The size and shape of the apartments here can bring to mind the strolls you’ve taken through Ikea- everything is in compact rooms but there is an efficiency to the ceiling height, the storage areas, the closets in general.  The particular space in which I am staying has very limited Ikea in plain site, of which I completely approve.  The space has a warm, personal taste with a great deal of wood and rich carpeting and the owner has personally invested by adding pieces from his various travels throughout the world.  I smile every time I walk in the door.  Cozy is not quite right, but that would be close – personal and warm is more accurate.  That said the owner of the place is fastidious, organized, and has placed everything efficiently which makes the smaller living areas feel expansive.  Things are placed but not fussy – statues, antiques, well chosen lighting fixtures.  It’s really lovely and inspires me to get back to work on making my apartment a home.

The little pots of greenery on every window sill puts me in mind of dark and colder days in the extended winter and I smile that they’re so cheerful.  I’ve really not been much of a plant tender, which is odd considering I grew up with the very green thumbs of my family all around.  If I lived in Sweden, I would have to try my hand at houseplants.  I see a focus on florists  – not necessarily cut flowers but rather these little indoor plants that fit nicely in a window sill and brighten up one’s interior.  It reminds me a little of Manhattan in that way – so many florists with live plants for sale.

The planning around the building in which I’m living while here is quite impressive and I would have purchased this apartment too, I think.  There is a tram and bus stop practically at the back door, a community centre with a cafe and library with a periodicals reading area, theater, and other sane little additions to a city life all in a re-purposed jail.  It’s a pleasant walk there and then a hop right into a quite old cemetery where Karin Boye has her unassuming little headstone.  It’s a beautiful place to walk in shade.  There is a parking pad right outside the door and a balcony on the backside of the building.  Rather than being left to stare at the street, there is a lush hedgerow which stands about 8feet high.  You can hear the traffic or people chatting as they bicycle or walk past but you can’t see anyone.

I love the windows in this home – they are all double paned with extremely good seals and interestingly, they have the ‘venetian’ style blinds in between the panes with a unique system to open and close them.  The pertinent windows in living room and bedroom are also covered with dark, rich curtains.  This is rather necessary for shutting out the light that stays out so long and comes back so quickly in the summer.  The windows are quite large and I can see let in as much light as they can in the darker and colder seasons.

One last note about the apartment I’m in – a fantastic bookshelf both in English and Swedish design and intriguing art books combine with history, literature, psychology, and fiction.

But back to Swedish life… something that has been amusing me is the laundry.  If you followed me back in the Berlin blog days, you might think I have a “laundry thing” – but mostly it’s just that I love the mundane differences between cultures.

Laundry has a very clear and organized system here in Sweden if you live in one of these buildings with multiple units or a complex of buildings with multiple dwellings.   This only makes sense.  It’s so organized that I couldn’t figure it out on my own.  I was shown the spreadsheet of doom, many columns and numbers and times and still it confused me.  Here’s the situation – you must sign up to use a laundry machine using your unit number.  You must accurately gauge the length of time you need and appropriately block out the beginning and ending times of your laundry room usage.  It is frowned upon to “over book time” just in case.  Rather, it is expected that you already know how long it will take to use the machines.  Additionally, you must assign yourself the laundry machines you will use – in this building, there are a number of little rooms with numbers and washers in them – this is how you book.

I have to say I was completely impressed with the fact that each washroom has in it 2 washers that are so thoroughly modern and European that I needed assistance there as well.  Beyond that, they have the average tumble drying machine and the coolest device ever which is more or less a giant closet with drying rack inside so you may hang and air rather than tumble dry your stuff.  It being summer I chose not to use any drying units whatsoever, but were I here in winter I would be all over the drying closet …. as long as I could find reasonable specs for length of drying time so I could book appropriately, of course.

Let me reiterate the MOST important element of Swedish laundry:  You do not go over the amount of time you have scheduled yourself for, EVER and you should never book extra time “just in case”.

While we in the USA have a kind of manifest destiny, first come first serve attitude about laundry we also tend to have a “ok it’s annoying your stuff is in the washer still I’ll just move it for you” cowboy way about us.  Or at least in most situations.  Sure, once in awhile someone gets all OK Corral Shoot Out and dumps your wet clean laundry on the top of the machine or might even nick your knickers.  But hey!  It’s the wild west and you’re in Laundry Town, what do you expect?    It’s a live and let live world in laundry USA but not here.  It’s where the ancient viking spirit comes out, around the towels and soap. It appears there are a number of books published about the notes people leave one another here in Sweden when others have mishandled the laundry situation.  Things like “I’m going to come back here and kill you!”   There are threats, beatings, and mayhem reports in urban communal laundry rooms in this country is what I’m saying.  Now don’t get the wrong impression, in general the Swedes prefer to leave these notes, especially notes with threats of violence… but it’s more the threat than the reality that keeps the laundry system in play.

Sweden instituted the idea of thecommunal laundry room in the 1930s but this should not imply a hippy kind of commune.    Some communal laundries have actually gone to a computerized booking system so there will be less… er… violence & suspicion… surrounding the booking of the machines.  Not only books about communal laundry and the angry notes, but art exhibits and even laundry room feuds.

I should note, that this goes for the communal saunas in these buildings as well.

I should also note this word for my own future health and safety:  tvättstugepolisen this is the laundry police, a person in the building who monitors use, clean up, and scheduling in the laundry room.

As of writing this, I have not dared take my camera into the laundry room to grab a shot of the laundry matrix grid or the rooms themselves.  Or even of laundry drying on a rack on a balcony.   I don’t know if I can handle the tvättstugepolisen or angry vikings.

