Oslo Aaaah Slow

My favorite fifteen of my husbands friends are all Norwegian. He's not, but they are and if he drinks enough, he becomes completely fluent in the language. I've seen this happen with valley girls and spanish but never anyone with norwegian! There're all friends from school and despite the fact that most of these young viking types drink and I quote the Scottish friend 'Heroic Amounts' at their annual boys weekend, the rest of the time they are the nicest famiy men you've ever met!

Since we, too, are now a 'family unit', they've invited us to come and visit and since I feel I've lost the option of a weekend skiing in the woods and pooring the vodka onto the sauna stones, we decide to go for the May bank holiday weekend.

Like 90% of the British, we gladly leave rainy cold London for the cloud free blue skies of anywhere else in Europe during these three day weekends. I must say it never seems to astonish me how - despite centuries of poor weather and internationally renowned rain, English people always complain about the weather -no they whinge- about the weather for hours of their lives...I don't understand how someone could be born here and live their whole life here and still be surprised that it's raining!


Sadly, most people choose Southern Spain or France and we've chosen well. beautiful foggy and now raining Norway. It wouldn't be bad if it weren't for the fact that the Scandi's keep pretending it's warm and wearing short-sleeved shirts. I am sporting my wooly fisherman's coat! Oslo is shockingly clean and everyone is...well, 'right fit'. I've always noticed this about Scandinavians -they are in such good shape and generally better educated than the rest of us and I've decided to crack the code this trip. My husband and I spend a long time analyzing the fact that it must be the healthy diet, discussing all the various forms of dairy products one never sees in the UK or US and how much seafood they must eat. In fact, we finish this conversation as we go into the local supermarket with our friend, Kjetil. Kjetil is one of those zero body fat skiing types, who girls go crazy for...even as we are skimming the aisles. I see him buying more 'ol' (beer) but also his staple items like rekka salad, potato salad and ofcourse, that piece of norwegian heretage Cheese Doodles! I kid you not, Cheese Doodles are alive and well -NOT in Alabama but Norway!!! Also, all the aforementioned salads are just mayonaise with something occasionally floating in it! He also tries to buy some donuts AND fake sugar!!! So much for diet...on the other hand, when I see how poor Norwegian t.v. is compared to American cable it soon becomes obvious that no living being could sit in front of it long enough to eat a bag of cheese doodles much less a costco size tub!

Secondly, Kjetil and all of our Norge pals -rich or poor had to -and I swear this is true - ski to and from school! That might keep you fit,eh?!

So, after picking up a few heartattacks in a bag and a definite case for liver pserosis, we head back to our hosts flat in Majorstuen. I pick up a copy of Norway's version of FHM magazine who's slogan is, 'Mann Magazine: for Men who can read' which has wonderful irony since a.) Norway has 100% literacy and b.) there is no other men's magazine in Norwegian. After our lunch, we walk down past all of the boats and marinas (public as well as private). Norway is definitely one of those places where everyone is middle class. It would be hard to find a really poor person but just as hard to find an incredibly rich one and the number of boats per capita shows they haven't left their seafaring nature loving roots too far behind.



Finally, we hit newly renovated Harbor, which is brimming with people basking in their halucinatory overdose of daylight, sitting in the sun or drinking in the outdoor cafes lining the harbor. From the harbor, we wander into Oslo center, although I've got it into my mind that I want a Lassekruffte (the traditional Skandi printed sweater so often seen in posh Alpine ski resorts). I was amazed at how patient all the men folk were in agreeing to visit the stores. Ofcourse, that was before the first five minutes of shopping, when I was notified that only 3 stores in Oslo sell these items and mysteriously all of them close by 4pm on Saturday only to open again, at 8a.m. on monday--sure, the perfect time for your tourist clientele. Again, one can tell we are in a rich socialist state, when none of the store hours have anything to do with consumerism or pleasing anyone but the owners.

Well, no matter...we hit the Square, which is not only incredibly charming architecturally but incredibly clean and full of flowers and beautifully planted trees. I can't believe how tired I am, so we stop for a coffee not only in the middle of the Square, but again in the ---Hotel for coffee. For some reason, the coffee is doing nothing for me....so, we go back to our host's place and after a lovely meal with too much wine and 'ol', we pass out.

We are awoken an hour later, piled into a motorcycle wagon (did I mention people are crazy for motorbike racing up here- and lots of them, it's like another national sport?) and taken to our friend, Jaat's in Ski. Jaat is probably the nicest man alive and his whole house is over-run with children's art projects, hand knit baby sweaters and the carpet is well, mostly lego pieces. His house is so wonderfully warm and inviting, which is good because outside it is FREEZING. Unfortunately, everyone at the party is outside and many of them are in shortsleeved shirts. All of them are shivering...when I mention we should go indoors, they look at me like I am a madwoman! It is then explained that even if it's colder than winter in Florida, this is the only summer they get and they want to make the most of it, even if that means pretending. After that, I begin to see the direct correlation between alcohol and their culture...mostly, because I, too am madly sipping away at --I can't believe it but it's true--Aquavit, that fiery beast they call 'the water of life' although I think they should change it to 'spirit of death' because it is BLOODY powerful but you'll never feel cold again!

