The Sun Also Rises

i was alone, i took a ride, i didn't know what i would find there

2011-02-03T02:59:00.000-08:00

The death of a blog is inevitable. I was very fond of this one, but I think it's run its course. Did you notice how I used "it's" and "its" correctly there?

Thank you for reading, commenting, encouraging, taking my surveys. Or just stopping by. I'll undoubtedly be starting a new one for my time in Korea. It will probably be more of a sequel blog than anything.

Goodbye. :)

She said "boy, pick yourself off the ground" and I said "I'm trying"

2011-01-27T09:24:00.000-08:00

Samira, a beautiful, reserved, 18-year-old Moroccan girl, was introduced to us on our second day in Essaouira. She was the daughter of Aziz, the jaunty, crazy man who sold us necklaces and stories on the beach. Aside from money, he was interested in exchanging goods for his jewelry.

"Do you have a mobile phone or a bikini? My daughter would love a bikini. The quality here is very bad," he made a face.

I was confused. "When would she wear a bikini? Not here." I gestured toward the ocean.

"No no. When they go to the bathing hole. Just women. Then she can wear it. But it is bad, the ones here."

We didn't end up trading bathing suits (awkward) with him, but Emma grabbed a pair of old jeans and a t-shirt from the hotel room, and offered them. In return, he gave her a vividly blue necklace – a very important one which had secretly come over a border with him – which he claimed to be one of a kind and of great value. We later saw the exact same necklace sold in shops throughout Ouarzazate. Fair enough; it was still a good story.

After chatting a while and asking him questions about his three wives and many children, he suddenly became really excited.

"You can meet my daughter! She owns a store in the village. Come, come."

Emma and I looked at each other. Essaouira is a beach town, known for a music festival, "the Moroccan Woodstock," which attracts hippies. Apparently Jimi Hendrix had visited in the '70s and made quite an impression. Still, its biggest attraction (and the reason for our visit) was the beach which meant we had lots of free time for meeting the random daughters of quirky, multilingual salesmen.

"Okay." We agreed, not knowing what to expect. My mother later told me that this was the part of our journey where she worried the most. Will sent her a text telling her that "the girls are fine, they're just going to the village of a man they met on the beach."

He led us beyond the large square and down several streets and alleys, chatting the whole way about our surroundings. We finally arrived at a tiny, unobtrusive grocery store, tucked away on a quiet street. It was a typical Moroccan mini store, filled with packaged crackers, cookies, candy bars, cooking supplies, plastic household supplies, etc. Samira was behind the counter, smiling shyly, wearing a headscarf and a long sleeved top over jeans.

She did not, as her father had claimed, speak more than a few phrases in French. Aziz smiled hugely, introduced us, translated back and forth, and then left to continue his beach sales. Emma and I sat down on dirty plastic chairs, and we all communicated through hand movements, body language, bits of Arabic, English, French, and laughter. Lots of laughter.

We fell in love with Samira, mostly because she was affectionate and adorable, but also because we were excited to meet a girl our age, communication issues or not. That night we took her out for dinner, and Emma brought my notebook so that we could talk through pictures. We drew a picture of our entire family, and she did the same for us. I then showed her some of the old pictures we had drawn on our trip. This included a drawing of all the characters in Gossip Girl. I don't think she ever fully understood that particular sketch, despite my effort to explain to her that it was on T.V. by drawing a little box with an antenna. (Okay, maybe I forgot the antenna). I can only assume she thought they were our attractive extended family.

At some point in the evening, I noticed that she was wearing an engagement ring, and what looked to be a wedding ring.

"Vous etes mariee?" Are you married? I asked in French, pointing at the ring.

She looked at it and nodded. Crazy.

Later on we asked if her husband would miss her while she was out with us. Or rather, we drew a picture of a man behind a window in a house crying. We then drew the three of us girls far away from the house.

"Won't he," I pointed to the ring, "Be sad that you're out?" I pointed at the picture.

She shrugged. Later, we spoke to her father and he told us that she was engaged, not married. She must have thought we were really, really weird.

**

Ouarzazate, the next city we visited, is known for being a popular Hollywood film location. Lawrence of Arabia, Star Wars ('77), The Mummy, Gladiator, were all shot in Ouarzazate. So was The Hills Have Eyes 3, or so we were informed by a friendly young shopkeeper. Part of his front wall was filled with pictures, all containing himself posing with a movie star.

He dropped names of directors and actors that he had driven around for the movie company he worked for. We steered him towards information about the megastars he had met.

"When Leonardo Decaprio was here, he was scared of the people. He only went from his trailer to the set. But Ridley Scott made him wave to the crowd one day."

And what about Brad?

"Brad Pitt was good. He was walking out around here, you know. We were told not to bother him."

"How was Julia Roberts?"

"Julia Roberts!" His eyes lit up. "She was so nice. So friendly. She told them she didn't want a body guard, she just needed me to walk with her and translate."

The picture of him with Julia Roberts is in the bottom left corner of the photo collage. She looks casual; no makeup, hair pulled back, but her famous smile stretches across her face and she is radiant.

up where they stay all day in the sun

2011-01-24T12:51:00.000-08:00

Dinner with the Basha was, well, filling.

Rewind to the day before. Will's host brother, Mohammed, invites us to have breakfast the next morning. Will declines for the sake of sleep, and suggests lunch instead (dinner is booked with the Basha). I am not nervous at this point. Although every meal we've eaten with a host has been unending and completely stuffing, I figure I can handle a lunch and dinner out on the same day. After all, I'm a Stewart. We foodfest well.

The next morning, in accordance with the plan, we sleep in. At about ten, Will teaches us how to make non-lumpy crepes, and we eat them with peanut butter and dark chocolate.