*

I’m working on several posts – today is the first day I’ve had a chance to sit still since the midsummer celebrations so I’m organizing photos & writing while doing the laundry.

Doing the laundry in Sweden should have  its very own blog post.  Perhaps I will start there…

Another camera-less day I was treated to a hike with a thermos of coffee and a little carton of milk, two porcelain cups, and a spoon.  Very civilized.  I have since carried my camera everywhere.  After paying for parking, natch, we walked through a lush trail to a beautiful lake and again struck by the deep, full forest with multi-tonal greens everywhere I looked.

There is a particular style of rock formation that, at least in my experience, seems distinctly Scandinavian.  The indentations leave room for water to collect and I imagine it’s the perfect bath for the hooded crows and ample bird population here.  One of the coolest things I’ve been experiencing is the common sighting of black and white European magpies.  I have dubbed these the Gothen-bird.  See what I did there?  Oh yeah.  I can’t seem to get a bird still enough to photograph at this point.  I remain hopeful as they are an ever present force in the world around me.  The sun starts to shine at 3am and they wake up and serenade with the sun, giving them a very long hunting and pecking day I suppose.

But back to the rock forms… they are so specific to the region.  How can one help but be a little bit American when they see these and not say “Ooh vikings!” .  There is a limit to the ancient presence in Sweden, it’s a culture that seems to prefer getting rid of anything too old & shabby, preferring to  reproduce things of old using new materials so it is “better”.  That said, when you see the number of men with sandy blonde hair they’ve kept to around their shoulders, the deep blue and grey of the eyes, sometimes facial hair, and often a very notable broad shouldered build there’s a genetic clarity that one thinks VIKINGS or at the very least “It’s Nordic Time”

For the record, I’ve asked – the Swedes are Nordic, not just those from Norway.  The region is Nordic or Scandinavian and Scandi is ok too.  I have discovered that while there was a pretty atrocious and angry past between the Swedes and Norwegians and the Danish,  they now are more like brothers or sisters who love each other but can’t help but poke and prod and tease one another whenever they can get away with it.  Picture these two cultures doing the “you’re on my side of the car” or “quit touching me!”  “I’m not! I’m touching your aura!  I’m in your space cushion” game.

But back to the lake….

The walk was an easy hike to what I was told is a recreation area where people go to have a bath.  I assumed this meant swimming hole and was correctly.  Up a small hill, and over the crest and there I was,  looking down at an absolutely beautiful lake.  I’m not sure how to describe it but in the middle of the lake were two perfectly round islands thick with trees and rock walls on one side.  The word for island in Swedish is Ö and this is also one of the added 3 letters of their alphabet.  Islands are that round and that common in the bodies of water here.

It’s very cold for the beginning of summer in Gothenburg, the skies have been dramatic and swollen with rain, it’s a little humid but beautiful.  It’s not lost on me that I left Oakland in time for their heatwave in the upper 80s.  I’m enjoying that my summer vacation involves going to a much cooler climate.  The skies here tell so many tales so I find myself trying constantly to capture the epic and dramatic nature of them.

Something about the sky captures what I am feeling and experiencing in Sweden – but don’t let the “cloudy” and “stormy” metaphors come to mind, it’s more the huge, the expansive, an openness.  The mystery and opening of little avenues for light to shine onto something larger.  It’s the beauty of uninterrupted thought, the clarity of manscape against skyscape and their difference, each highlighting the beauty in the other.

Since it’s cooler here than normal, however, there were very few people dipping into the lake.  My day, the park was quiet with the occasional jogger, a father with two children who were whining about not being allowed into the water (or that’s what it seemed like),  a couple of girls with a dog who twitter in this language I can’t understand, and a handsome older lady alone who lifted her trouser legs to catch the little bit of sun that cracked through the clouds.  It was beautiful to see her, head leaning back and eyes closed when the sun warmed.  I created a story about her independence in my head, on the spot, about her comfort just having a wander to the lake and the strength to pull up her pant legs or her skirt to catch the sky.  I want to be this woman I’ve invented.  I hope I will be her.

It was an extremely pleasant conversation and a nice walk to the water and around the lake part of the way with my guide.  He’s been such a nice host – and soon he’s going to be off to work for several days so he’s making sure I’m adjusted, have a tram pass, have a city map, and generally know how to get in and out and around as needed.  He drives a train for a living and so often he is gone for long hours, overnight, and clearly won’t be able to help me figure out which tram I take to the city centre.

Our conversation is casual and about politics and the strange goings on with the King here in Sverige but it is punctuated with the TACK TACK TACK TACKTACKTACK TACK TACK TACK of unmistakable gunshots echoing across deep grey water.  They’re strangely beautiful because of the echo and their distance.  I say “is that one of the old gods tap dancing?”  There are gods around ever corner in the forests of Sweden I think.  The hooded crows have been sending message since we got to our bench on the hill above the lake, so why not?

Alas, apparently the police have a shooting range near the lake.  I suppose even the cops deserve a beautiful wooeded view as they practice their shots.  The echo combined with the reflected clouds in the water will stay with me forever.

But first!  I attempted to sort out the black clothes scramble the luggage inspector left me with.  Why do I even bother to fold these days?  Finding the black clothes by texture is something of a  specialized skill of mine by this time in my life.  Donning some layers to get out into the day in Gothenburg, I realize we’re getting started a bit late.  It’s hard to know what time it is when the light stays that way for 12-14 hours a day.  Especially when it’s the gray light of low clouds and occasional rain.