The highlight of the party is that I find myself talking to Morten Mortenson ,a local celebrity-writer from Mann Magazine! We find out that he's been putting our poor friend Aaril through boot camp, just to see what it feels like 'for the magazine, in the name of research'! That, I must say, is a marvellous thing about living in a small country. It's so easy to be 'in with the in-folk' or to become a celebrity because a.) there's less competition and b.) more chance half the population knows you already!

Sunday morning, we awaken...not so bright eyed but definitely feeling bushy tailed. Today is museum day, mostly because everything is closed on Sunday and every restaurant we want to visit is closed, due to the weather (not looking so great, Norge). However, the Museums are all in Frogner, which is THE neighborhood in Oslo. The houses are big, beautiful and inherited and all the museums are located with-in walking distance. We visit the Kontiki Museum, which has not only a perfect reproduction of the Kontiki from the Kontiki Adventure (marvellous book for anyone who loves travel) but also the Rah and Rah II, as well as info on Easter Island and weird nic-nacs from the journey.



We proceed to the Viking museum, amazing again and not only do we see three full size Viking ships, which were recovered dating back to the time, my ancestors came to scandinavia but I also notice this little viking ship salt cellar, identical to the one we have at home. It would seem rather obvious how this came into our ownership and I'm delighted to think that it's 30-odd years since my mom picked up this souvenir and they are still selling them in the museum! After visiting the Framhuus museum, we ran out of time, but the Munch museum and a few others make it definitely worth a daytrip.


After a final wander through the massive park in the middle of the city and down the main square again, we know it's time to leave. We circle the Royal Palace, where the royal family is living and I am shocked at how easily accesable it is...in comparison with the U.K. In Norway, there is a saying, 'what makes anybody better than anybody else'. This could be construed as negative in Britain, but in Oslo it means, humility is a virtue particularly for those, who are great. That summarizes everything that separates these two great lands.

Finally,
exhausted and mayo salad-ed out, we drive off to the airport. It's a quick ride to an empty, clean and modern glass, wood, steel terminal. I couldn't think of an easier way to travel, except for avoiding sunday:).

Paris as Parents

We decided to go to Paris with my mother for her birthday. Through lastminute.com, we book one of their surprise hotels. Knowing that France and the UK are notorious for having lots of low quality 3-4 star hotels (after all there are some, who believe it was staying in that Paris hotel which killed Oscar Wilde), we have low expectations and I am shocked at how absolutely ADORABLE, clean and friendly we find the Hotel Montparnasse.

The first thing we did that was wonderfully easy, was we took the Euro-Star. If you book last minute, it's not cheap but it's so expensive that if you spend 10 extra Euros you wind up in First Class! So, a first class ticket to Paris complete with champagne and a three course meal. The Euro Star used to have divine meals and now they're acceptable...but still, nothing like two hours with flowing champagne and winding up in Paris.

From the Gare du Nord, we hop on the Metro as soon as possible. After having lived for a year in Paris, I tend to think Gare du Nord is a rough neighborhood but my husband, Mr. Angleterre chides me that I am overreacting ( I seem to remember a similar reaction just before our car got lost in Overtown,Miami). Before our departure, we see a gang of 100 Angry Africans in Hoodies running out of the Gare du Nord followed by police cars and an ambulance--you do the math.

With the blink of an eye, we arrive at the hotel. Certain stops on the Paris metro have certain innate smells but everything else seems cleaner and cheaper than it used to be...but maybe that's because I'm not a poor student trying to stretch 5 Euros a day to get a cup of coffee. Friday night is a dream. We wander down through the amazing local open market stalls of fresh terrines and drippingly ripe fruit and pick a Brasserie for a delicious meal! For me, that is what makes Paris...PARIS. Lighting up all that Hausmann architecture at night and lining the boulevard with trees and having lots of wonderful, relaxed and cheap Brasseries where one can eat like a King or just be able to sit for hours drinking excellent coffee. This is where the Southern Europeans have us beat. Lifestyle. It's all about lifestyle. Enjoy the moment.

We wander back to the hotel faces red with the wine we drank and sleep like babies,well until the baby doesn't sleep:). Saturday is Marchee Au Puce day. I've been promised and I drag my shopping-adverse husband and my excited but somewhat lame mother and baby through the dodgy area between the metro and the market, trying to hurry them as quickly as possible, explaining that once you're in the market, it's much better...reminding my mother to close her purse, my husband to stop speeding away and constantly watching the stroller and the little hand which comes out of it to grab at any material we might pass on the way...

The Marchee Au Puce hasn't changed a bit. There's no time for me to hit the secondhand clothes venders because I know my husband is like a parking meter with shopping. You get two hours and then all h*ll breaks lose. We wander through the plastic shoes and the dodgy African Louis Vuitton vendors straight to the Antiques, which sadly now that I am older...I realize are often times fakes (probably created for Americans shopping here)or insanely overpriced (also probably created for Americans shopping here).

AND we discover another fabulous Brasserie right across from the market. Perfect, my husband gets to eat, my mother doesn't have to walk, they'll watch the baby and I'll be right back:). I speed-wander the aisles of the serious dealers, dreaming of where I'd put these beautiful Napoleonic beds and empire chests....until, we (they) decide it's time to go. As I always used to do for fun in Paris, we hop on a bus and just stare out the window at the miles of incredible architecture racked up one against each other and the funny thing is...these are the bad bits. We're not in Passy or the Bois de Bologne. This is the neighborhood where muggings are common by night and honour killings are ordered, but by daylight all you see are miles of white turn of the century cornicing and pedastals.