Then, not in accordance with the plan, Will's middle-aged female neighbor drops by. She is upset that she hasn't been granted a meal slot with the visiting sisters, and she insists that we come over. Will explains that we have a lunch date with his host family. She persists; assuring us she simply wants to feed us a bit of couscous. Fine.

We trek on over and discover that, no it is not just a bit of couscous; it is a three course meal. Will hasn't taught his acquaintances much English beyond "What's up" and "Not much" (useful, eh?), but she asks him how to say "Eat," and spends the rest of the time commanding us to do so when we look like we're slowing down.

After the final orange is consumed (all the meals end in eating about two or three oranges each), we get up, exchange kisses and gratitude, and walk straight to Will's host family's house for our next lunch. Will assures us that if worse comes to worse, he will explain our first lunch hijacking, and we won't be obligated to eat. This explanation, of course, never happens.

Meals with Will's (ex) host family generally take about three to four hours. We sit along the walls on large cushions (a majilis), talk a bit, and then engage in communal T.V. watching. The ancient (great?) grandparents are sprawled on the cushions along the right wall, sleeping away. The rest of us: Will's host brother and sister, sometimes the mother, are seated along the left wall. The T.V. is partially obstructed by a large heater. The temperature inside the house is colder than outside – designed to cool down for the 10 months of incredible heat. (Will says during the summer he sleeps on the roof and pours buckets of water over himself throughout the night).

The movies playing are a bizarre variety of B movies, Sci Fi, and unknown sequels (Fay Grim?). All of them are dramatic and involve death or torture. They are thankfully in English with Arabic subtitles. Am and I later discussed how the selection probably affects their view of America. Or at least American taste in television.

**

We finally finish the lengthly lunch at the host family's house. Will's host sister asks him how to say something in English. He writes it down for her and she turns to us and says "Would you like to come with me to see our big garden?" Adorable, but unfortunately a useless phrase for anything except inviting people to view large gardens.

She leads us out the back door, through the door in the back garden wall, and down a path. Emma is throwing her Egyptian Arabic nouns at her, and they laugh as they try to communicate through body language and bits of language. I linger back, lost in thought, leaving the shady path to walk in the sunlight. Our time in Morocco is ending, and I'm not looking forward to the return. In the tourist trap cities, the distractions made it easy to switch into vacation mode, but in Tinjedad we have lots of lounging time; time for my mind to wander. If there was a way to sell vacation brains to use on holiday that left all the everyday stuff behind, someone would make a killer profit.

We hit the "large garden" and it turns out to be rows of fields where old women are sitting on the ground working with the crops. It is not beautiful by conventional garden terms; there are no bursts of flowers, no trees, no variety. But it is real, it is honest, and it is Morocco. Dusty, dirty, warm. We kneel on the ground to greet the women with the customary kisses, and one of them grips onto me as I pull away, jerking me back into a prolonged hug/kiss thing.

**

It is about 4:30 when we join Will for his lesson at the Basha's house. The Basha has decent English, and excellent French which he often switches into and asks me to translate. He says "Hello" to us with such strange tones/stresses ("Halloooo") that I almost laugh, thinking that he's making fun of the language. Nope.

There are cakes and cookies and tea set out for us. After our late breakfast and two huge lunches, we aren't exactly peckish, but we consume the obligatory few to be polite.

He is very friendly and inquisitive, writing down every other sentence we say to study later. (I'm very grateful my friends don't do this to me.) He asks us what we do, where we've been in Morocco, and how it has met with our expectations. Will isn't talking much; he has been feeling sick for a little while.

After an hour of chatting, the Basha turns to Emma. "So. Are you very hungry?" Will has told us to say yes to this or we will be in his house for hours and in the restaurant for more.

Emma answers jokingly saying she's always hungry. He doesn't quite understand her – maybe "always" is tripping him up. So she gets more dramatic. "I'm always hungry," she waves her hands, "If you don't stop me, I'll eat that and that," she points at objects, "and this cushion," she mimes eating the cushion.

He laughs at this. "You will regret that," he teases. We don't quite know what he means, but we all laugh.

He then asks me if I am really hungry and if we should go to the restaurant. "Really hungry." It would be one thing to agree to being kind of hungry, or reasonably hungry, but to say I am really hungry when I'm considering launching a career in bullemia – well it seems a bit dishonest.

I squirm and shrug. "Whatever you all want to do."

Will, pale and sweaty, is not happy with my answer. "Just tell him you are," he mutters. He doesn't look so hot.

The Basha is also not satisfied with my answer. "No. You must tell me if you are very hungry."

I shrug again. "Yeah let's go to the restaurant." I am a liar. But I'm lying to save my brother's health and rescue ourselves from hours of methodical, repetitive English discussions.

We trek off to the restaurant. It is extremely nice, and I am delighted by the sit-down toilet stocked with both toilet paper and soap. I recommend it to Emma.

Our starters are thick round loaves of Moroccan bread and olives. The Basha tears off a huge piece for Emma, the girl who is "always hungry." She smiles and eats it.

We discuss the practice of polygamy in Morocco. He says it's not very common anymore because the Koran commands the husband to treat all his wives exactly the same which is impossible. Technically I suppose it is, but this seems to be an odd interpretation. I'm pretty sure you're supposed to treat all your kids equally, but that doesn't mean down to the number of cornflakes in the breakfast bowl.

He seems surprised when we tell him that polygamy isn't practiced in the States because it's illegal. I'm surprised that he doesn't know this. Will tells him that men might have a girlfriend on the side, but they wouldn't marry more than one woman at the same time. Also, many people divorce and then remarry.

