May you never…
Little did I know it as I played a selection of songs from the three John Martyn albums I own that he had died a couple of days ago.
I first discovered John Martyn when I was still living in the UK. One of my more musically hip friends was a great fan. In fact, I think he bought me my very first CD. And that was that: I was hooked! Hooked by the lyrics, the music, his voice, the dazzling guitar play.
In my mind, John Martyn remained as youthful as he was on the cover of Sweet Little Mysteries. That was before the booze, the failing health, the wheelchair. What remains is the sweet music he has left to the world.
And that is how I will always remember him.
And may you never lay your head down
Without a hand to hold
May you never make your bed out in the cold.
(John Martyn – May you never)
Follow the link to hear the young John Martyn singing May you never.
Out of the mouths of babes…
Last week saw us celebrating the inauguration of Barack Obama.
The anklebiters wanted to know why it was such a historic moment. After I had done my best to explain the segregation laws that existed in the USA and which were only abolished in 1964, Anklebiter # 1 looked at me and said:
“So, you mean that up until then, some people got to eat ice cream all the time, while others were just given camel poo and stuff?”
I laughed. But actually, I think that this was a pretty good summary of racial discrimination from a seven-year-old’s perspective.
My daughter then continued. “I can see that Obama is pretty good. But when are they going to get a woman as president? That would be even better.”
The Malmö Diva
I’ve taken control of Lady Fi’s blog for the day. Out with that old wanna-be Diane Keaton look-alike has-been – and in with the new exclusive totally hip me!
Serves the old bag right for just leaving me in the middle of yesterday’s interview! I mean, we hadn’t finished talking about the most important thing – ME, the Turning Torso! (You do know who I am, right? I’m the star of yesterday’s post. Try to keep up, will you?)
I probably could see into Swenglishexpat’s mother’s kitchen window if I wanted to. After all, I’m made up of 2,500 windows. But I’d rather have my head in the clouds than worry about what is going on at the lower levels…
As for those of you who wondered about how the lifts work. Well, I have a circular core in my centre, and they whizz up and down in there. It doesn’t half tickle, mind you!
As I soar upwards in graceful beauty, I gaze majestically out over the expanse of water that separates Sweden and Denmark. And there, below me, I can see the magnificent bridge, Öresundsbro, that connects our two countries and allows those lucky Danes to come over to see me!
OK – enough of that bridge! Let’s get back to me, me, me! (I’m not really full of myself, but it’s hard to be modest when you’re as perfect as I am!)
I need your advice: I just can’t decide which colour suits me best when I want to go out for the night and really dazzle! Glittering gold? Bold blue? Or sizzling hot red?
Reach for the sky!
Last week, I visited the quaint seaside town of Malmö in the south of Sweden.
It was all cobbled streets and old buildings that wouldn’t look out of place in a small, sleepy English village. Except for the fact that there was a lighthouse right on the pavement where you could look over the waters and imagine that you could see Denmark…
While I was there, I took the opportunity to interview the latest star of Sweden – nay, of Scandinavia! She’s a very very tall lady, graceful and elegant.. someone with her head in the clouds… someone who… Well, read the interview for yourself. It’s an exclusive!
TT: Enough of the girl talk, buddy! I’m a man – and proud of it! I mean – just look at my shape.
Me: A man? Er.. Sorry, big guy!
TT: Yes, you see when I was created, I was based on the twisting torso of a male sculpture.
Me: I see! So, you represent the torso of a person? Cool! Now, before we get carried away, why not introduce yourself to the good folk out there?
TT: Hej på er! My name is Turning Torso and I’m the pride and joy of Malmö, and Scandinavia – and heck! the whole world for all I know… (That’s me on the left.. Aren’t I just gorgeous? Look at my sleek lines. Look at…)
Me: Er.. OK.. moving on swiftly now. So, tell me a bit more about your creation.
TT: Love to! I’m the lovechild of Spanish architect, Santiago. That’s Calatrava. He’s a real cool guy who goes around designing lots of wonderful buildings.
Me: So, just how tall are you?