It's funny. I feel like this trip is visiting a Paris I don't really know. I never much hung out in Montparnasse and it's turning out to be quite charming for the bohemian history it has. I would suppose that would make it quite bourgeouis today...much like Islington in London or Brooklyn Heights in NY. My mother is too tired to go anywhere, which makes her weak and an easy target for babysitting! We dump the tired twosome and head onto La Coupole, a still famous restaurant, once famous for serving Sartre, Picasso, Cocteau, Brach, Hemingway...the works.

You would think a place like this might have mediocre food since it could just live off it's name, but the food and the service is SUPERB! We order a seafood platter and it's everything out of the sea...much of it, you wouldn't think was the part that was meant to be eaten..


Firstly, aside from the half lobster and crab, nothing is cooked. The oysters are rawed but so are the muscles, the clams, and something that looks an awful lot like a snail (escargot of the sea as our waiter calls it) are all served raw! Surprisingly, many of these items seem to taste better cooked and we learn quickly there's a reason ecargot are usually covered in garlic! Still, everything is divine. The service, the people watching, the food, the ambience...honestly, I feel like I am in a french movie and Thiery L'hermitte is going to come and finish the meal with us.

We wander the streets back to the hotel. Gosh, I REALLY miss living in a city with a pulse. Somewhere you walk outside and there are interesting looking people and they look interested as well and there's energy. The life force. Londoners are very good at hiding any of that energy and in Zurich, it's probably illegal...but Paris and New York and certain parts of Vienna and most of Italy and Coconut Grove all have that. I need it. I need to feel alive. Sometimes I feel like I'm on an emotional diet and I'm missing the life force. Why be alive if I'm not feeling it, exchanging ideas, being used for the things I have to contribute. Thank you Paris for giving me that...thank you for reminding me.

Sunday is a day I usually dread but in Paris, we awaken, have a fresh croissant in line from the bakery like everybody else and a big cup of chocolat chaud. We wander the Cimetiere Montparnasse and see the tombs of Sartre and de Beauvoir,Beckett, Jean Seburg and Saint-Saens. Inside Saint-Saens beautifully carved marble tomb, there are letters from all over the world. People thanking him and praising him. One Canadian in particular wrote that he listened to his music and thought of the peace his deceased wife must enjoy in the afterlife and the peace his music brought him. It was so beautiful, I cried...to know there are people like that in the world. Which means, it's not just me and Stephen Fry and a couple of sentimental academics, who have feelings like that...there are more of us out there.

As we left Montparnasse, we decided to walk the usual haunts - behind the Louvre, a touch of St. Germaine, Place de l'Opera. HenriIII said 'Paris is worth a prayer', well, I'd say it's certainly worth atleast a weekend. You don't have to see everything that way, but it reminds you...to pray. un bon merci pour tous.

Paris is like the lover I was too young to ever appreciate. I have returned to see it in my fullness of age and am aware of how lucky a silly little naiive society girl was to be protected and included and educated by this great world within a city.

a bientot j'espere...

Double Trouble in Dublin

So,... every year my husband goes on a boys weekend. As compensation, I get to go somewhere to and usually choose somewhere new. The first time it was Prague, by the time I made it there I felt like I was the last person. Long gone were the days of fresh-graduates teaching english and buying cars with their levis and the natives seemed angrily ready to take my tourist dollars. Last year, I went (7 months pregnant) to Hungary, which was a great choice. They're very nice to pregnant women and I absolutely relished in gourmandise pleasure of stuffing myself to the point of immobility whilst feasting my eyes on the beautiful Architectural remnants of the 'K und K' imperial times.

This year, I went with one of the Blueberry Fru to Dublin. I'd never been there and felt, being American it was mandatory. Also, both my husband and hers insisted they had no interest in ever going there again. To them (both British), it was just a smaller London - just as expensive and nothing special. Well, they were wrong and they were right.

Arriving in Dublin, I can't get over how nice everyone is to me about the baby and so helpful. So far, it would seem to be just like all my plastic-paddy friends back home would say, 'the people are just so nice and everything is so green'. It's great..we hop on a bus right outside the airport and for about 15 Euros return, it will take us to our hotel. Well, one and a half hours later, we arrive SOMEWHERE...not quite, South Dublin more South of Dublin. For me travelling, one rule generally applies. If you can see Ikea or there is a Supersize Garden Center, you are no longer IN the city you are staying 'in'...sort of like some of those Ryan Air 'city adjacent' airports. Be ye warned against lastminute.com's descriptions of hotels 'in the city'.

However, after a mild one and a half hour accidental walking tour of Sandeford, meeting a large representation of Poland and Estonia and wandering upon and quickly departing from --literally THE PLACE where they must have filmed Snatch--a true gypsy caravan site complete with random household items thrown in the bushes and I'm sure burned out fires for witchcraft purposes...we find our hotel. To make matters more appealing, it is ATTACHED to a hospital. Lars von Trier would have a field day with this...but I actually have to sleep here!