No matter!  We’re off and I’m thrilled to say the very first site I saw in Sweden was a bizarre second hand store with a rather enormous selection of army surplus items.  It’s already clear to me that I’ll be getting my “Souvenirs” at this place.  The smell of army surplus is comforting to me and there was much wool and canvas to be huffed.  From there, we sped away to try to catch the last bits of a marketplace held in the old horse stables of a fortress high on the hill in Göteborg.  Everyone was packing up and I hope to get back there because what was open involved frightening wigs and weird lingerie in one stall next to bootleg iPhones in another with a stone floor underfoot.  I have to see this place in action!  This time I’ll remember my camera.

Departing into a much more serious downpour, the only choice is to do a little sightseeing and conversation by car.  The thing I notice immediately reminds me of something evident in Seattle.  Sure it’s pouring down rain but most just don’t care.  People are riding bikes, walking around without an umbrella, there isn’t a frantic “get me out of the schvitz” response you see in many other places when the rain dumps.  ’It’s raining, it rains a lot, we get wet, whatever,’ is the vibe.  I love it, I’m one of them.  It’s perfect to me.  Especially as I’ve been sweating as though it were a tropical paradise ever since I got here, grey skies be damned.  This is what happens in those first days when I travel – I throw off the body and its response is to sweat. A lot.  I’ve learned to mostly ignore it but at this point I’m happy it’s the rain plastering my bangs to my forehead.

The viking with me isn’t a huge fan of the rain but is willing to wander with me and my blister is still present so I’m a little slower than I think he would normally walk, we make do. He picks up the pace but apologizes and slows to match mine.   Shops are generally closed but I’m tantalized by antiques, books, and a few interesting clothiers and told “You can take a look at this place when I’m at work”.  I have to love the matter of factness & honesty.  There is no tone of voice present but one of truthful kindness.  This isn’t a brush off in the German style, this is just the truth and preference.

After many blocks of closed shops on cobblestone streets and picturesque buildings, we duck into a coffee shop.  I’m going to talk about coffee and the Swedes under separate cover.  We enjoy the coffee and are off on the streets again.  I see the old iron monger’s square and then we duck down some streets with bars, record shops, and more shuttered intrigues, around a corner and on to the waterfront.  It is raining but somehow I am finding this completely beautiful.  I think this is how I pictured it here, not the snow but the rain and the green and the red brick and the red tile and the romantic rounded architecture.  As we hoof it back to the car, we pass a shut up restaurant.  My companion tells me that it has a terrible tale attached and I find myself demanding  to hear it in detail.  Apparently two employees killed their boss here, the owner of the restaurant, in the upstairs office.  They left him hanging there and “It was some weeks before the cops came”.  I dig for detail and am told that indeed, the morbid curiosity pays off:  the restaurant remained open for business with the rotting boss upstairs.  Gruesome!  And just the sort of thing I was hoping to hear about from the land of “Let The Right One In”!

This tale takes us under a beautiful row of birch trees on a gravel path where bicyclists are peddling in the rain and we get  back to the car.  I realize that even though it’s Sunday, the viking has purchased an automat parking ticket.  When I ask about it he says “Oh yeah, they fuck you every time you park”.  It’s true!  Everywhere we’ve been at all hours of the day, a parking ticket is required!  Even at our hike in the hills to the lake.  No wonder people say the Swedes are rich – they’re making a mint by Kronor-ing you to death when you stop to do anything!  And here I thought it was because they did not go on the Euro while still joining the Schengen zone.

As a side note about Swedish cash – I’m so impressed by the fact that they mostly feature artists on their paper lucre.  Ingmarr Bergman, a Swedish opera singer, Garbo and the like!  Delightful.

We round out the day with one of my favorite activities in a new country – shopping at a local grocery store.  I’ve now been in and out of a few places and spied the heat trap and ice trapping system.  If you pause and think about it a moment, it will make sense that a country which has a word that specifically means “the snow and ice has begun to melt” would have a public buildings solution for said snow and ice.  There is a small vestibule you pass through and then into a large, open, usually tiled area before one enters the main public space.  Of course, in the coffee shop the vestibule was all there was, but it was designed to trap the ice and snow underfoot as you passed inside to pick your beverage and treats.  Here at the large, modern grocery store, the distance between door and escalator is much more pronounced and I imagine very efficient for the janitorial staff.  It’s these little details that I enjoy chewing upon when I’m in another country.  So many things make us similar, it’s these details to which I am hyper attuned when I travel – the odd things the locals never notice.

The grocery store is large and full of so many tins and stacks of things I can’t begin to decipher.  This language is going to be a puzzle!  I know there is an inordinate focus on the fish products, for which I am grateful.  I may be too jet lagged to really enjoy this experience this time around, but I listen closely as my friend talks at the fish counter and asks questions and points out the “typical Swedish things” and tells me I have to try a “typical Swedish soda but I don’t know the name in English”.  I am hopeful this is the juniper berry soda I have read about!  I am sure to find out as so far I have been on the fast track to all things “typical Swedish”.

I’ve now heard 3 conversations between Swedes and I note they use “absolut” and “precis” regularly.  I love these linguistic details – absolutely and precisely seem so Scandinavian to me.  What wonderful ways to say “I agree and am listening to you”.  It’s like “Alles Klar” in German – “All Is Clear”.  These lyrical affirmations feel extremely civilized to me and I can’t think what Americans say that is comparable. “Totally”?  That does speak of our generally ‘more is more’ nature so perhaps that’s the comparison.  Either way, I love Sweden so far.