TT: I’m 54 stories tall, and that makes me the tallest building in Scandinavia. It takes the lifts 38 seconds to get to my top! I would be the tallest residential building in Europe if it weren’t for that conniving minx with the silly name – Triumph Palace – in Russia!
Me: But you are still one of a kind…
TT: Of course I am! Although there is a second-rate copy of me in Chicago, and another one going up in Dubai. But hey, I’m such a great role model that I guess they just have to copy me. You know what they say: Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. But, no one can look as good as me, right? Look at my gorgeous curves, my sexy lines, my classy girders…
This is where I left the Malmö diva… You can get too much of a good thing when it’s too full of itself!
Strange Shores #2
Lady Fi and trusty hound, Oscar
Welcome to the second Strange Shores Carnival, brought to you today by head clown Lady Fi, and her furry sidekick Oscar (who has got my glove in his mouth)!
Little could I have imagined it – if you had told me 13 years ago – that I would find myself consigned to living in the countryside outside Stockholm in that snowy land called Sweden.
Well, I’ve been here 12 years now and find nothing strange about having to take 15 minutes to get dressed in a number of bulky layers just to go out in the winter.
Wearing luminous red ice picks around my neck is second nature too when going out onto the frozen lake, on whose shores we live. (You use these ice pick thingies to try and haul yourself out if the ice should crack and you find yourself fighting for your life in an icy hole!)
After such a long time in Sweden, I feel more and more like an ex-pat every time I go ‘home’ to England to visit the family. I feel partly advanced: “What? Don’t you have underfloor heating? Showers that work when you flush the loo? Triple glazing?” and partly country hick: “Goodness me! Look at the size and choice and variety of all the foods available at the supermarkets!” It would seem that I’ve got a foot in both cultures but am mistress of none.
My fellow clown conspirator, Paddy K, has also been in Sweden a long time. But he’s more of a chic urban yuppie, especially when it comes to the knotty problem of what to do with your leftover Christmas trees. However, no matter where you live in Sweden, the big brother state is always looking out for your interests: making sure we do not drink too much or earn too much, for example. Paddy explores this and the mystery of licence plates in Dodgy Numbers.
Also in the Big Top today, we are joined by two gorgeous tightrope walkers from the USA who live in our neighbouring country Norway. (No need to mention the fact that Norway used to be a part of Sweden. I mentioned this once, but I think I got away with it!) Amy over at Eventryhus gives us her view of being an American in Norway and looks at Norwegianness. And I’m totally in love with where she lives with masses of snow and some beautiful dogs. And then we have the inimitable American in Norway who lets us know what Norwegians thinks of America – it’s quite an eye-opener!
Kelli is our Texan juggler, balancing the need for some good ole Cajun cooking with the rather more conservative cuisine of Denmark. She sums up her first three months in Denmark rather well. Read and enjoy! I know I did! Also in Denmark, Patti looks at that well-known phenomenon of the shopping trolley that just won’t go in a straight line.
Next up is the dazzling Charlotte from Charlotte’s Web. A South African living in Germany, she turns her attention to the German obsession with beer, pork and fests! Talking of South African ex-pats, we have the hilarious Po (the sea monkey not the panda), who has moved to my homeland of England and is doing her best to blow it up with the help of test tubes… Here’s her view of Smallish Brittin – read and weep with laughter! And because she moved over to the UK, this Brit moved over to her old home country of South Africa… Confused? Me too! And you’ll be even more so when you read 6000 miles from civilization’s thoughts on a mysterious statue that appeared out of nowhere on the cliffs of nowhere.
For our grand finale today, we have three lovely lithe acrobats. The poetic and amusing Louise from Carmine Superiore thnks she is describing her son’s visit to the dentist – but in fact her post just about sums up my dental phobia! Then we have the wonderful Braja, our very own Yogi, who lives in India. Ever wanted to know the truth about Yogis? Well, here’s your chance to find out! When she’s not being a Yogi, she’s out rescuing baby cows and snapping wonderful pictures of them. Last but not least, let’s turn the spotlight to My Marrakesh, where Maryam creates things of joy and beauty. When she’s not busy trying to get her hotel into order, she pauses to take superb photos and act as Cupid for a love-struck couple.