He insists that these amount to the same thing. We argue otherwise. I cannot help myself and throw in that Moroccan women aren't allowed more than one husband and this is unequal. He says it's very fair because they can easily get a divorce.

Looking back, he had a reasonable point: in both countries people have difficulty sticking to one spouse.

The rest of the meal passes fairly uneventfully except that my body is angry at me for forcing it to expand. Also, the Basha finds it terribly funny to keep adding food to Emma's plate. Five pieces of chicken. Extra bread. It all piles on. "You said you're always hungry." Ah, yes. Emma is stubborn, and always up for a challenge. She digs into everything, declaring that it tastes really good. Occasionally she tries to put food back on the main plate but he stops her.

I am becoming increasingly irrational – or rational – and have decided that I don't care about protocol, I refuse to continue stuffing myself. This results in a plate of half touched food.

"You told me you were very hungry," the Basha says, eying my plate.

"I lied, sir. I was stuffed. We wanted an early night so we told you we were ready to eat in order to wrap things up." These were not the words that came out of my mouth. Nope. I came up with: "I guess I was wrong." He doesn't understand. "Je n'ai pas..." I can't remember how to say right. Raison. I point to my brain and shake my head. "I was wrong." This is probably good practice for future argument resolutions: "I was wrong, I was wrong, I was wrong."

He's not buying it. "But you said you were very hungry." At this point someone jumped in and changed the subject. Or the waiter came. Either way, Emma and I learned our lesson. Don't tell someone you're very hungry when you're very full.

we actually flew, and killed a pirate or two - but we're home, of that we're very glad

2011-01-24T02:45:00.000-08:00

In Morocco, everything felt closer to nature. Depositing your excrement into a hole in the ground. Heating water over an open flame and then pouring it over yourself as a shower. Using blankets as a new heating system. Watching a skinny, grinning butcher cut your beef off the hind quarter of a cow that he has hanging. Drinking orange juice from actual oranges.

**

When you meet someone, you shake hands (opposite gender), or are violently attacked (same gender) with kisses on the cheek. We couldn't figure out the kissing methodology – sometimes it was one on each side and then two on the other, sometimes it was only two, sometimes it was four...

After you shake hands in greeting, you put your hand to your heart. I liked this. If something is good, you can say "Zwayna," and curl your figures and flick them out like a twinkling star motion. "Keef keef," (same, same), had its own hand motion.

**

The avocado juice was a special moment. After our first day in Marrakech, we met up with Anna and Jessie, her visiting bubbly, fairy friend. Jessie had a guide book – what a clever idea – and was packed with information from an article she had read before arriving. Her guide book, The Lonely Planet, had a lot of useful information, and occasionally attempted a witty comment. One restaurant was recommended – with the caveat that "the avocado juice is best avoided."

Amadeus and I found this hilarious: when wouldn't avocado juice be avoided? It sounded vile. As it turns out, it's a big drink in Morocco and can be found at all the juice stands. No problem; I could use it to practice my no's. And then Will started texting us about the concoction, insisting that we try avocado almond juice at Cafe Amsterdam in Ouzazete. First we ignored his texts. So he called and insisted we that we try it. Am and I discussed it, and decided we would halfheartedly look for the cafe – and we couldn't find it.

Will called again with very specific directions. At this point we debated to simply lie to him and tell him we tried it. No. That wouldn't be a fun bedside confession. We went inside Cafe Amsterdam and ordered one to share.

It was the most unbelievably wonderful, fresh, milkshakey creation. The almonds add a delightful nutty flavor, and the avocado taste was present, but not overwhelming. Our fears had been groundless.

**

I also ate sheep liver and possibly stomach, while avoiding brains and other organs. This was a less charming experience.

Will, Jeff, Am, and I were all invited to dine with a local cafe owner, an older man who knew Will. The invitation went something like this: we had just arrived and Will, Am, and I were pulling our luggage down the street. We passed a large cafe/restaurant, and a man called out to him. This was not his first shout out – in Tinjedad, he is a rock star, and half the town shouted greetings as we walked. But this man insisted that we come over and have tea and bread with olive oil. We dragged our bags up and stuck them in a hallway which led to an outdoor seating area at the back of the cafe.

The man's teeth were black, and his face was middle aged – 40's? – and very animated. He started to raise his voice, speaking loudly and quickly at Will in Arabic and gesturing unhappily. Will argued back, smiling, protesting and shaking his head. In between bouts of contention, he explained that the man was saying something like "shame on you for ignoring your friend." He wanted us to eat dinner with him, but Will had told him we were fully booked with his host family, and the basha, the appointed government official in Tinjedad. Finally they settled on a dinner date that evening.

Which is when I discovered couscous with sheep's innards.

"Try it! They'll love you!" my brother was encouraging me into a sort of food prostitution. However, this was some love that I could refuse – except that I was a little bit curious. Hence the tiny piece of liver and stomach.

**

I listened to the audio version of "Three Cups of Tea" a few years ago. I don't remember the exact story behind the three cups of tea in Pakistan, except that I think it equates to some sort of friendship: share one cup, you're acquainted; two, you're friends; three, you're bosom buddies.

Morocco was more about five cups of tea. (Takes a longer time to build relationships?) Or As Many Cups of Tea As We Can Convince You To Try. Moroccan tea is incredibly sweet (they like sweet things), and it is unfiltered. It is poured from about eight inches above the small glass cup. When you don't want any more, you say "Al humdillah" ("Praise God") and shake your head smiling.

After five cups during the afternoon, and several more at dinner, I asked Will about the caffeine content. He shrugged.

knowing I'm on the street where you live

2011-01-17T11:18:00.001-08:00

"We like big women here...like onions," Aziz said, gesturing a large curve with his hands. "You know, we feed them couscous to get big." He went on to tell us that girls buy pills at the store to help them gain weight. I'd like to write that infomercial.