Luckily, it's one of those ultra mod hip-hotels, complete with fourpolster bed-table in the supersized all white entrance foyer, Philippe Starke bathrooms and bedroom furniture which even the Eames family would envy. There is also a cool arabic/thai/midcentury restaurant and after having our baggage removed from our frozen and semi-immobile bodies, we park ourselves downstairs in that restaurant and eat for England...and I must say, the Beacon Hotel has a fantastic dinner! It's Asian fusion and delicious and the drinks menu is definitely made for fun-loving metro-sexual types..everything from Apple-melon-tinies and very berry cosmos to something called a flirtini. Having spent the day traveling with a toddler, I intend to drink all three but remember I have to awaken with that same small person as well.

It's day two and I begin to see what the boys were talking about. Since we are in the middle of nowhere, breakfast is priced at 15 Euros and since the mood lighting hasn't changed from the night before in our windowless restaurant...something about it makes me feel dirty- like eating breakfast in a nightclub or a really greasy dodgy kebab at lunchtime. Some full-figured northern gal guests come down dressed for a night on the lash to complete the mood and our 15 Euro breakfast seems like something you might get for 5 dollars at a crumby diner. Let's just say this is a hotel which would not survive in German culture where hotel breakfasts are an artform!

Oh well, off to Dublin on the Luas (which is excellent and completely stroller friendly including the people). It's such a wonderful shock to experience people speaking with one another and strangers on public transport, I begin to wonder if I'll have culture shock re-entering the UK. The Irish really are generally nice and are very verbal - it's no wonder they have more Nobel Prize winners than any other country per capita!

In Dublin, we hop on the Hop-on hop-off bus and spend another 15 Euros each for a bus ride listening to a broken cassette --when the driver can be bothered to turn it on! I find if I listen in German or French, I get twice the information given to English speakers but sadly, my trip companion is Australian and only speaks Australian:)which means we hop off and go for a meal in Temple Bar (Aussie barmaid heaven). After a good half hours wait, she gets some sort of stew made with potatoes, sand sausages and enough salt to choke a horse. I get the Irish Stew - again for 15 Euros. The whole country seems to cost 15 Euros and sadly,so far I'm not sure it's worth it!




We finish the day by going to the very beautiful Trinity College and waiting from 3:15 for the 3:40 tour, only to find out that the tours are not being given. No one has told us, we and everyone else find out because by 4:00 no one has shown up. So, we go to see the Book of Kells, which according to the Tour Roster, should cost 5 Euros but mysteriously after waiting in line another half hour costs 8 Euros...not a big difference, but you begin to see the point I'm getting to by this point. After paying my 8 Euros and being admitted with stroller...I realize that no one has told me the Book of Kells (according to the Irish, the greatest historical book of it's kind)is just a few re-makes and many of them are Victorian). Can't help but wonder what all the people at Lindesfarne are thinking about this claim! Also, added bonus there are an insane amount of stairs to be climbed with the stroller. Quel joie!

In an attempt to not have a bitter experience, I sell out and say, 'I know it's awful and bourgeous and totally American of me, but can we just go to Starbucks. I know
they'll have a certain level of coffee which will cost an expected amount and a changing room, which is all that I ask at this point.' She responds with out missing a beat, I was thinking the same thing! So, we go into Ireland's answer to Harvey Nichols and on the same floor as the children's couture section (carrying items by Baby Dior, Burberry and Chloe) there is starbucks. My feet are already thanking me. We go and order and whilst she waits for seats to open up...I discover there is not only no changing room, the bathroom is smaller than a goulag cell- honestly I've seen better bathrooms in rural Malaysia. So, we think, well atleast we'll enjoy our coffee and leave and we do, until we learn there is no down elevator/escalator in this building selling only expensive high-end designer goodies? Something just feels like Ireland hasn't quite caught up to it's post-EU price increase...

I hate to say this because, again, everyone has been nothing but nice to us the whole trip. Things may have taken as long as they would in Latin America but there's the same hospitality (maybe it's a catholic thing)...I'd just like to see similar prices for what I'm getting.

Finally, we escape --- and wander the streets. It's dusk and the freaks seem to be coming out like all insects of prey at nightfall. I hear the Hari Krishnas and turn a corner to avoid them only to be apprehended by a mother/daughter thiefing/begging team. After avoiding them, we see a large group of gypsy women and children and I think 'we'll see them back at the hotel'. Let's just try to make it to St. Patricks on time but that too, takes far too long and it's cold and it's wet and we're catching a cab and having some room service!

Room service must not have the same kitchen as the restaurant because although everything has the same price, it all seems a little defrosted. We order two deserts at 9 Euros each and they taste like...well, they'd have been better before someone in the kitchen must have spilt water on them! I thank God that all of the films were bad mainstream trash, because I've just realized that the movies all cost just under 15 Euros each.

But tommorrow is another day...

And so it was. Entirely!




We get up and have our breakfast and hit the Luas. Then make a Beeline to Christ Church, which COSTS MONEY TO ENTER - I'm sorry, but WHEN is it EVER acceptable for someone to PAY to enter God's territory. As a protestant this REALLY gets me and I use my operatic stage whisper to mention that it would be more befitting to a catholic church to charge (figured they'd love that in Ireland). However, Christ Church was very beautiful and worth a visit. We then go to St. Patrick's, which is also approx. 5 Euros and I have to admit somehow more worth it. You've got to admit they do put on a good show. Pomp and circumstance,etc. There are beautiful beat-down flags of eras gone by but showing liberties that still exist and reminding us that there are still things in life worth fighting for and there is a crypt, which is always fun. Most of all, there are a great deal of political and war tributes, to the point that it's noticable they are placed in a church and one sees the power and importance of this church in the society it is reflecting. Aside from Westminster Abbey, I can't think of any other European Church which has so many war memorials or buried public figures.