But I keep forgetting to take my camera along with me for the ride.

It’s been a very unglamorous travel period for me.  From the ‘dammit my bags are too heavy’ meltdown at the apartment, to the petting and kissing the cats goodbye anxiety I don’t want to leave the house moment, to deciding and re-deciding whether to pack the leather jacket or carry the leather jacket, should I wear the jeans instead of the dress to reduce baggage weight, I managed to delay myself an hour.  I still had plenty of time to get to the airport but the comfortable cushion of relaxation with the SF Airport’s free WiFi was drastically reduced.

The Well Governed Shark (WGS) and I decided that it would be best for him not to take a day off just to drop me at the airport – BART is so easy, it goes right into the international terminal at SFO, it seemed the most convenient choice to me and I managed to get him to agree.  It was convenient when I wasn’t thinking about having a 60 pound bag, a 20 pound carry on and a 15 pound back pack & a walk from the parking lot to the platform.  I parked the car in the lot  (and as of writing this I hope it was ok and WGS discovered it.  In Frankfurt they don’t give you free wifi at the airport.   I am in the dark in Frankfurt!)

While rolling the giant luggage to the train platform I managed to trip and fall flat onto my hands, barely saving my face from the ground.  Inline skate wheels on the luggage were a great idea until they were rolling free toward the tracks at quite the clip!  I managed to stop the naughty cases but left my pride there on the ground skinned knees and all.   (*edited to add I’m SO happy that this didn’t screw up my shoulder I have a little muscle soreness but nothing much!  HURRAY!)

One medical delay somewhere on a BART stop down the line later and now I am actually sweating that I will be late to the plane.  I’m flying alone and I am being met on the other end, it would really suck to miss this plane.    I now have exactly one hour to get my bag on the plane, get through security, and get to the gate. If I were going domestic I might not be concerned but going international on June 17th, the airport is spilling over with novice family travelers and people heading home to visit family in other countries or taking their post high school trip to the EU.

As I’m in line I am asked if I travel alone.  Why yes, I am traveling alone.  Apparently they’ve overbooked the flight.  Ah!  Here is the reminder for why going to Europe in mid-June is a terrible idea.  They offer me $800 and a lot of bonus miles and I can still get to Sweden on the 18th, just 10 hours later than my original plan.  It’s enough miles to upgrade and I’ll be at the airport for 4.5 hours waiting for a rerouted flight to Munich and I’m feeling pretty good about the whole concept.  After my spill and the rush and fear getting to the airport with the delay I think this sounds pretty good and I say ok.  I’m told to act as though I will take my original flight and go to the gate.

No one cares about the weight of my bag but they take my small rolling carryon and check it through saying “there will not be room for this if you end up on your original flight, we’ll check it for free”.  Damn.  There go my pills, make-up, jewelry, and things I packed to keep on the plane with me.

Security is the worst I’ve seen it at SFO, packed and full of people who don’t realize they need to take off their shoes.  One not really distressing nudie full body scan later and nary a look askance at the contents of my backpack, I look at the clock and I now have 30 minutes to get to the plane.  So much for a bite to eat since I missed breakfast and lunch.   It’s of course the last gate on this part of the G wing at the international terminal.   I squeak through and sweatily arrive at the gate, harried and hopeful I’ll be waiting for the next plane.  It sounds so relaxing.  I’m told again they’ve removed me from the plane but to wait because I may still need to be on the flight.    They’ve supposedly safely tagged my luggage so that it will be pulled from the plane if I’m not on it.  Suuuuuuure I’m thinking… Yeah Right.  Oh well, it would get there before me anyway.

Sadly I am the last to board.  The cash and the miles are not placed in my pocket.  They’ve found space for me… and can’t let me take the next plane… all while giving way my originally booked window seat.   The Swedish word you’re looking for here is “Faan”  said more like “Faaaaaaaaaaan!” which is their F Word.  I’m a quick study for the language, eh?

So much for my clever half a sleeping pill pass out against the window plan so I would arrive rested and generally ready to go.  I make the steward ask everyone in the plane if they want my  seat for their window seat.  It doesn’t look good for this already worn out traveler.  I don’t have room for my giant backpack in the overhead, something I was really counting on considering that I don’t have the wall to lean against and this will give me no under seat legroom otherwise.   I end up in an aisle seat in the middle of the plane next to an antsy mother and her child.  Faaaan!  But I am given a place to stow my backpack.  So there’s that.  I have legroom, which is good, because the impossibly tall man of African descent behind me has such long legs that sometimes I accidentally kick his feet which are sticking out from under my seat from time to time as he slides down in his sleep.  We have a lot of friendly nodding and smiling and “it’s ok?  it’s ok” type moments.  I mean, he must have been 7 feet tall.  The poor guy.

Another thing they’ve given away is my vegetarian meal.  I am reminded of this as the fellow behind me is given his muslim meal before everyone else on the plane eats.  Not that it really matters, I choose the pasta dish and decide to be no more trouble to the flight attendants.  I don’t want a reputation!  And besides I’ve heard they give out free chocolate on these flights.

From there my flight uneventful, but I’ve slept poorly because the neighboring passenger had a bladder the size of a peanut and even less patience for sitting still.  The child was happier to be in her seat than the mother.  We had a pleasant conversation over our breakfast and turns out she lives in Berkeley and works for Apple.