Oh – I nearly forgot! If you want to find out more about the exotic cold and my painful adventures in Northern Sweden, then you can check this humble clown’s post: Crying out loud.
I apologize if you wanted to participate this time round, but are not mentioned. But it’s time to dismantle the big top and wipe off the grease paint in the comfort of my private circus caravan. This post will be up for a couple of days so that you can come back and enjoy the various circus acts on show.
Happy reading!
In case of emergency…
You won’t get any help here!
Oh England… dear England… how I miss your sense of humour…
Picture courtesy of Signspotting.
Future names
As Juliet once said of Romeo:
What’s in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;
But some names are sweeter than others… And these people might well agree with me!
Urhines Kendall Icy Eight Special K. (That’s pronounced Your Highness.) Wait a minute – I though I was Your Highness! OK – I’ll make do with Your Majesty…
GoldenPalaceDotCom Silverman. The Internet casino GoldenPalace.com paid $15,000 to the parents for naming their child this as part of the casino’s publicity stunt.
Batman Bin Suparman. Already blessed with the surname of a superhero, this young Javanese man also has a superhero’s first name. (I actually think it’s kind of cool… but I’m weird that way.)
I like unusual names – just ask my kids! In fact, I have three names and a double-barrelled surname so that my signature can’t fit onto one line…
In the future, though, I think we may well see a whole spate of new names.
The mysterious case of the exploding litter bin
A few years ago, when Anklebiter #1 was but a small, wailing toddler in nappies, she and I went to the UK to visit my sister and her kids. We dropped off the eldest cousin at school, when suddenly, it happened. The scrunched-up face, the smell. Oh, the smell! Yes, there was a poo in the nappy that just had to be changed NOW!
In those days, I had a big bag surgically attached to my shoulder, containing all the dummies, nappies, plastic bags, wet wipes, bottles and formula that were needed to sustain a small person for the day. I whipped out the changing mat, a fresh nappy and a fragranced bag for the used one, and started changing the nappy.
As you know, we’re vegetarians, so our bowels move. Yes, they certainly have got rhythm! No neat poos here, but something that can best be described as poo soup. (Sorry if any of you delicate readers are wrinkling your noses in disgust – but it’s just a part of nature, after all!)
If you’ve ever tried to put a nappy on a wriggling octopus, then you’ll know that it was no easy task, but eventually, the nappy was changed and the old one deposited in the park’s litter bin.
The next day we heard that the fire brigade had been called out because that very same litter bin had…
… you guessed it! …
… caught fire!
I know what you’re thinking – because sis and I had exactly the same thought: that yucky nappy had self-exploded!
The truth? It really was a case of arson this time, but I’m sure that that nappy worked as a mighty fine firelighter!
I’m away on business for a few days, so I’ll see you at the end of the week.
P.S. If you want to be in the Strange Shores Blog Carnival this Sunday, then send me lots of dark chocolate and I might include you! Just kidding! If you’re an expat and have something interesting, amusing or thoughtful to say about the country you live in, then drop me a comment and include a link to a suitable post.
The mysterious case of the fire and the donkey
This one is for you, sis!
Imagine this if you will: it’s New Year’s Eve. Silly party hats are on, a wine uncorked, the TV on. My sister and her family are celebrating New Year’s Eve.
Suddenly, a high peeping sound resounds throughout the house, and sister’s husband disappears in a cloud of smoke. And misses New Year’s Eve – as it were.
My BIL is a volunteer fireman and gets called out quite often to small, local fires or to help the fire brigade in more serious cases.
So, what kind of life-saving did he get up to? What heroic putting out of fires?
Well, it turns out that he saved a railway sleeper from …
… Are you sure you want to know?
… from exploding donkey poo!
It wasn’t arson, just some poo minding its own business and then deciding to go KABANG!
Because apparently poo can catch fire all by itself.
What the fire brigade failed to clarify was this:
Did that donkey catch his train or not?