"You want space cakes?" The man was pointing to dubious looking brownies, sandwiched between various other goodies. "They will give you 15 minutes of happiness."

"I will give you the entire store for one kiss." This was a younger man. I was starting to wonder if all their English was sales terms and pickup lines.

We politely declined the offer, claiming a boyfriend and a husband. He figured out the husband was fake when Emma tried to switch her ring to the proper finger in front of him. The boyfriend he didn't seem to find problematic.

Will's apartment is on the side street of a row of nearly identical looking unfinished cement buildings. He says the stretch of buildings occasionally gives him a surreal "am I in a video game" feeling sometimes. As we arrive outside, pulling our two suitcases, backpack, grocery bags, bulky coats and ukulele, he stops us before we enter.

"I have a no dirt policy," he says, staring at the bags we have dragged through the dirt and rocks for the past ten minutes.

"Seriously?" I want to laugh at this point. The idea of fighting the all consuming dust and dirt of this country is...laughable.

"Yes," he is barely listening to me, staring at our suitcases and working out the problem in his head.

"What do you want us to do? Hose them down?" Emma says. She is joking.

He looks at her thoughtfully. "Maybe something similar."

Em and I go inside and leave him to figure it out. It has been a long, hot day. Our morning was spent shopping for groceries he might not have easy access to: peanut butter, tapenade, corn flakes, etc. Then we rushed around town looking for the grocery store we had actually meant to use, hurriedly asking locals in French and then following their hand gestures (their replies got a bit complicated for my rusty language ability).

Deciding to split up and save time (needing to make a 3.5 hour busride; only one a day), Em went on to the store while I went to pack and check out. 20 minutes later, she returned, out of breath, to where I stood at the front of the hotel.

"You have the key, I couldn't pack," I informed her.

"You have the money, so I couldn't buy anything," she returned.

Fail. We went into fastforward mode and completed our errands, making our bus with 20 minutes to spare, and managing to not lose the everpresent ukulele.

The uke was a Christmas gift to Will that arrived two days after Christmas; one day after his departure from Sweden. Our holiday turned into a quest to deliver the ukulele unharmed. After nearly leaving it on several buses and listening to it jolt around on various truck, taxi and bus rides, we finally united it with its owner.

"Are you doing your best?

Are you even trying? Your best, Will, your best. Look back at the best you had to give.

And don't forget your sense of humor. Please."

These are bold, black words, printed out and hanging on his wall.

As we hopped into a taxi, Will and Emma in front, I in the back with three random women, Will turned around from the front seat with a big grin on his face and enthusiastically announced something to the women.

"What did you say?"

"I told them you were my sisters." Sweet, right?

"Do you know them?"

"No, but I didn't want them to think you were hookers." Less sweet.

ma vie, aisha si tu m'aime

2011-01-16T10:43:00.000-08:00

Typing in the Cybers (internet cafes) here drives me crazy.

We have not continued with our nightly poetry sessions. This is not surprising.

I am addicted to daily fresh glasses of orange juice. It took one glass initiate this.

The smells are less overwhelming than the dust and noise.

Amadeus and I have been reacquainted with the squatty potties from previous Middle Eastern experiences. Not bad unless the lights are out, the floor is questionable, and the toilet paper is out. Then I want to be a man. There are other times I wish I was a man here, but for different reasons.

This trip has allowed Willikins to develop his big brother side, and we get constant texts like "Don't talk to anyone wearing over the top Turbans or Rastas" and "Don't walk too far down the beach where there aren't people. I got robbed at knifepoint on that beach" and "Make sure you drink lots of liquids if you start puking."

We have met extraordinarily colorful and friendly people, both locals and foreigners. The locals are amused by our Egyptian Arabic words. Amadeus has told me that the reason people don't leave us alone is that I laugh when I say no. She often does the same thing, and has broken a few hearts. They'll get over it.

We visited Anna, Will's girlfriend who is also in the Peace Corps. Coming back from having tea with her zany boss, wife, and child, she told us that she wonders if the entire experience will feel like a strange dream when she returns home.

When we first arrived at the city near Anna's site, it was dark and we were confused about walking to our next stage of transportation. Our driver to the city kept telling us that there wasn't transportation to her small town because it was night. He offered to drive us the remainder of the way for a fee, adding that it was dangerous. We declined after talking to Anna, and I informed him in French that she would be picking us up. Actually I probably said something like "my friend had be coming here." Stupid tenses.

On the 30 min. drive to her site, Amadeus and I opted for sitting in the truckbed, shrugging off warnings of cold. This was a silly move, and we hunched down to avoid the brunt of the wind, wrapped in jackets and scarves and singing pop songs at the top of our lungs. As we each ended a different song, we immediately started another at the same time - the exact same song, completely unplanned. We got a bit shrill in our excitement over this accidental jinx (think a couple of exitable friends meeting up after a summer apart), and suddenly the truck was swerving to the side of the road, convinced by the noise that one of us had fallen off.

**

It's a beautiful country.

Take my hand, want to believe

2011-01-09T02:36:00.000-08:00

Our Moroccan phone has a wonderfully full sounding music quality. Every time we are contacted, it's like a symphony. Naturally, we chose a full length country music song as our text tone.

Instead of journaling our daily happenings, Amadeus and I have decided to write a poem each night. I will be posting them here. Keep in mind that they are spewn out in a couple of minutes. I am the bird, she is the porcupine. Mine are the records, hers are...artistic. Also, the keyboards are French and I havent figured out apostrophes except long copy paste processes.

Poem 1
Up in the air, an hour to go
Siobhan decides shed like to watch a show
30 kroner she paid for Modern Family
A bit of Hedgehogs, then off went the T.v.