Flight delayed arriving…. much airport circling occurs and those airline scrambled eggs are sitting like a brick now.  I know the Frankfurt airport should be ok to navigate… but with only one hour now to get through customs and to the gate I feel nervous.  At best.  3 planes have been delayed and landed at once, all trying to get through the customs line and have their passport checked by the 2… yes… TWO German passport dudes who keep saying in a number of languages  “Please, one at a time, you must stand behind the line and wait!”  Ah, Germans.  I feel antsy but at home with their barks and commands.  Silly travelers, just follow the rules and all will be well.

As I get through customs I begin to walk.  And walk.  AND WALK.And then TROT and TROT TROT TROT. To the tune of “crap crap crap god really the gate is where?!”  I’ve literally made a huge U from where I started to the other side of the airport.  The workers have bikes to ride through this airport, I am tempted to knock someone off and steal one in order to get off my swollen trans-atlantic flight feet and to my gate with less  heart pounding and a sense of fun freedom.  It would be so awesome to pedal through the airport!

But instead, I developed a blister.  And a bad case of talking to myself a little.  Freaking out about missing my flight and limping and sweating through my clothes in the humid German airport, I go through security neatly and efficiently and with little fuss  (Natch, it’s the Germans!)  and walk the 20,000 miles to my gate  (or thereabouts) worry worry worry – no phone, no wifi, stupid american car driving lazy getting a blister feet with only 10 minutes to go, I hope my airport pick up person really is following along on the internet to watch the flight as he said he would.

And now I’m at the gate to discover my flight delayed by an hour.  OH. Well that’s good?  I think?

People are lining up and just seem very very disturbed that the plane will be late. There is Teutonic tutting  and head shaking and expulsions of air and Nordic furrowing of brows as this was simply not the plan, the plan was not to be late.

I’m no longer sweating, but I feel pretty worse for the wear. Pleased that I had some euro coin in pocket I get some water and pop a vitamin.  It’s nice to have a moment to catch my breath.

My plans of trying to look somewhat fresh and tidy – dashed – and I don’t even have the energy to fix my hair.  Oh well.

It’s not a good travel day – I hope this is a portent for an awesome time in the not so frozen right now north.

I’ve always had pretty good luck and comfort with travel like this, so it seemed something to note.

**

The above was written in the Frankfurt airport…

The flight from Frankfurt to Göteborg, Sweden was delightfully uneventful and easy and everyone seemed to have a seat in between them.

For all that there were irritations with the travel – I am now a huge fan of Lufthansa.  I don’t love that United operates with them in the U.S. but I did love the newness and comfort of the plane, the little hot towels they give you to clean and warm your hands before a meal was served, the seats and in seat entertainment were great, and some of the German women had a delightfully cold and sneering presence which just made me giggle.

I caught a brief bit of shut eye on the 1.5 hour flight into Sweden and as the descent began I was treated to an incredibly beautiful site as we broke through the cloud cover and came closer to the airport at Landvetter.  The landscape was thick with beautiful green green GREEN everywhere – trees of all different shapes and heights.  The sea of rich greens was broken up only y red tiled roofs in little, sane groups and lakes and river and standing bodies of deep grey water.  In many of these were interesting and perfectly round little islands, also thick with trees and rocky outcroppings.

Suddenly it hit me – I was about to land in Sweden.  I’ve never been here!  Who even gets to do things like this?!  I am truly blessed.  My mind immediately moved to the vikings and ancient people who invented such intriguing mythos surrounding this and other regions.  I can see where they would feel there must be hands far larger than life  – these clearings of water were both ominous and beautiful from the air.

Here I was, about to touch down in Sverige!  Bring on the meatballs baby, I am ready!

Interesting sidenote- the passport control offices were completely closed and I didn’t need to prove my legal status as I entered.  I was able to retrieve my bags without trouble, which was a relief considering I was told I was off the original flight originally, and I was on my way.  My Swedish friend was there to meet me and make fun of the amount of luggage I had and we were on our way.

It was raining with high thick clouds and I was again, from the ground, struck by the incredible amount of green on the 45 minute drive from the aiport.

Soon To Come:  Swedish Food, Hospitality, Markets, and Hikes!

I disrupt myself when I move around the world.  I seem to have a broken bilge pump, I don’t have a properly functioning system which removes barnacles or parasites without great effort.  So I sit in the harbor, gathering sludge and chitinous growths, housing entire ecosystems in beneath my knees and under my ass parked in this chair.  My mind clouds with the sluice and runoff.  It gets so I need more than a good paint job.

I even gain weight, making it nearly impossible to feel seaworthy.

Up to a point I still give tours, have open access to the hull but then I hit a moment in time, where everything shuts down – no one is allowed onboard and I rot and rust a minute.  This is up to the three – four weeks before I need to move move move.  Suddenly I’m teeming with activity- i have time for nothing – I am a mass of caretakers repainting and gussying up, I’m going to be better and faster than before.

This is where I have been for weeks now – tidying, teeming with activity from the buying of new clothing to the “it’s time to make a decision about this haircut” to the thorough study of my soul to the micro-analysis of whether or not I have the perfect boots for being car(e)less for weeks on end.

This has been a tough scrape and overhaul.  This trip is only 3 weeks long.   But there’s more riding in the baggage hold on this trip than those of the past.  We’ll see where I go, where it takes me & how bad the return trip will be and how long I’ll rust in my slip the next time…

but for now it’s only… now. Well, Friday to be exact.

*

But enough of that metaphor crap.

Preparing to leave for a country you’ve never seen before is a tricky prospect for most people.  For my part, it’s always easier when I land and torture before I lift off.