Calamity Physics
I bought Marisha Pessl’s debut novel because of the title: Special Topics in Calamity Physics. It seemed such an alluring and exciting name I just had to discover what adventures it contained within its black covers.
The book is a very literary novel, and Marisha (I feel that she is young enough for me to call her this) has even drawn some visual aids to help her readers’ imaginations. It is very clear that Marisha has had a lot of time on her hands as a teenager as she seems to have read every book – obscure and famous – under the sun.
The entire novel is divided into chapters that are called after famous books. We kick off with Othello, for example, (and yes, there is a murder in the first chapter), go through Wuthering Heights, Women in Love, Deliverance and end up with The Secret Garden and Metamorphoses.
It’s one of those brainy novels, featuring teenager Blue van Meer, an ‘apologetically owl-like girl’ in glasses, who discovers the dead body of her teacher hanging by a piece of electrical cord. The book is erudite – full of references to dictionaries, events and reference books, as well as littered with similes that swoon and die on every page like the piled-up corpses of lemmings as they leap to their death off a high cliff.
So, it takes quite a while to get used to this baroque, elaborate style of writing, and the story takes some time to get started. That promised corpse doesn’t show up again until we are three-quarters of the way through the book!
I did enjoy the book: it built up in momentum and sucked me into its clever, intricate web of glittering metaphors and plot – and I was more than willing to be its victim.
Here is an example of the novel’s very special style:
“The restaurant with its shines and clinks, its fanned napkins and resplendent forks (in which you could identify microscopic things lodged in your teeth), 
its dowager duchess hanging there, desperate to be let down to go dance a quadrille with an eligible man of society-it all felt indifferent and damned, hopeless as a Hemingway short story teeming with mean conversations, hopes lost between their bullet point words, voices voluptuous as rulers.” What a fantastic way to describe a chandelier: a dowager duchess hanging there. Pure magic!
The last quarter of the book sped like a moving bullet towards the end: breath-taking, fast-paced, exciting, and for me – a shocking ending that took me by surprise.
I came away sated as if I had eaten a ten-course meal with three desserts thrown in.
Say what, oh teabag of wisdom?
My spicy tea bag declares:
Only share your strengths,
Not your weaknesses.
Although I understand that this is wise advice, especially as I am a parent, I can’t help but wonder what it would mean to my blog. After all, quite a lot of you have laughed your way through my – well, how can I put it? – failures, my weaknesses. Me boiling cabbage without water, sewing myself to the carpet, freezing my hands off in Northern Sweden. (Yes – you! I know it was you laughing!)
Somehow, I can’t see these posts giving you the same WOW factor:
Lady Fi sews up a lovely, sequined skirt without any mishaps. Not a needle or nail was broken!
Yes, it is possible to get a camel through the eye of a needle! Here’s how in five easy steps.
Flambeed cabbage with caramelized red onions in a reduction of red wine and chili chocolate sauce.
Turn your enemy into your best friend – without going mad in the process!
Lady Fi gets a good night’s sleep! Ask me how.
Watch paint dry as Lady Fi whips up a storm with her paintbrush!
How to have well-behaved children and pets without tantruming!
I’ll get back to you when the Stepford Wives Association has let me go!
Burn, baby, burn!
As you know, one of my mottos in life is: Never let them see you cook! I enjoy baking with the anklebiters, but the results are often startlingly similar.
Burning things to a crisp is my forte.
Funny though: these little gingerbread figures still got eaten up pretty quickly!
Coming unravelled
Have you ever had one of those weeks when you feel that life is just a little bit unhinged? When you manage to put your foot into things without even having to try?
That feeling of having something on the tip of your tongue, except you don’t know what it is? It feels a bit like coming home and planning to go to sleep early. There you are in your old blue dressing gown and unwashed hair and suddenly the doorbell rings. You discover that you have forgotten that it is your turn to take care of the entire Scouts club for the evening and they suddenly descend on you like an army of unwanted fire ants on a sugar high.