However, the one church which is NOT on the tourist map, but I want to see and am convinced might have been THE most important church is the Wesburgh Church which we pass between the two on a back street (wesburgh). It looks like the sign on the dollar bill and has so many subtle signs in the cornicing that I am CONVINCED it is a free mason church from the days when the Free Masons ruled everything! I heard a rumour that a national martyr was buried there and only a few feet away was buried the 'national' hero who shot him - well, I suppose you could summarize most of the problems in the history of Ireland with the old line, 'united we stand, divided we fall'.




Much as I would have liked to visit the George Bernhard Shaw home, Joyce's tower and most of all, Oscar Wilde's house and haunts, there is no time because EVERYTHING is taking an eternity to do. Most of our time is spent waiting, waiting for lines, waiting for meals, waiting for opening hours that suit museum curators rather than goers. Our last stop is Dublin Castle (open only from 2-4:45--see what I mean about the Latin American theme here). It's worth a look but there's something a bit depressing about it. Interesting how the furniture from the Royal Room was shipped back to the UK by the Royals during the Irish Liberation and also interesting to see the Chandelier holding the three flowers symbolizing the three countries 'working in unison': the rose, the thistle and the shamrock...I think the visual says it all. Also, I did find it entertaining from a historical point of view (though not I suppose for the Irish)that we were shown in the throne room, the Lion symbolizing England, the Unicorn symbolizing Scotland and the Harp symbolizing Ireland. Please note that to the left of the throne stood a Lion holding a shield with a harp on it and the right had a Unicorn holding a harped shield...if there was anything you didn't catch from the intertwined flower theme, this makes the rest of the story blidingly clear. If you realize the Irish have been free of British Rule since 1922, they've done a fine job of taking care of themselves.

Lastly, I should state that the Castle was full of lovely crystals,furniture, moulding and paintings all handicrafted in Ireland and the Irish have done a good job of 'keeping the good' as they say. I just wished things was a bit more efficiency like in the rest of Northern Europe,...but hey, then maybe they wouldn't be as friendly and lade back as they were.

Schweden

Our friends Johann and Erika had decided to FINALLY get married. They seem to be following the scandinavian tradition of waiting over a decade to get married (our friend Odvin says he is waiting for his three children to pay for his wedding - they're now 2,4, and 6).

It was an August wedding and everything was light and beautiful. What a joy Stockholm airport is compared to London or JFK, no wait, no hastle, no dirt...no people. Then the journey begins--Sweden is a long country and it takes a LONG time to get to the south. There are a lot of Swedes, who have never been south -because it is too far to drive, although they joke it is because they don't speak the language (if a N.Swede and a Southern Swede start speaking at the same time, the Southern Swede will have finished his sentence and his drink by the time the N.Swede finishes the same sentence).

Our first stop is Nykopping, which is a charming town (although in America, I think you'd call it a small boutique strip mall and a dock rather than a whole town). I'd recommend seeing it, but like so many things in these Lutheran countries, you'll have to make it before 6pm or noon on Saturday, because the rest of the week they are CLOSED. I always wonder how these shops make any money, if everyone else is working during their open hours? There must be some govt. assistance (after all, this is Socialistnavia). Also, why haven't the Governments figured out if people have somewhere to go and something to do, maybe Manic Depression and Alcoholism will mysteriously drop? but hey, just 'm.h.o.'

Onward - After Nykopping, we head for Nykjopping (pronounced Ni-shopping). The entire country is made up of towns that sound almost identical or rhyme with one another. It shocks me, more people don't get lost here..however,I think we made up for them during our stay! Nykjopping is fantastic. Super charming, everyone is friendly. However, I can't help but notice - it's 30 years since I was last in Sweden and two things remain the same - despite the EU and everything else. The hotel rooms only seem to have lumpy single beds and the food is still terrible. Thirty Years - in that time, the internet has been invented, cell phones, cable tv, air travel has become insanely cheap and you still can't get a good bed or meal in Sweden! Most of it looks fairly decent like prop food, but sadly it also tastes like prop food. Come on, Sweden -even the English have good food now! Pull yourselves together.

On the other hand...
I found the Swedes to be friendly and warm but in the same breath distant and stern. I like it but I'm familiar with it. My mother's family are Swedish-Finn and there is a lot of time spent hearing about living up to the family, the 'old ones', sisu (something like determination),etc. There are some very harsh judgements but usually we are taught to reserve those only for ourselves.

