's more Edinburgh stuff," said S. at some point during our journey to her hometown.

Glasgow played host to a group that, for the women's soccer tournament, included the US, France, Colombia, and North Korea. The city didn't really have much in the way of Olympic spirit going for it, other than one of the bizarre mascots in the train station (please note the kilt), a set of Olympic rings in the main square (above) complete with warning sign, and a lonely volunteer handing out literature on the main shopping drag; no beer tents or fan areas (as per the Women's World Cup in Germany last year).

The most important thing to do, after finding our living quarters (there was a kilt store just across the street), was to get some curry. We went to Charcoals, an Indian place about three blocks away, and nearly were in tears over the food, not because it was overly hot, but just because it was so flavorful. Swedish food is tasty but bland. I think many immigrants decide to open restaurants here, seeking the flavors of home and seeing the complete lack of them, but as a whole, Swedes just don't seem to be into strongly flavored food, and some little while after opening, all restaurants take the spiciness down. For some reason, instead of mints, this restaurant brought us jello shots with the bill.

Next day, two soccer games: US versus France followed by Colombia versus North Korea (with synchronized ball boys as an unadvertised bonus, right). A free shuttle bus took us from the train station to the venue (on the way, US support was spotted, as were Questionable Establishments ("Is it seedy here?" I asked. (long pause) "Well, I wouldn't go to an unknown bar in this neighborhood," said S., as we peered out the bus windows). At the drop-off point, a volunteer in a pink-and-purple polo shirt (and red plaid kilt that did not match) led us to the park. The venue, Hampden Park, is home of the Scottish national team. As we arrived, a bagpipe could be heard bellowing across the parking lot from the upper balcony.

The evening was sunny and warm enough that short sleeves were enough, and the first game a fun one to watch, as France gave eventual gold-medalists US a real scare by jumping out to a 0-2 lead within the first 15 minutes (the US eventually won 4-2). In between the games, we ate our picnic lunch and were entertained by a ~20-piece fife-and-bagpipe-and-drum core. Who were all wearing kilts, of course.

A pack of young men appeared from entrance near us. I nudged S. with my elbow. "Look, Swedes," I whispered, going by their clothes and haircuts. S. looked at them surreptitiously, just as one of them started talking in a language that sounded familiar... but wasn't quite right... "Close," she muttered at me, and we nodded in agreement: Danes. They sat behind us, laughing and joking with each other and showing signs of being, let us say, in fine spirits. The crowd had diminished perceptibly after the first game, revealing the white-on-blue saltire of Scotland in the end-zone seats (see picture below).

Suddenly the stadium erupted with whistling. Why? What was going on? Why was there a North Korean flag displayed on the jumbotron, hovering menacingly over the saltire? "It looks like North Korea is taking over Scotland," S. chuckled. Wait, what time was it, anyway? A quick check of our timepieces showed that the kick-off should have happened five minutes earlier. In fact the stadium had introduced the players; in retrospect we are slightly ashamed to admit that neither of us had noticed what had happened. The whistles continued; a wave started and made it seven times around the stadium, which is pretty impressive given how few people were there. Eventually a voice came over the PA system, apologizing for the delay and saying that it was a result of "... An issue behind the scenes." (Well, yes, thank you, we had kinda figured that out already.) The field had been cleared for the game, but now a couple of coaches from Colombia came back on to the field and put out practice cones. The whistles from the stadium turned to boos. The Colombian team came back to warm up.

A few smses later, and Joe had informed us, from reading the Wall Street Journal blog (why on earth was someone at the Wall Street Journal live-blogging the North Korea–Colombia soccer match? don't they have international monetary crises to cover?), that a security worker at Hampden said that the team was angry because the wrong flag had been displayed next to the North Korean players on the displays.   Eventually the North Koreans were satisfactorily apologized to, and the game started more than an hour later than it should have, with the Colombian team getting enthusiastic cheers during their anthem, and the North Korean team getting heartily booed during theirs. The only thing of note that happened during this game was that I got hit in the head with a ball: a clearance came skipping over the low wall, smacked the arm of the chair in front of me, and gently grazed my forehead. Note: no, this incident is not the source of the picture that some of you have already seen...)

The next day, officials at the stadium blamed the pre-made media package that they received from London. I'm not sure when Glasgow started trusting things sent from London, but I'm sure they won't make that mistake again! It's still unclear why the flag showed on the jumbotron for nearly an hour. Perhaps the stadium officials were trying to say "See, we do know what your flag looks like"?

Coming soon in Scotland Part Two: A pub, a park, and a passel of friends and relations; two more games and I get the ball again, but this time for real.