Well, that’s the kind of week it’s been. A week where I’ve been going round with my skirt tucked in my knickers, but nobody bothered to tell me. A week where I discover that the annoying string that has been hanging around and tripping me up actually originates from my brain.
It is the week where I discover that my mind is unravelling like a big ball of wool.
So, if you find a tangled mess of wool huddled in the corner, please tidy it up and return it to me in a neat ball.
Failing that, can you please knit me a warm, cozy straitjacket?
Extra-ordinary
What’s your take on buskers? Do you stop and listen to them for a while, and then give them some money and say a few kind words before hurrying on with your business? Or do you rush by guiltily, eyes on the ground and muttering something about beggars in the underground?
I usually stop, toss the musician a few coins and always try to make eye contact and smile. But do I really listen and appreciate the music? No – probably not.
My friend Karriärmamman brought this story to my attention. A quick visit to Snopes confirms that it is true.
A man sat at a metro station in Washington DC and started to play the violin; it was a cold January morning. He played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. Since it was rush hour, thousands of people passed him on their way to work.
Three minutes went by and a middle aged man noticed there was musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried up to meet his schedule.
A minute later, the violinist received his first dollar tip: a woman threw the money in the till and without stopping continued to walk.
A few minutes later, someone leaned against the wall to listen to him, but the man looked at his watch and started to walk again. Clearly he was late for work.
The one who paid the most attention was a 3-year-old boy. His mother was in a hurry so she pushed hard and the child continued to walk turning his head all the time. This action was repeated by several other children. All the parents, without exception, forced them to move on.
In the 45 minutes the musician played, only six people stopped and stayed for a while. About 20 gave him money but continued to walk at their normal pace. He collected $32. When he finished playing and silence took over, no one noticed it. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.
No one knew this but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the best musicians in the world. He had just played one of the most intricate pieces ever written with a violin worth 3.5 million dollars. Two days before playing in the subway, Joshua Bell sold out at a theater in Boston where the seats averaged $100 a pop.
Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and priorities. The outlines were: in a commonplace environment at an inappropriate hour, do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it? Do we recognize talent in an unexpected context?
The Washington Post drew this conclusion:
If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world playing the best music ever written, how many other things are we missing?
It is clear then that all too often beauty does not transcend everything. That the demands of our lives have left us so busy and de-sensitized that we do not have time to just stop and listen.
As William Henry Davies wrote:
A poor life this, if full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
So, stop what you are doing and look around! And take a minute to appreciate the unexpected beauty of your life.
I love you. Can I eat you now?
During the summer, the anklebiters and I were given the rather scary task of looking after our friend’s Venus flytrap. We watered it and watched it to see if it could catch flies. And rather like the strange plant in The Little Shop of Horrors, it grew and grew. In fact, I started hearing voices saying, “Feed me! FEED me!”
I hid in a corner until I realized that it was the kids wanting their tea.
To tell you the truth, I’ve never really understood why a carnivorous plant (look at that whopper devouring a Black Widow, no less!) is named after the goddess of love. Anyone?
The Venus Flytrap is a plant that likes mild weather and swamps where it can devour whole alligators to its heart’s content. So I was pretty sure I was safe…
… until my sister sent me this picture, that is:
Is that the Frosted Carnivorous Man-eating Trap?
Or … just a leaf with eyelashes?
Going to hell
Do your New Year’s resolutions go in one year and out of the other? Or are they just a way of making a fresh start on old habits?
As Mark Twain once said:
New Year’s Day… now is the accepted time to make your regular annual good resolutions. Next week you can begin paving hell with them as usual.
Have far down the road to perdition have you come?
By the way, remember to go to PaddyK and check out our Blog Carnival! The circus is in town… and it certainly puts the Blo into Blog! I’ll be hosting the carnival next time, so if you want to jump on the bandwagon and bang your own drum, then send me some links to appropriate posts about your experiences of living in a foreign country.
On a cold and frosty morning
England and parts of France are currently shivering in temperatures that over here in Sweden can best be described as balmy, fairly warm and a side effect of global warming: – 5 C to – 7 C. It is provoking outbursts like “When did we last wake up to such hard frost?” Well – the obvious answer is not within living memory….