The wedding is at Mauritzbergs Slottskapell and afters at Mauritzbergs Slotts, for that matter. The castle is 'klein aber fein' and I find myself taking a million photos of the interiors. The wedding ceremony is just like everybody else's in Europe, except that twice during the ceremony they have songs where the couple stand: one time staring at the singer and then, standing and staring at all of us. This I find rather bizarre but practical. Something that you will definitely remember this day by..look around. These people all love you and this is one of the historical dates in your life about to wizz past you....

well, unless it's a Swedish wedding. In other countries, there may be one, two or a few speeches but at this particular wedding, speeches literally last 6 hours and guess what, they are ALL in Swedish (I know that's no surprise, but despite my interest in Scandi-cinema and my nack for languages, I really don't understand speeches in Swedish). It is also Swedish tradition that couples are split up onto different tables so that they can socialize. This works beautifully for my husband who is in his kilt (like catnip for female wedding guests 'of a certain age'). He is seated at a table brimming full of half-drunken fun loving swedes, who translate everything and I hear his laugh above the rest in the hall after more than one joke. I, on the other hand, have been put next to some one dressed like Roy Rogers who I actually think may not speak English and a very well mannered man, who has a child of a similar age (his wife didn't come out of exhaustion) and who spent six years in Lawrence, Kansas selling tractors . Shockingly, I too have passed through Lawrence and we enjoy the 15 minute topical exchange accordingly. Sadly, by the end of the third bottle of wine, I have nothing to contribute about tractors and see he is drinking a great deal more than most of the Kansans I know (Kansas having entire teatotal counties) and the translation skills seem to have gone the way of the second course. So, I sit and think of how Queen Elizabeth must have to go through most of her life like this. Smiling politely as if I understand so that no one might feel put out but bored and exhausted to the point of tears.

At midnight, we are invited to the library of the Slott for Coffee and avec (which is rather redundant to those of you who speak french) but avec obviously means, 'gentleman's desert'. I try my best to dance to what - to my ears are the worn-out hits of Motown, so overplayed they no longer strike any emotion in my American ears and I long for the exotic sounds of Abba, the Village People, Kylie... all the songs the Swedes probably never want to hear again! Despite my exhaustion but gratitude to have switched surroundings, the Roy Rogers character now decides that he will open up and share with me his dreams of American Swing music, of an entire town in Sweden full of - and I kid you not - Rock-a-billies, his trips to Graceland and multiple tours of the DEEEP South! Occasionally, I seem to find myself in these situations, where I feel like a character in a Jim Jarmusch movie bunched together in a strange and incongruent ensemble - this would be one of those times.

Most of my life is spent between feeling like a Jarmusch character or some sort of Whit Stillman/Fellini character bored at the ball, chasing the next afterparty, hiding in an opera stars dressing room,etc. Now is a time I wish I were in my secondary role!!

However, the bride and groom are terribly charming and very lovable and they are also the only people I knew before attending this wedding. I'm thrilled to see them but pass out shortly after a few wonderful hours of hanging out with them and their siblings. I'd like to blame it on the hours of speeches, but it may be more due to the open bar and constantly flowing wine which is mandatory at this sort of event in Sweden (imagine, the bar bill - I begin to see the real reason they wait to get hitched!).

Sunday is spent recovering and driving back up to to Stockholm. It takes so long to get there, that my hang-over is indeed miraculously healed as we park and wander all the absolutely wonderful streets! Stockholm is the perfect mix of homogenious and heterogenous culture at the same time. All of the cleanliness, organization and intellectualism of Scandinavia mixed with the interest in international culture. It's full of beautiful historic buildings, a handful of ultra hip modern ones and lots of stores and coffee shops. We have for the last time of this trip, what I think is one of the worst meals of my life at what no Italian would call an Italian restaurant, I believe with the name 'Bella Italia'. However, as always the service was incredibly polite, friendly and completely mulit-lingual! The coffee houses seem to be more populated than the restaurants and I can see why. However, I absolutely LOVE Stockholm. If it weren't for the manic winters, I'd live here IN A HEART BEAT. I even know what I could do for a living - I'd start a restaurant!

Journey to the end of the world (iceland)

Iceland - cold,beautiful, strong, nordic and alone. An isolated civilization of pure bloods who claim they're not quite European. We get off the plane and it's a typical scandinavian airport - modern-sleek,clean, efficient, child-friendly and with the cheapest booze in their country (most of which still costs 3 times what it would in the UK). Judging from the duty free and the sunshine deprivation in winter, I'd geuss there are a few of the social problems,which we see occuring in their genetic brethren in Denmark and Norway. Although, if I were to compare the Icelandics I met to any Scandinavian culture, I would say they were most like the Swedish. Polite with that rather rigid formality I personally find very attractive. They are friendly but outspoken and direct. Everyone knows what is right from wrong and no one shies away from direct eye contact. This directness almost led to a breakdown in a British friend, who went to live with family up there and find his roots (obviously he has rooted in the UK since..). However, being American with a touch of sisu, I find myself at home with them and I feel an incredible calling from the nature.

Our first day, we rent a car and drive the 'Golden Circle' (a must for all tourists). We see the slash in the earth where the North American and Eurasian fault lines have colided and the swirly lava immediately hardened as it hit the ice winds torrenting over the volcano. The wind is so strong I can barely see without glasses and our baby who can barely walk in her oversized ski suit braces me against a gust that could easily have carried other children into the nearby waterfalls. It is here that Iceland's two most important poets are buried, the cemetary is set up for the most influential Icelandics and I'm impressed to see they've kept it empty instead of filling it with not-so-noteworthies just to fill the space. I imagine Bjork will be buried here.

The second part of the Golden Circle is a visit to Geyser - literally the original after which all others were named. On a part of the earth which looks like the moon there are quite a few of these geysers like heating cauldrons in the earth ready to dramatically shoot up violently, streaming sulphuric bursts, which are carried through the clean gusty air. We attempt to go as a family but the wind is too strong and we have to wait and take turns with the camera because even though the baby is clamped into the stroller, the wind is whipping the entire mechanism around like a paper ball, with an eary similarity to a special effect from a horror movie.