They arrived and it was warm
Went inside the airport and filled in French form
Airport customs was a little bit rude
Til finally they learned the hotel was Sindi Sud

They called dad for Wills number after buying a sim
then called Will for directions, glad for help from him
Taxis pouted, puffed and they whined
Til one man was nice, added another customer behind

They wandered through the square
filled with beggars, food and stares
Were led to their hotel, met the pleasant owner
Settled their stuff; they had no more kroner

Restaurants everywhere, chicken, pork, beef
At last they saw shwarma to feed their hungry teeth
Walking back through crowded night madness
Avoiding scooters, cars, cycles and general man ness

They arrived back safely, tired and full
Ready for the next day in this Arabian Jewel
Years since theyd been back, but they fit right in
Well aside fro, their language and the tint of their skin

Poem 2
Feather in claw, we set out on a trip
porcupine and bird, looking so hip
our gate was hidden by magic of black
so we waited nearby and planned our attack

Soon we were in the belly of an ironic bird
Flying away fro, our icy cold world
In a desert land we arrived, dreary and dazed,
Immediately the police questioned our ways

Where to? And why?How long?How much?
But we bombarded our way through all that stuff
Cleverly a bird and a porcupine snatched up a taxi
eluding with the help of french, arabic, and accents

At last we collapsed in a hotel bathroo,
andreengergized for an adventurous evening
we hunted our food and ate shwarma delight
we coyly deflected men and walked through the night

When birds head started sinking into her feathers
and porcupines spikes felt heavy and weathered
we made our way back to our tiled domain
and slept through the night, together again

Si quelqu'un veut un mouton, c'est la preuve qu'il en existe un

2011-01-07T08:35:00.000-08:00

Paris on a budget in two days.

I’m not a planner. It’s not intentional – I don’t have a set philosophy about how life is more fun when lived spontaneously – I just don’t often end up planning out the details of things. If there are any planners out there getting stressed by simply reading this: let me defend myself:

1) I rarely worry. I am usually not put out by unforeseen circumstances. Therefore, having a plan is generally superfluous to my activities.

2) Everything works out. It really does.

3) You and me, we will get along. You can do all the planning you want, and I will go along with it. I will be happy with whatever you plan, and I will be happy to give any input if you so desire. We will not clash heads over which is the best plan.

With that preface, I would like to share some information about my trip to Paris. This is for planners. I was forced to become one when I accidentally became the leader of my recent trip, and I know that I personally would have liked to have read a detailed, recent account of a budgeted two-day Parisian adventure.

*If, however, you aren’t a planner, you can stop reading. A couple days in Paris is easy to do without any plans. Most of the tourist attractions are very close to each other (walking distance), and when you arrive, you can pick up a free map at the metro station and figure out what you want to see. Popular tourist spots are all marked on the map, and many of them have metro stops named after them.

Transportation

Ryanair offers insanely cheap inter Europe flights. There were one way offers between Stockholm and Paris for $9.00 each.

I honestly have no problem with Ryanair. They have baggage restrictions and a free for all seating policy. Aside from that, I find the experience perfectly fine. The only issue with Ryanair is that it flies to non-central airports – Paris Beauvais – and you have to take a bus to the city.

The bus from Paris Beauvais to the city is 15 euro each way.

The Metro is how we got around. A one way metro ticket is 1.70 euro. We each bought a packet of 10 for 12 euro. We only ended up using about six of these in two days.

You can walk between many of the tourist attractions. We were there in January, and it was cold but not unbearably so.

Costs

Notre Dame: free
Champs Elysees: free (shocker, eh?)
Luxembourg Gardens: free
Eiffel Tower: free to visit/look at. Costs to go up it though.
Sacre Couer: free
Pantheon: 5 euros for 18-25 year olds. under 18 free.
L’arc de Triomphe: free :P
Louvre: free for EU residents under 26.

That’s it for now. I was going to be very detailed and extensive, but I need to go pack for another trip tomorrow. I’m pretty sure this information is already out there anyways. Still, if you have any questions, feel free to comment.

2011: Ring out, Wild Bells

2011-01-01T02:36:00.000-08:00

"You're moving to Switzerland right?"
"No. Sweden."
"Oh."

Sweden doesn't hover on the consciousness of the average American. No, it's not Switzerland. Yes, it's an "sw" country in Europe with a history of neutrality, but it's still not Switzerland.

I understand the confusion and ambiguity – I certainly don't have all of my African and Asian countries down. I can't find most of them on a map, can't pronounce the majority, wouldn't recognize the name of a significant number of them. But I've never had this problem with Sweden. It has always been on the radar as the country of my father's first post.

My father was posted here in 1985, at the age of 26. Swedish has been my parents' secret language for as long as I can remember. Part of the "secret language" plan was for us children to eventually pick up the language. I suppose we weren't as bright as hoped for in that area, as the only Swedish I ever figured out was some of the numbers, (from hearing them discuss restaurant bills every time we ate out), a phrase or two ("watch out!" and "I love you"), and words my mother found funny (the full word for bra sounds like "breast holder.)

My older brother, Will, was born and experienced the luxuries of a toddling around the baby-friendly, carriage-filled city of Stockholm. Baby-friendly to an extent: my mother often recounts being nervous about finding him sucking on rocks outside around the time of the Chernobyl disaster.

When she tells this story, I imagine her as a young mother – 23 – sitting inside watching T.V. and hearing about the nuclear disaster. The radiation was spreading everywhere and – OH NO, young William is playing outside, sucking on now radiated rocks. She runs outside, scoops him up, and removes a tennisball-sized rock from his clenched fist. It is has a dark patch where the drool from his mouth has left a temporary impression.