I always overdo it, overpack, over estimate, think I’m nicely planned and scheduled and leave it all for the last minute.  I have time management skills but it is impossible to know how to use them when you really have no idea how things will be when you get there.  All I have at this time is leading up – everything after arrival is unknown.  I have no plans save “get through customs, be picked up at airport, sleep on Swedish time so stay up no matter what it takes, then take a sleeping pill and that should help”.

So I chew on the details and minutiae before I go.  I mean, I shit thee not, I spent 2 weeks looking for black t-shirts that would work well.  Why?  Well because here at home I haven’t given a shit about the holes here or the tightness there or the unflattering line on the upper arms and because I have my entire closet so if I need to be more polished and less stretched out I’ll take something out and make it work. Because when I’m home why should I care?  I know what can hurt me and what can’t and no one knows I’m here anyway.  But when I’m going somewhere else in the world – somewhere I know no one, don’t know the language, where I have hardly researched a thing  (seat of pants ready for take off!) …well then  being completely comfortable in my own skin and not standing out means the world to me.  Almost as much as the trip itself.  Or at least right now, before I leave.

I’m building my uniform carefully.  I know I won’t fit in seamlessly, there is no way, it’s impossible.  Why?  Well… I’m already the American girl.  I’m already the one who wears all that black.  I’m convinced that I am the biggest girl they’ve ever seen.  Or the least fashion appropriate.  Or the loudest.  All the self esteem sinkholes look like they might begin to seep and suck at me again, all the questions I’ve ever had about myself and where I fit into the world around me loom large.

I want to pound my head.  I need to crawl back into my bed.  Why am I going anywhere?  What the fuck was I thinking?!

Yes.  It’s the anticipation, it’s the need to change, it’s every single hope for a bandaid that fits your soul you’ve ever had… and it’s all right here in this decision about which pair(s) of jeans you really really have to pack and if you shouldn’t seriously consider buying an oatmeal colored shrug.  Just in case.   I’m emotionally convinced that the national color of hot Swedish women is toast, oatmeal, camel, honey wheat which means I will look like a burn, a raisin, dung, a dry lentil.

I’m battling with myself and winning – the fight chant says something like “Fuck ‘em in the neck twice who the hell just goes to Sweden for three weeks with no goals but to experience the longest day of the year somewhere it matters?  So wear all the black you bloody well like and fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.”

In truth, I know the Swedes wear black on the outside as much as the inside.  But summer is summer, and that’s the subject for another day, perhaps midsommar.

But back to preparing to leave….

I always wanted to be the one who had a knapsack and just enough to get by but I’ve always had a lot of strings attached and reasons I’m traveling and what I’m doing when I get there that keep me from the traveling light.  At this exact moment in time, I’m going to equate my insecurity about where I’m going and why and what will happen to me when I get there and will there be something to come back to directly to the number of suitcases I’m bringing with me.

This trip, the Swedish trip, it will be one  bag for the hold and one rolling carryon and my backpack.

Returning to Seattle for the first time after moving away from there was 2 suitcases and a carryon backpack for a trip of 6 days.  There was a rental car.  Granted I needed a case for “going out and for work” at the time, but I was also nervous as hell to return. When I went back again recently I had one bag and a backpack – which made me feel like I won something.

Berlin was 3 bags for the hold, a rolling carryon, and a backpack  while wearing my heaviest boots and wearing my coat.

Belgium at the age of 18 it was 4 suitcases, 2 carry-ons and a tote and a  face-ful of calm with a heart-ful of terror.

I’m going to feel proud if I’m really doing it with just the one suitcase in the hold.  I’ll know by Friday morning.

20 years ago this week, the Berlin Wall fell.  New reports indicate that this was, ostensibly, a total accident.  Yeah.  Not really too surprising if I’m honest.

Like all things in Germany, this event is being celebrated with bad music and hot dogs.  And strange ideas of one way traffic direction.  Thus, my partner in crime here in Berlin and myself decided that it would be pretty interesting to head to the Brandenberg Gate the evening of November 8th to see what was shaking in the center of the city.

We weren’t the only ones with this idea.

As we all came up from the bahn station stairs to  breathe the freezing winter air and wiener smoke,  we were greeted by groups of people milling aimlessly around.  Unter den Linden there were tons of cables ready to power the media storm, trucks parked this way and that, blindingly bright lights, screens and many little tents full of spatzle.   It seems everyone felt drawn here but there was nothing happening yet.

One thing for sure, we couldn’t get in under the gate itself.   Why is that?  They had erected barriers to keep us out.

Quickly annoyed by the shepherd-less cattle action, UKBTC and I spied a narrow passage between the gate and a building and moved to see what all the lights over there were about.  We weren’t the only ones with this idea either. A squeeze was underway.  This wasn’t a wide opening and, as they had erected barriers on the other side of the gate, it was a tight fit.  We made it through to the other side… where we were penned in with freezing lookie-loos like ourselves trying to figure out how to get to something, anything, other than more milling.  One woman makes a break for it, squeezing through the bars of the barrier as we all are moved forward by the crowd action.  She’s soundly berated by an officious German in a bright orange uniform with a badge.  Officious is not letting it go, she’s not letting it go, they’re angrily Deutsching at one another over her obvious infraction.  Meanwhile, as we try to move out of the area there are 10s of 30s of Germans bucking the system and coming toward us going The Wrong Way!  See what happens when you break the rules?  All hell breaks loose, posts are unmanned, people go the wrong way through the opening in the barrier and it becomes a swirling mass of inefficiency!  Achtung!!