Finally we (literally wind on our heels) hop in the car and then drive and drive and drive. Iceland is one of those funny places -I suppose like Idaho. The Germans call it 'schoen-langweilig' (beautiful boring) for those long spread out spaces, which are lovely to the eye but uneventful and even monotonous. Along our way, one suddenly sees tiny settlements of three and four houses at a time. What Icelanders call 'towns', we might use the word 'po-dunk'. I'm not even sure some of them would be allowed to be called farmsteads in the US, where everything is so much bigger. It is really like going back in time and I'm so happy to know there is somewhere still that is what we Europeans were. Everyone is white, everyone is christian (or questioning), everyone knows their neighbor, everyone helps their neighbor. I'm sure there is all the bickering, agony and ennui that comes with life in such a small and secluded area and I'm sure I couldn't live like this..but I'm so happy there are still people in the world who can,do and choose to.

After about an hour, we arrive at the Great Waterfall and it is intense. I think it must be like Ushuwaya or Victoria falls. All I can compare it to is the Rhein Falls and there's no comparison. It's monumental and alive. People here believe that nature is very much alive. There are people,who still believe in gnomes and nymphs and elves and giants and I see why. If I lived here, so would I. I had a kind of religious experience with the falls during my climbing and if you are a person who believes in spirits or presences, there are very many good ones here but I do think they're mostly christian spirits;). It is a Healing and positive and purely spiritual experience. Thank you for seeing me. I am so happy to have come to you.

We go home exhausted and wind-whipped. Iceland is notoriously the most expensive country in Europe and we have made a pact to make a game of doing it as cheap as we can (after all, we're going to NY shopping next:). The cheap'n' cheerful place recomended by the guidebook is Nahn Thai and it is by far THE WORST Thai or ethnic food I have ever eaten before 3 a.m.! I am convinced that my Pad Thai has been made by covering noodles in ketchup and mayonaise but since it's a local hang-out I can't help but thinking these people have inherited that Scandi-palate that will eat anything covered in Mayonaise (anyone who's been to Sweden, knows what I'm talking about and my mother is a classic example of this - I swear the woman'd eat a rat if you dipped him in enough mayo!).

Well, what did you expect --it's sort of nice to think they still don't have decent Thai because they are actually very isolated and on the other end of the world from Thailand. That just doesn't happen anymore! Anywhere in 5 out of 7 continents you can always find a decent Curry, Chinese or Pizza! This is the last junction!

Sunday morning, we wake up to find 300 rural Pennsylvanians in our lobby. So much for discovering new territory. They're not only visiting Iceland but on their way to an island in Greenland called 'melting island' because no one knew it was an island until the last few years when the global warming had melted down the area surrounding it! Only eight people have been there but that's obviously about to change. My first reaction is that I too want to go and then, I think but how awful I don't want it to become stomped on and polluted like everywhere else we humans have mowed over. This is a tormenting dychotomy that lies with me the rest of the trip, esp. on our first stop at the waterfalls and glacier at Skogar.

At skogar we park the car trying to use the park's 'facilities'as a wind barrier - not to much avail) and then walk up to see these lovely waterfalls. I go and fill the baby's bottle with the fresh water from the spring and take a volcanic rock to have a piece of this moment...and then, feeling guilty. 'What happens if everybody takes a rock' throw it back and hope everybody else will too...

From the waterfalls, past the glacier and into the abandoned town-cum-museum, Skogar takes about another hour. Arriving in the museum, I am a little 'weirded' out by the things the locals seem to find valuable. It's almost depressing - lots of worn-out old silver plate, bitty bits of junk jewelry, and then the next room is full of the things they've found in the ground, which sounds like it'd be worse than something locals would donate but it is the opposite. The room is full of whale bones which the ancestors used for all sorts of clever purposes - vertebrae as stools, rib cages as cow-shed separators, shaved into sharp and blunt instruments and even bowls. There is a ship and a large assortment of containers...primarily for alcohol. There is also a photo of a group of people, who were lost at sea in a shipwreck and one sees how nice it is. A culture where people are dependant on each other, where they KNOW each other, REALLY know, and they remember. Not like our Amerika or UK, full of old monuments with names only historians and amateur geneologists take the time to read.

After a more surreal walk through the recreation of a 50s era Icelandic living room and what would appear to be a Victorian family's private collection of stuffed animals and insects (including a two-headed goat), we decide to see the other buildings outside the main 'museum'. There are some charming trogledite houses one might imagine sorcerers or gnomes living in or perhaps a gypsy character from an Opera or a hermit friend of Asterix'. Then there is a small but clean and well preserved church and then there are a few old farm houses.

The farm houses are as long as my apartment in London but house 4-6 adults! One of them is literally a two-room house and the beds are of beautiful carved wood head-to-toe-to-head-to-toe lining the rooms. There are beautifully preserved books and bibles and a well-used kitchen. It appears as though it was a very hard but a very honest life. Truly mixed feelings strike me. Sometimes, living the jaded big-city life with pleading commercials and flashy newsclips I forget that I can have an emotional reaction to something! There is something about thinking of how this isolated life with torturous winters, not much food and self-reliance for entertainment fills me with terror (but that's probably from too many Sundays living in Zurich)! At the same time, I am full of respect for what appear to be hard-working,decent God fearing people, who lived here. My husband's grandmother is from the Orkney Islands and we think to ourselves this is very similar to how their farm was at the turn of 1900.