"No William. No more rocks. Very dangerous," she tells her one-year-old.

I'm almost positive it didn't happen like this.

**

This August was my first, tangible interaction with the country of Sweden. After a few months of halfhearted attempts to learn the language via Youtube, studying its culture through blogs and The Local, I was reasonably prepared to take our relationship offline and meet face to face.

And what a face. Stockholm is unlike any capital I have ever experienced; green, fairly reasonable traffic, filled but not crowded, and dotted with sparkling lakes (now beautifully frozen). Physical attraction, check. I myself, for the first time in my Middle East dominated life, fit in physically: tall and fair with blond hair and blue eyes. No stares, no assumptions.

Now, as 2010 draws to a close, my time in Sweden follows suit. I am on the verge of accepting a contract as an English teacher in South Korea. East Asia has always been a huge question mark in my mind. The culture, food and people I've experienced from the region have always been Americanized. I'm ready to discover them for myself.

My short time in Sweden has been eventful for me personally as well as for Sweden as a country. This summer had unusually high temperatures, but by November, we had started an intense winter: December's temperatures were the coldest in 100 years. In September, the far-right, anti-immigration party won seats in Sweden's parliament for the first time in history. The Center-Right party was reelected for the first time in the past 100 years.

Also in November, Sweden accused the U.S. Embassy of spying on its people. Around the same time period, Julian Assange, editor-in-chief of Wikileaks, was dealing with charges of sexual assault on two different women in Sweden. Then, perhaps the biggest shock of the year, in December, Sweden experienced its first terrorist attack. Only the suicide bomber – a Muslim extremist – himself was killed, but it shook the nation, and brought up issues of latent discontentment among unassimilated groups of immigrants.

**

Last night, New Year's Eve, we watched on television as thousands of Swedes gathered outside at Skansen – the world's first open air museum – to celebrate the new year. There were various musical performances, and then Actor Jan Malmsjo dramatically read Tennyson's "Ring out, Wild Bells," which has been read at Skansen on New Year's Eve since 1897. Landing the job of reading this poem is kind of like being elected a Supreme Court Judge: it's your position until death. Malmsjo has been reading it since 2001. I think it's a lovely way to start a year.

Ring Out, Wild Bells

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,

The flying cloud, the frosty light;

The year is dying in the night;

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring, happy bells, across the snow:

The year is going, let him go;

Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,

For those that here we see no more,

Ring out the feud of rich and poor,

Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife;

Ring in the nobler modes of life,

With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

The faithless coldness of the times;

Ring out, ring out thy mournful rhymes,

But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,

The civic slander and the spite;

Ring in the love of truth and right,

Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;

Ring out the thousand wars of old,

Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand;

Ring out the darkness of the land,

Ring in the Christ that is to be.

Take your protein pills and put your helmets on

2010-12-29T08:15:00.000-08:00

Each year, my siblings and I create a music video. This year we did a couple. Bowie's "Space Oddity", and "Angel of Music" from Phantom of the Opera. I love my Canon 60D, but in camera audio isn't great and it's really hard to hold still.

Enjoy!

don't think too hard about it

2010-12-28T14:25:00.000-08:00

"Är du bra?" The third concerned Swedish lady called to me as she ascended up the hill next to me. Are you okay?

"Yeah," I shouted back, making a face. Her concern wasn't surprising; I was half lying, splayed, halfway up the steep slope leading to the expert skiing hill. No, I hadn't crashed and burned after attempting a fancy new stunt. I hadn't even made it to the top – I had lost control of my skis while riding the T-bar lift up the hill.

We arrived with a group of seven: three of my siblings with their three out of country visitors. And me. Unsurprisingly, I was left without a partner for the lift up the hill. I went first, careful to lean back and not sit, while keeping my feet parallel. It was with a slow motion horror that, 500 meters up the hill, I watched my skis begin to split directions, dragging my feet outwards, yanking my knees toward each other.

I ended up on my back between lines of ascending skiiers, trying to figure out how to stand up. My six companions drifted past me, shouting various bits of conflicting advice, including: "Stand up and wait for an empty one," and "Take your skis off and walk up." I chose the latter (deciding against an accidental trip down the steep slope.)

**

Donc, I spent the initial 45 minutes of my first skiing trip lugging my skis and poles up the side of the hill as 50+ people glided by me on the T-bar. My ski shoes were stiff, unwieldy, and heavy.

When I made it to the top, I discovered that the path to the bunny slope was not actually a path, but the intense intermediate course. Will had practically rolled down. Llama saw this, removed her skis, and walked. Our guests – all of whom were experienced – skiied smoothly down. Emma and I discussed our options. She decided to go for it. I watched as she went headlong down the hill, straight down, and out of sight. She crashed on the other side. Fair enough; she had never learned to do the "S" thing or to stop.

I took a deep breath. I was sick of walking in my lead boots. I was here to ski. Anna – Will's visiting girlfriend – had told me I would be fine. I put my skis on and eased forward. And then I was off, speeding like a maniac, absolutely clueless to how to slow down, or even turn. My heart was doing its "You're an idiot" spastic irregular rhythm, and then suddenly I lost all semblance of control and crashlanded.

My landing was reasonably soft, and the experience had been so thrilling that I was laughing like a nutcase. "Did you see me!" I yelled at Emma, who was still untangling from her fall. "No! Isn't this fun?!" "Yeah!"

Then followed three hours of magic.

**

Life Advice for First Time American Skiiers in Stockholm.

1) Know all of your measurements in metric. Weight, height, foot size. We spent 15 minutes trying to gauge these based off of each other's estimates.

2) When speeding downhill, don't shove your poles into the ground.