We squeeze through to the other side of the barrier, trying not to trip over cables running this way and that, moving forward to be… hemmed in against another barrier.  This one protects the newly erected anniversary Berlin Wall.  This is a clever anniversary concept, I think, really a cool idea.  There are 8 foot high dominoes, painted by students/youth from around the world that run about 100 meters along where the wall once stood.  A part of the ceremony on the 9th, the anniversary of the wall’s symbolic tumble, will be to topple these of course.  A nice symbol, one worthy of the excitement of the original opening of the passage between West and East 20 years ago.

Peering down the row of dominoes to my right, I can see the Reichstag, to my left is Potsdamer Platz.  Meanwhile, I realize I am once again up against a metal barrier.  UKBTC and I wander about, note the spot lights, note the people, and realize we’ve all just kind of come here because it seems like we should, but there’s not much going on.

Across the wall of dominoes and 2 metal barriers to the West, I see there are tents filled with things I can’t quite make out that are for sale, and really I’m not sure what else.   I am interested in walking along that row to see what’s happening.  We mill about some more, trying to figure out what to do here.  As we approach the State Sanctioned Opening in the newly erected metal barriers, we realize we just can’t be bothered.  There are more orange-clad officials, people marching single file across the barrier and between an opening in the domino wall, and being herded into another row of metal barriers and those tempting tents.    “No” says UKBTC and I agree. Quickly. Let’s be honest, what’s going on in those little tents probably involves the roasting of hot dogs and not much else.  Oh sure, maybe a beer or two is involved but it’s nothing I can’t get every 50 feet in the city of the bear.

But now, we’re confused.  Going toward the Brandenberger Tor, it’s obvious we won’t make it through, another set of metal barriers is erected.  Going back the way we came shows us that the breach in efficiency has been settled and there are multiple guards posted.  I am amused as a woman pleads with an orange clad rules-monger and then races past him to a barrier across the way, kissing her  awaiting beau, and they embrace.

It is at this moment I must say it. The Germans?  They don’t do irony.  I can guarantee you that the corralling barriers —> Berlin Wall ironic comparison matrix has not occurred to any but we snarky English speakers and perhaps a few Scandinavians.

UKBTC and I consider making a break for it, decide we don’t have the wherewithal to play the confused English speaking rules breakers while someone het up on official capacity yells and points at us in German.  We give up on the fastest route and find our way around the corner by the American Embassy, which is well protected by Freedom Barriers.  We wander past the (sadly too dark to photograph on this day) memorial of the holocaust.  In the shadow and chill winter night air, it pulls at my heart.  This is a powerful memorial, reminding me of the time I was able to view the traveling Vietnam War Memorial -  a simple, depressingly clear statement of man’s brutality to man unchecked and a sheer waste of human life.  I feel a little twinge of shame for whining so often about the chill in the air  when I pull closed my newly purchased winter parka with fur hood.

We wander back down Unter den Linden as officials fly past with their polizei escorts, spotlights filling the air around the gate, and search out a nice little cafe beneath the train tracks.

This is the day before the anniversary of the wall coming down.  I feel happy we tried to see something but am struck by a sense of emptiness and desire to somehow be more connected to this city.  It’s not long now before my time here ends.  Thus, the delays in posting as I soak up all I can quickly before my plane takes me back.

By special request:  Photos of myself in the landscape from here on out.

The humid press of summer has long since passed in Berlin.  While people cling to the last patches of sunlight outside of cafes, everyone piles on an extra layer – a coat, a scarf, a sweater – all soaking in whatever light is left.  We’ve fallen back here already in terms of time.  Only in terms of time.  Soon there will be only 4-5 hours of light a day and the temperature will drop from this balmy 45 degrees  (7.2 degrees) to numbers I don’t even want to contemplate staring at my meager Bay Area Girl leather jacket hanging on the hook.  Pretty soon Berlin’s early winter will swallow me whole and spit me back up on the California shores.  I can’t help but wonder what those shores will feel like after 90 days with nary a beach in sight.

I’m packing to move on Friday.  I’ll be in Friedricshain next, also on the 4th floor with no lift. I was tempted to snatch the place on Karl Marx allee just for the name of the street and the Stalinist architecture but price and proximity to tram and grocery store won in the end, even over that coveted and rare gem, the elevator.

I find that while I languished a little in the middle, now I want to race to every possible site and see every last chip of paint in Berlin. I can already tell I will need to come back.

I’ve hardly taken any shots of myself here.  It’s probably because I know I am here already, I don’t need to insert myself into the landscape.  But suddenly, I want to hold the camera at arms length everywhere I go to capture how I feel now as compared to how I felt 2 -3 weeks ago, to capture how I fit into the scene, where I stand in this picture.

]]> http://www.dollsinthewalls.com/cellar-door/?feed=rss2&p=105 1 http://www.dollsinthewalls.com/cellar-door/?p=99 http://www.dollsinthewalls.com/cellar-door/?p=99#comments Mon, 26 Oct 2009 13:34:31 +0000 plastic.diadem http://www.dollsinthewalls.com/cellar-door/?p=99

While I’m here, discussing the small bits and the odd bits of life in Berlin, this is still a city where the smoking ban has not taken hold.  I never feel more Californian than when I find I am annoyed that someone is within 100 meters of me with a cigarette.  (did ya see what I did there?  oh yeah, I totally went metric on your asses!)  I have to shake my head because I used to be a considerate smoker, but a smoker nonetheless.  I don’t know when it became an annoyance for me, but now it’s more than that.  Now, it’s a calculation I have to make if I’m going to be out and about in the city.  Do I want to see that band play?  Ah, yes, they are at the Magnet Club and there is no smoking inside there.  I will see that band play!  Do I want to go to the cool old German bar with the good pinball machine around the corner from my house?  Hm.  They have “here smoking is permitted” written on a slate outside the door and a little haze of smoke wafts out from the crack under the door as I walk past.