Lastly, we go into the Gallery to ask a few questions - I'm intrigued -are the nobility of Iceland Danish or really Icelandic? Is this more of a colony,where people were sent after the Vikings hacked down all of the forests that once covered this bare land? Why would someone stay here? Come here? Where do most of their visitors come from and I am surprised to hear that a good sum are indeed Americans, who's ancestors came with the other Scandinavians to start farms in the mid-west on the promise of free land and (and I'm quoting) the much easier winters (which if you've been to Minnesota or Wisconsin might put things in perspective)! I might also ad that the curator notified me all the homesteads were lived in until 1970! yes, 1970 not 1870!

Well, enough on our Skogar day. Monday we went into Reykjavik (travel tip: we rented the car for sunday as well- because a lot of European towns are closed on sunday and Reykjavik is def. one of them). The old town is charming and I have not only the BEST pizza of my life there but that evening we discover that all of us (including baby) LOVE eating whale! It's absolutely delicious!!! Literally Steak of the Sea!
Wandering around Reykjavik doesn't take long and I never do see the lead singer of Blur (who's SUPPOSEDLY moved there). The old town is very charming but only a few blocks long and most of it is ...well, sadly depressing. Lots of shale covered houses and buildings like you might find in Northern Ireland or other depressed areas. It's a lot like Orkney with the weird shale houses, the weird lack of trees, etc.

I try to visit the National Library, which has been bragged about to me by every Icelander I've ever known. Then we hit the Historical museums--all of which are worth seeing.

As our last day, we did the mandatory 'Blue Lagoon', which is an incredibly beautiful somewhat natural springs spa complete with grotto also there are both normal saunas, hot springs and hot springs saunas -just in case, you wanted to fully inhale that sulphuric smell on a seriously hot scale -that one was a quick walk in and walk out for me.

Lastly, we went all the way out to the 'VIKING VILLAGE'. Being an American, I can't help but think it's going to be an amusing kitchig icelandic disney world ' ye olde viking lande',etc. but we are sadly let down that it is just a restaurant. However, they do serve all the weird and wonderful dishes and drinks the Vikings had, so if you're ever in Reykjavik, be sure to go and say, I sent you 'Taak Bless'.

around the world in 80 ways

Something very strange happened last week. My mother had brought my Alumnae Magazine over to us and I read in it about an ex-friend. In fact, she was one of my two best friends at Smith, but I hadn't spoken with her in over a decade. Recently for some reason, not having thought of her in years and using her newfound married name, I googled her. To my shock, I discovered she died from breast cancer last month (literally around when I started thinking of her).

The year after graduation and the year of our estrangement, we both spent working on Capitol Hill. It was a terrible year for me. I had NO money working in a government job (be it a glam one), my student loans I found had gone bad WHILE I was still in school, my mother offered no support as she had never approved of my going to college and found it embarrassing that I worked in politics,
my long term alzheimer's patient father died the November, I became involved in an abusive relationship with a powerful man in a nearby office, I hated passionately the georgetown student share ghetto house I lived in. (hang on reader, it turns around) Aside from the networking and the parties, everything was black. In fact, if I look at the ten years that have passed since college graduation. They have not been fun. There have been tests and pain and poverty and alienation and loneliness..up until really purely, this last year. Which for the first time in my life is a nice time. A normal time. A decent, respectable and stable time and I'm so appreciative of all the things which must bore other people, because to me little things like a sunday roast or knowing your local mailman are exotic and exquisite little joys.
Much like, when I went to the little Methodist Sunday School. I was never in the 'in' click. I was maybe - too much--trips to Europe, always reading classics, going to the Opera, relatives with titles..I'd never fit in but I so enjoyed the wholesome innocence of all of my peers there. I felt right at home, though I doubt that they saw me as one of them. I suppose it was the same with this friend and that is why when she altered like a chameleon in her new job, I didn't fit in.


Only now in hindsight, do I realize that it seems quite common for people to have a friend from college who completely changes and with whom you fall out of contact - some to be recovered on facebook and some becoming like urban myths-stories passed on from other ex-mutual friends at the bi-annual drinks or at alum get togethers.

The funny thing that's come out of all of this is... Here we are ten years later and this fre-nemy, who had it 'quite easy'...a well paid handsome husband, a house, kids,etc. She's dead and me, I'm still alive. I'm alive.
Not to sound like a Resnais film ...

I also, realized that you can be a loser in your twenties but a winner in your thirties or a winner in your twenties and a loser in your thirties. Someone, who can date well and make lots of cash may be unable to experience intimacy or have the determination and negotiating skills to retain a marriage scenario. Life doesn't get decided at college graduation or at 30 or even in your 50s. Look at Nora Effron or the latest Mrs. Juliani or even, an over the hill broke middle aged C List Actor well past his prime... became RONALD REAGAN, who like him or not went on to be a two time president and happily married.

I wish all of the deceased's family peace and most of all, I wish her peace and I forgive her for whatever secrets she didn't want me knowing or judging or whatever she felt she could gain by staying in her place.