3) Sitting down will not stop you. It will actually make you go faster.

food glorious food

2010-12-24T04:14:00.000-08:00

My contribution to our Christmas dinner will be scalloped potatoes because, as my mother put it: "You like potato stuff right?" She was, of course, referring to my obsession with mashed potatoes.

I looked up a scalloped potato recipe online, and the first hit had many positive reviews, including one that began with this line: "I got a call from the man saying he had a yearning for scalloped potatoes."

Come quick! There's a man on the phone and he has a yearning for scalloped potatoes.

**

Swedes don't do eggnog. Actually, many people don't – it seems to be one of those love/hate items. I happen to be a lover. (Yes, you can quote me on that out of context). I believe I spent my sophomore and junior Novembers in college sitting outside of Vons having eggnog chugging contests in the car. My other California years, bereft of fellow eggnog lovers, I simply stocked the fridge and drank them by myself.

Eggnog Time!

This year, without the (Southern) comfort of the easily accessible nectar, I decided to make it myself. I looked up a recipe online and was happy with the results.

I also made roasted cinnamon almonds. I highly recommend the recipe.

Here's some cooking Life Advice :

1) Whiskey and eggnog don't make a wonderful combination. (Possibly a personal taste...)
2) Egg whites will not stiffen if they are compromised with a touch of any other substance. It doesn't matter how long you beat them.
3) Internet recipes with reviews are wonderful. It's a community effort to tweak and adjust recipes until they're perfect.
4) If your family is immature, expect silly comments about taking photos of your nuts.

love lifts us up where we belong

2010-12-15T09:32:00.000-08:00

"I'm late...I'm never late."
"You couldn't handle the truth!"
"Everything you ever told me was a lie!"
"Someone once told me..."

In the fabulous creative writing class I took at Biola, our professor asked us to think of some of the most common movie line cliches. My favorite has always been "Everything you ever told me was a lie!" mostly because it's so dramatic, and really fun to yell at random moments.

**

One of my students has my number and finds it extremely funny to text me 5 minutes before class every week asking me where I am. I actually find it kind of funny too.

Something to do:

Pick an animal and learn how to draw it as a cartoon. Find your favorite cartoon version of it online, print it out, and copy or trace it until you can do it on your own.

**

I'm currently reading On Writing by Steven King. I loved, loved, loved this section. Writing is engaging in telepathy. Yes.

you...you would be mean

2010-12-14T11:44:00.000-08:00

In the mail I have received:

- 2 memory cards
- a battery pack
- a camera carrying bag
- a lens cover
- a Rode microphone

I have not, however, received the amazing Canon 60D camera which I ordered at the same time. These items have been sitting in my room for a week. When I was talking about this at Lifegroup, my friend KZ said it sounded like a good setup for a sermon.

My life is filled with those.

**

Today was a breakthrough. I was walking my doggies when I realized that I didn't mind the cold. In fact, I rather enjoyed the feeling of being bundled up and impenetrable to the forces around me. It was -5 C with winds at 13 km/hr. Before I moved here, I considered anything below 18C to be absurdly cold.

Before today I had vocally questioned why Swedes have stayed here. Why would they stay in a land that is dark and cold for 9 months of the year? Why not just move?

I would look out my window at the hatless pedestrians strolling around in freezing weather, and I would literally shout at them: "What are you doing? The heat is leaving the body through your head!"

But now I know. I understand. I feel like I've been let into an exclusive club.

well i've never seen a king or beast with quite so little hair

2010-12-11T04:56:00.000-08:00

It was 4:15, but the sky was already dark. The snow faintly glowed in a quiet beauty on the sidewalks and lawns of the street I was walking on. A small figure, bundled in a coat and poofy hat, walked 20 meters ahead of me. He must have been about eight – that was one of the pleasant things about Sweden; parents feel safe enough to let their kids walk around by themselves, even in the dark.

I checked the time; it wasn't 4:15, it was 4:20 and the bus was at 4:24. I started to jog. Ahead of me, the boy turned around, saw my increased pace, and burst into a sprint. He looked like he had seen a monster and was running for his life. I smiled to myself at his panic. I guess parents still warn their children about running strangers.

**

Our teaching term ended today, and I've spent the last week picking out my new favorites for Spring semester. These include any kid who gave me something edible as a thank-you/Christmas gift.

learn to find your way in darkness

2010-12-10T00:27:00.000-08:00

Yesterday morning I woke up with the lyrics of "Learn to be lonely" running through my head. Specifically, I woke up with "Learn to be lonely da da da da da" running through my head because it's one of those songs with a memorable chorus and a lot of filler words.

I started to think about the words. Learn to be lonely. What exactly does that mean? If you're lonely, you're meant to give up on relationships with the people around you and learn to accept it? Or is it a lover's lament – without me you must learn to be lonely?

Lonely people. I began to think about Hitler. Was he lonely? I stopped this train of thought when I remembered that multiple friends have described me as the type of person who would defend Hitler. Nope.

So I'm leaving the song to its context. It belongs to a disfigured child who is taunted and abused for being different. He grows up in solitude, grasping for power and significance, haunting the halls of an opera house, watching the merriment from afar – from his shadows. He falls in love with a beautiful young singer with soft eyes and long dark hair, singing to her and training her from a distance. She responds to him differently than anybody ever has; with curiosity and – affection? She is his. All he wants and needs and desires. But she chooses another. And now he must learn to be lonely.

**

According to my father, the word for snow in Farsi is "barf." During his childhood in Iran, one of the major laundry detergent brands was "Barf," named after the pure, white, cleanliness of snow.

**

It turns out that Taylor Swift is quite the figurative little lovechild. I tried to maintain continuity in one of my classes by using another of her songs as a listening exercise. I have three of her songs on my iPod which helped narrow my choice to: Teardrops on my guitar.