Now, this isn’t quite true as my sister then went on to say: “Do you remember when?”
The winters of our childhood (well, when we found ourselves in the UK, that is – which wasn’t so often) were always white. And cold. With huge snowdrifts that could gobble you up. And they did!
My dad caught us frolicking in the snow as kids on his cine camera. One moment, I was a be-coated happy figure in hats and gloves, the next I had disappeared from sight. Fallen into the largest snow drift in the garden that, quite literally, covered me from head to foot.
Exit a cold and bawling Lady Fi.
But in recent years, such crisp air and glittering frosts have been sadly lacking: so far and few between that when they do occur, they inspire my sister to rush out with her big camera and get snapping. I’m proud to say that she’s done a great job!
A spider’s web becomes a delicate pearl necklace. An ice-coated leaf a hidden treasure glinting in the sun.
Her kids finally get to experience some of the magic of a white winter. Long walks, apple cheeks, bundled up in warm clothes, hot steaming drinks that thaw out cold fingers and toes.
My sister and I so vividly remember school holidays with friends (the boys). Toboganning down steep slopes at hair-raising speeds (not a helmet in sight!), sometimes using our heads as brakes at the bottom of the hill on the hard iron fence. (Yes – it hurt. Thanks for asking. And yes, it does explain quite a bit about me!)
Once, I used my behind as a brake, merrily tearing holes in my trousers and legs. Another time, we hit a huge bump camouflaged as snow. My friend and I were shot up into the air and flung out onto the snow like stranded snowfish, while the old-fashioned wooden sled came crashing down and broke into many pieces. (That was the end of poor Rosebud.)
Oh – those were the good cold days! But imagine waking up to this glorious sight as they did in England yesterday.
The good cold days are back!
(All photos taken by my sister. N-ice one, sis! Oh – and I promise you some donkey poo stories soon…)
Fire and ice
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
By Robert Frost (1874-1963)
The smell of Christmas
Last week, I met a friend of mine in the woods as I was walking the dog. He and his family adopted a rescue dog from Ireland a while back: an English staffie (Staffordshire bull terrier) with the sunny disposition of a dog without a care in the world, and the energy of a circus troupe of toddlers on a sugar high!
I knew they were in the woods when I was knocked over by a compact barrel with legs, a veritable cinnamon bun with the sheer power of a tank!
My friend, N, told me this funny story about how the Staffie had embarrassed him over Christmas. He had to nip up to the shops for some emergency food and decided to take Staffie with him for the exercise.
When he got to the supermarket, he started tying her up as usual on those doggie loops they have outside the shop. Suddenly, without any warning, she jerked the lead off the loop and made a mad dash for the shop, winding N in the process.
He sped after her, only to find her with her front paws inside the first set of automatic doors and her bum firmly outside. (It should be mentioned that there is a kind of airlock system in the shop. The first doors let you come into the lobby where you can pick up the shopping trolleys and baskets. The second set of doors open up to allow you entrance to the shop itself.)
“Gotcha!” he cackled and made a flying leap at her. Just then a large lady laden down with goodies activated the second set of doors – the ones that allow hungry dogs access to paradise!
The dog dashed triumphantly through these doors, violating every known (and unknown) Swedish health regulation (and probably all the EU ones, too!), careering past the fruit and veg as fast as her little legs could carry her and right to the back of the shop. Where she stopped. And stared. And drooled and drooled in front of the delicatessen counter.
Red-faced, N finally caught up with her, grabbed the lead and started pulling her away. Just like the sword in the stone, she refused to budge. By now, both N and Staffie had bulging eyes and pools of saliva were congealing on the floor. In the end, he had to pick her up and walk back to the doors through the whole length of the shop. The whole shop stared and tutt-tutted.
He tied her up and went back inside to buy the single item on his list.
As he waited in the queue, he could hear a weird howling sound every time the doors opened.
WHOOOO! HOOO!
Silence when they shut. Then WHOOOO! HOOO! again. Poor kid bawling its eyes out, he thought. Only to have it dawn on him that it was Staffie, making a noise that she has never made before or since.