A Glorious Fourth in Stockholm

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JenniferWe spent the Fourth of July this year in Stockholm. It was an unusually beautiful day, with clear skies and sunshine, and warm enough to go without a jacket. (Days like this have been rare so far this summer; it's been mostly cloudy, often rainy, and in any event too cool for shorts and sandals.) We bought food from Cajsa Warg (Stockholm's closest thing to Zingerman's) and picnicked on Korean beef, samosas, baguette and ginger beer in a tiny park overlooking the city, which has a rather disturbing monument (too many thumbs!) dedicated to Swedes killed in the Spanish civil war.

Midsommar 2012

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JenniferYesterday was Midsummer's Eve, in some ways the most important holiday of the whole year. Sweden.se, the official website about all things Sweden, has put up a variety of informative texts about it in English, like this one here. Or, you can watch this slightly snarky video, also made/endorsed by the official website (so you know it's not too off-base...).

Midsummer remains a somewhat perturbing holiday for us poor immigrants, because the cities shut down completely (the street scene of Stockholm on Midsummer's Eve in the video above is not an exaggeration!) and all the natives disappear. Nevertheless, we had a very pleasant day. The sun was shining, and we packed a picnic of spice-rubbed chicken, dill potato salad, grapes, strawberries, and homemade lemonade, and took it to a nearby field. Joe leaves soon for a workshop in Turkey, and it was nice to just hang out and relax for a day.

Language notes part 7: A strange moment

Just a quick note, in the midst of finals. I had a odd language moment the other day, courtesy of Joe, my visiting cousins E. and S. (more on their visit later), and the fact that the four of us ran into one of my Swedish teachers from last term, at random, on the street.

Teacher T. (she of the 'we have nothing better to do in Sweden other than compare our hands' incident) and I saw each other and I said hello, then I started to introduce people... in Swedish, because that's all I've ever used when speaking to T... Joe and E. and S. stared at me... And then I suddenly realized that I should speak English, but wait, I had never heard T. speak English, and oh my gosh, what do I do now? What language should I speak? Using English just felt wrong, like it would be cheating or something, and I became briefly (but truly) tongue tied. I think this sort of thing has happened to T. before though, and thankfully she quickly took over and introduced herself to all (of course she speaks English, better than I do probably, don't be silly).

We all talked briefly about Uppsala and the weather, but I found myself switching back to Swedish when talking to T. I don't think I was intentionally showing off — in retrospect I suppose one who is studying something obscure (like Swedish) is glad to when an opportunity comes along to display one's knowledge, however imperfect.

(Quick, someone ask Joe about separation logic.)

Anyway, learning and using a foreign language certainly has its odd moments. I guess I expected it to be more like history or something fact-based — you study it, and then you know more about it, and that's nice. I've never studied/learned something that results in moments of pure disorientation...

The Witches of Easter

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JenniferAnd now to start catching up on some of the stories and fun things that have happened in Sweden in Spring of 2012.

First, Easter, or in Swedish, Påsk. (Quick refresher: in Sweden, Easter is the holiday (well, Skärtorsdag, to be precise) when the witches come to beg for candy... and a couple years ago, a father came by with his two adorable little girls dressed in their adorable påskkärring costumes, and said, 'You can always give them a little bit of money, 5 or 10 kronor. Or fruit. Fruit is good.')

So this year, the witches came early. Before noon!, which is hardly fair. Needless to say, we had not yet gone out to get candy. I tried to delay the påskkärringar at the door while Joe frantically hunted about for something to give them. We had a couple wrapped chocolates sitting around but that seemed a little light, so Joe grabbed a couple of blood oranges to give them as well.

They took the oranges and looked... a little dubious.

I wanted to sneak a picture of them because their costumes were so fun, so I nipped out on the the balcony and looked back toward the door that they would come out of. I was therefore in plenty of time to see the older one, who was holding the door open for her companion, pick the orange up out of her bag, and give it a look that I will generously describe as one of disapproval.

Right. Note to selves for next year: "fruit" is not an appropriate present for the Easter witches. Do not listen to the advice of their dads!

I just hope we haven't earned ourselves a curse or anything.

For Easter dinner on Sunday we went over to our Swiss friends, and were joined by three other friends and a visiting mother (French, Swedish, French-Swedish, and French, respectively). Their citizenships are important because it meant a whole new group of people to introduce to cascarones! It's always entertaining, introducing this custom to new people... there are about ten seconds of hesitation, between picking up a cascarone and choosing a victim... and then the victim realizes that maybe they would like to avoid getting a confetti-stuffed eggshell broken on their head, and so they run away, and then the chase is on (see picture to the left). (And the exercise was welcome, because it was just above freezing outside, and started to snow a little bit while we played a very poor game of kubb.) This was also Baby N.'s first Easter, and I'm only too glad to have seen to it that she — a Swiss national born in Sweden, with a temporary French passport — should have enjoyed a Mexican Easter tradition that my Irish grandmother picked up America.