You see, here’s the thing.  In Berlin, as of yet, I have not seen a clothes drier.  It’s very energy efficient and pretty cool.  In the spring and summer. As the weather turns to freezing and the heaters are all moist radiators, drying your clothing on a rack becomes an affair of extended days to a week.  Doors are closed in all the bars and cafes and the darling street side seating and open windows close up for the most part. Of course at many cafes they have warm blankets on their outside benches and tables for those who like the cool air and just refuse to give up and agree that it is freakin’ cold!

So, being a woman on a limited budget as well as on traveling with a limited wardrobe, I have to calculate several things if I want to go out for a bite to eat, a cup of coffee, a beer or some sense that I am in the city of Berlin rather than just in my apartment.  Can I get in and out and still wear that sweater the following day?  Certain cafe’s have an “old school” vibe where the people puff like chimneys cheering or booing at the soccer match on the television, lighting up one after the other, doffing pints, and chimneying it up.  Other places will have a cigarette or two lit up but no big deal, if a little smoky it’s the kind that dissipates.  My sweaters and scarves may survive a few of these cafe excursions before I have to wash them. It isn’t laundry laziness, although this is a disease to which I am prone, it is merely that I really only have one good sweater to go under my one jacket.  The idea of washing that sweater means I won’t be able to leave the house until it’s dry.  Unless I get another sweater.  Which I have been resisting. Stubbornly.

For a city hell bent on bureaucracy it’s an amazing thing to me that they’ve flown in the face of this European wide smoking ban.  I mean, even the French said “oui!”.  I still have yet to fully understand how this works with the German attitude but there is a kind of “We don’t want your rules and we don’t have to do what everyone else is doing” sense to Berliners that I can’t quite get my finger on as of yet.

]]> http://www.dollsinthewalls.com/cellar-door/?feed=rss2&p=99 0 http://www.dollsinthewalls.com/cellar-door/?p=57 http://www.dollsinthewalls.com/cellar-door/?p=57#comments Sun, 25 Oct 2009 15:09:20 +0000 plastic.diadem http://www.dollsinthewalls.com/cellar-door/?p=57

Messages come from surprising places.  Alert, receptive, aware for most urbanites can be about paranoia or tension or that fear word I’ve already talked about.  Or it can mean letting things in, taking a breath, and viewing your surroundings for what they are or what they could mean to you.  Everywhere you go in Berlin there are stickers, wheat pastes, graffiti, people trying to speak something to you.  It could be territorial but it’s usually artistic.  There are politically motivated statements but they seem to be more generalized messages, statements combined with images that range from non-sequitur to hilarious to profound.

You are beautiful.  For my first weeks here I felt distinctly unlovely.  Sweaty, blister footed, more humid in the underground than the aboveground, all jeans and t-shirts and no heels I was feeling styleless to the point of sloppy.  It’s a state of mind and not about one’s appearance or physicality.  Either way, I tend to agree with the sticker on the marble base of this statue.  While a bit pat, the statement put a smile on my face.

One could take the point of view that it’s pure and simply defacement of public property. But look at the incredible artistry here.  Berlin is my unpretentious outdoor art gallery – showing me work I don’t always like or don’t always understand, with none of the sniffing and hmmming in an enclosed space.

The above piece knocks me to my socks.  One look in her eyes and I think “how can anyone be with a man who doesn’t respect them?”  I fantasize that her pink beauty and thumb bite will cut right to the heart of the cad and change his ways forever.  I just love her.  This piece to me, it’s incredible… and it’s temporary. Someone may have already painted over it.

Berlin’s art spaces and museums are another thing entirely.  Amazing – Nefertitti is here, Ishtar’s gate is here, Otto Dix, Martin Gropius and Bauhaus are here and on it goes.  Thursday the state run museums are free in the evenings, it’s a wonderful thing.  in Germany, little of the plundered treasures of the world reside in museums here, unlike in England.  Here, the old things were purchased or discovered by Germans or from donated collections, they are focused on a sense of propriety and accountability these Germans, forever changed by the mad dictator and his band of fascists.   The galleries themselves are full of unique and strange new modern works, the spaces are things like the controversial Tempelhof Airport or underground bunkers that once housed fascists or people scared of the fascists, and of course, the walls the streets the houses the buildings.  Is the rampant graffiti an extension of the Berlin Wall’s precedence?  Does the city just not have the money to “keep things clean” or have they simply given up?    I truly enjoy it, I love it.

I beg to differ.

I adore the irony in this one.  This clown head pops up all over the neighborhood I am moving to in a week.  It may be “cool” but it’s not an option as far as I’m concerned.

I agree, let’s take off our masks.  I agree, the golden handcuffs are both lovely and binding. This photo beautifully captures Berlin for me.  Large scale, surprising, open, crumbling and building up.

why be beige?

This could be my new band name.  It could be the title of my next album.  It’s probably the brand new dance that will replace the old, boring “Robot Tiger Dance” that Zoe and I invented.  But it’s one of my favorite defacements of public property and makes me giggle internally when I think about it, makes me invent the dance, makes me consider the sound of my new band.  This one provokes nothing short of glee.

And with that, I need to get back out to the streets of Berlin to catch that final couple rays of quickly fading sunlight as winter falls on this city.