His red face turned purple, then puce. He could hear people thinking, “That’s why people like him shouldn’t have dogs like that!”
And that, dear readers, is what the smell of Christmas can do to a dog!
The quest for Strange Shores
In order to combat that slightly deflated feeling that comes in January when there is nothing else to do except work and blog, I have joined forces with that slightly anarchic elf from Ireland Paddy K to create a carnival blog blog carnival for ex-pats. No, you don’t have to be a former Pat, Patrick or Patricia to join in! All you have to do is move to a country that is not your own, or where you were not brought up, and Bob’s your uncle (yours too?): you’re an ex-pat! (That’s expatriate for those of you who don’t like abbreviations….)
A blog carnival is fiesta time! Paddy will be hosting the maiden event on his site on Sunday January 11th. What happens is that he will throw together carefully compose a story about something ex-pattish and link to all relevant, interesting articles or sites written by ex-pats, immigrants, us foreigners, in other words! Who knows? Perhaps we’ll be so organized that we’ll have themes later on? And guest bloggers! And free champers and chocolates and…
The plan is to hold a carnival every two weeks… I’ll be posting reminders here. Otherwise, you can check out our site for details and the timetable. (I’m counting on Paddy to keep things organized over there!)
http://strangeshores.wordpress.com/
Oh – did I mention that we are calling this fest: Strange Shores?
So, if you are an ex-pat who wants to join in, then send me a link to one of your relevant articles, or just leave the link here in the Comments section. Or in the comments section of Strange Shores. You can mail in your links to us every two weeks.
Oh – just one more thing. We are not really looking for articles that trash the countries you live in or that long for the motherland. We hope to be able to offer up a smörgåsbord of witty, funny and quirky articles that are lovingly ironic (OK – warm cynicism will do!), reveal new cultures and traditions, make us laugh and gasp and wonder. Failing that: articles that are mildly interesting will do.
If you’re not an ex-pat, then my condolences. But you can still read all the articles, of course, and make fun of us leave us lots of criticism comments!
Apart from having a wealth of good, readable material at your disposal, those of you who do send in links to articles will also get more exposure. Paddy assures me that exposure is good, but in this cold weather, I’m not so sure!
Crying out loud
While on the subject of the weather…
Once, a long time ago, BK (before kids), Sir Pe and I decided to go up to the very north of Sweden again – to Lapland – and stay at the now world-renowned Ice Hotel. Yes – you guessed it! It is a hotel made entirely of ice that melts and then is re-built every year with the ice sawn out of the local river: The Torne River. The huge pristine ice blocks are truly beautiful to behold and are of a shimmering greenish colour.
Situated 200 km north of the Arctic Circle, it gets pretty darn cold! And it’s dark all day long when the days are at their shortest. You never would have guessed it: but cold and darkness are experiences that people from all over the world come for! (Hey! They could come and live with us for half the price…) The hotel boasts its own bar, bowling alley, chapel (for christenings and weddings) and cinema, amongst other things. The suites are sculpted by ice sculptors that compete to come here from all corners of the globe (well, if a globe had corners, that is).
The suite we stayed in had a big ice bed covered in hides, a fireplace and logs carved out of ice, prettily lit up with candles as well as ice chairs and table. When you check in, you are given a big snowsuit and thick boots, hats and gloves to borrow because the average indoor temperature is about – 8 C. Luckily, the year we went was the first time they had indoor toilets. Still, it was quite a chilly walk there and back in the middle of the night. And although I got into the ultra-warm sleeping bag with hat and socks on, I was very warm during the night and ended up taking off the hat as well as a jumper.
Thanks for asking: yes, I had a delightfully refreshing sleep! I urge you all to try it at least once in your lives! And, of course, one of the main attractions of the deep, bone-chilling cold are the northern lights. Natural fireworks, sheets of shimmering silk, scarves of untold beauty.
Anyway, although it was March when we went up there, it was still pretty cold. Bitterly cold, in fact at a perky – 35 C! I repeat: minus 35 C. The cold is a dry cold, which makes it far more bearable, and for a while it was OK. Sir Pe and I used a ‘spark’ – a kind of sled thingy that you kick (you can see a whole load of them parked outside the hotel in the big blue photo above) – to visit the local church and then a Sami tent, where we ate polar bread and heard Sami stories.
The problem arose on the way back to the guesthouse (we only stayed at the actual ice hotel one night). I guess that I had cooled off a bit too much in the smoky tent, so once outside again, kicking our way back along the road – about 2 km – to the restaurant, my body decided to whimper out on me and shut down without so much as a thank-you.
My hands were the first to go: they were so cold that I lost all feeling. In fact, I just wanted to stop and lie down and go to sleep. Luckily, Sir Pe nagged and cajoled me until we reached the warmth of the restaurant.
That’s where the problems really started! You see, going from -35 C to +20 C is quite a temperature difference for the body to cope with, and as the blood started rushing back to my white dead fingers, the pain was excruciating. Unbearable. So unbearable that I started wailing and crying out loud. That got people looking! We even skipped the queue as we were shown to a table immediately.
More whimpering meant that we were served in double quick time. The other tourists looked on with barely-concealed horror, but the locals regarded me with pity.
I got the feeling that they too, at least once in their lives, had experienced the pain of the cold that makes you cry out loud.
Apology to Boreas
This is a public apology to the weather gods – especially to the Greek god Boreas (also known as Aquilo if you speak Latin). For Boreas is the god of the North Wind (either that or he ate too many beans last night), and it is he who comes flying over the northern countries, breathing on us with his icy breath.
And being a god, he is rather fickle, to say the least. And very sensitive. (Such is the male ego!) You see, there I was complaining about the weather, when – in fact – we were actually having a heatwave. Soon after yesterday’s post hit the Internet, the temperatures decided to plunge headlong downwards: not to hell, but to where hell freezes over.
OK – so it was only -21 C, but that really did feel a bit cold. Biting even on the cheeks (the ones on my face, dear readers).
As you know, people tend to have a good side in profile, and a bad side – well, that is what they would have us believe when we are taking their picture anyway.
I’ve discovered that I have a rosy apple-cheeked side and a flaking, peeling, chapped side. My left side obviously thrives in the cold weather, and I come back all sparkly-eyed and red-cheeked after being outside. My right side is definitely the wrong side when exposed to cool weather: my eye starts weeping, the tears congeal on my cheek, causing the skin to crack and flake. Very unappealing (or unappeeling, if you like).
But I digress. Back to my apology.
You see – as soon as I started bad-mouthing Boreas, the temperatures plummeted like a hot air balloon losing gas. So, now that I am making a public apology, they will soon rise again, like high hopes or the cost of living.
Because that’s the way weather works.
Brass monkey weather
It’s brass monkey weather at the moment. Minus 15.5 C with no signs of getting any warmer. I decided to meet the day with two pairs of trousers and four jumpers and a coat on, topped off with a warm hat and gloves and boots.
Man – was I warm! Then I went outside for about 15 seconds before discovering that my legs were freezing, my eyelashes had turned into ice sculptures and there was an Arctic gale playing havoc with my ankles. 45 minutes later, I returned home with no feeling in my hands and toes. I must have left it out on the ice somewhere.
Picnics on the ice are short-lived affairs. It’s great fun walking or skating on the lake, but taking off our gloves to eat sandwiches gets rather painful. The dog doesn’t seem to mind – but that might have something to do with the fact that he doesn’t have any gloves…
Anyway, gritting my teeth and pulling my hat down over my eyes (something to do with the fact that if you can’t see the cold, you can’t feel it…), I set out to suffer on your account, dear readers. Because as you know, there is nothing I will do won’t do for you!
You see, I spotted a bridge, right out there in the middle of nowhere – or so it seemed. A bridge joining two tiny spits of land in the lake. I wanted to snap the bridge in its virgin snow – but the dog got there first.
You know what? Maybe this brass monkey weather isn’t so bad after all….
Who says what?