Drew ______ at _____
I fake a _______ so he won't _______

etc.

The problems started early. "Who can explain this first section to me?" I asked. "Drew looks at me, I fake a smile so he won't see."

Stefan volunteered. "Drew is...like this," he made a scribble on his paper.

"Yes," I agreed. "But in English it's also a name."

"No it's not."

"Yes it is. Drew is looking at her and so she fakes a smile so that he can't see she's in love with him." They stared at me.

We moved on. "'Drew talks to me. I laugh 'cause it's just so funny, that I can't even see anyone when he's with me.' What does that mean?"

"She's laughing because he's funny."

"No...she's laughing because it's – sad." More like ironic. But I wasn't going there.

"What?"

"Look at it. She laughing because it's sad because she loves him so much that she can't see anyone else when she's with him."

They stared.

"It's a metaphor," I added (yes, I went there). "It's not that she can't actually see. When she's with him, he's the only person she can see in the room," I mimed blocking them all out and focusing somewhere else.

Clearly my kids aren't old enough to understand the depths of love Taylor has experienced. At least not in English.

**

I've discovered the key to the craziness of the Swedish language: word stresses.

In English, each word has one stress. "If you hear two stresses, you hear two words." (Englishclub.com).

In Swedish, they throw around stresses like Bjorn Borg underwear ads.

(This one is all over the SL Metro Stations)

Seriously. And they don't just throw a couple of stresses into three or four syllable words – where there's a syllable, there's a way: they stick them into two syllable words. I have several students named "Karin" and couldn't pronounce it for the life of me until someone told me that I needed to stress both syllables.

**

Speaking of Swedish Tunnelbanan ads, some of my latest favorites are ones titled "The many ways of sisters." This is a series of (what I'm assuming are) clothing ads with the same girl duplicated several times in each photo. Yes, she looks like she could be sisters.

(on the ads, they have "The many ways of sisters" in black letters across the image)

After the sister campaign started, they launched a "Brothers" campaign. Just...Brothers. Apparently there is only one way of brother.

These men look nothing like brothers except that they both share a "concerned but slightly bored" brooding look. Amadeus loves these ads. I haven't figured out why.

where you come from and where you gonna go this time?

2010-12-03T13:13:00.000-08:00

I took the wrong exit out of the metro station and started wandering around the complex. Surely the other exit couldn't be that far. It was -1 C and positively warm after yesterday's -16 C. Maybe the weather was all relative. Or maybe I was turning into a Swede.

This idea was quickly disproven as an older man walked up to me and started speaking Swedish. Nope. Still not fluent. His tone was strange, like he was making some sort of declaration. I waited until he finished and then shrugged and apologized for not being able to speak his language.

He switched to English. "You are beautiful," he announced, emphasizing each word. "Of course," he added in a 'what else would I have said' tone. I laughed and thanked him, and we both continued on our ways.

Full of little surprises, these Swedes.

but if you really hold me tight, all the way home we'll be warm

2010-12-03T03:35:00.000-08:00

Mcdonalds apple pies here are fried. They are beautiful. In the States they are baked and they are boring and mealy and lame.

Mcdonalds needs to stop pretending to be something it's not. It's not a healthy food place.
"There is a place in this world for junkfood," my mother says. And if my wheat-loving, organic buying mother says it, you know it's true.

Happy Meals getting banned? Seriously? How much money and lobbying went into that battle? It's not that I don't think a good cause is worth fighting for – and protecting the health of our nation is certainly a good cause – it's just over the top. People know Mcdonalds isn't healthy. They go there because it's cheap, fast, and easy. I'm going to go out on a limb and say most people don't go there every day.

And honestly, this is a choice we should be allowed to make for ourselves. And yes, for our children.

And for our taste buds, because fried apple pies are better. They just are.

What's this? What's this? There's magic in the air...

2010-12-01T13:18:00.000-08:00

When I worked for The Chimes my senior year, we had weekly staff meetings at 8 am. 8 A.M. (My entire university career consisted of about one class before 10:20.) And you could tell who the morning people were. They were smiling, chatty, enthusiastic, almost buzzed. The non-morning people slouched in a couple minutes late, clutching thermoses, wearing big sweaters with their hair pulled back (girls) or hats (guys).

We had some unusual staff members. Jake got 12 hours of sleep every night. Katie ran a million miles every day (seriously, I think around 8?). Gail drove a party bus. Well, that's what we called it.

So, Small Talk Question of the Blog: Is it possible to change your morning/night person orientation?

OK, so I'm pretty much a young, freckled, female Obama with some different political views. I believe in change. I believe you can change your morning/night person orientation. I don't really think you can argue with that.

So: Actual Small Talk Question of the Blog: Can you change your morning/night person orientation without a whole ton of intentional, time consuming, sleep hour changing effort?

Or can you simply will yourself to be a better person in the morning – ie. change your attitude. Smile. Act perky until you feel it.

unusually and exceedingly peculiar and altogether quite impossible to describe –

2010-12-01T02:35:00.001-08:00

my new wand

Blond.

**

Kiriakos and Pavlo, the two half Greek boys that Ammadeus and I babysit, made each of us a magic wand this Saturday. I'm going to take a picture of mine later and add it, but for now I'll just say that it's really awesome. Pavlo used a knife to whittle the wood, and added a special green stripe at the bottom.

Naturally, when he handed the wand to me, I raised it up and used a spell, waving it for effect. The spell I used? Avada Kedavra. It just popped out. That's right, an unforgivable curse. And not just any unforgivable curse, the death curse. Everyone was silent and Ammadeus looked at me, appalled.

"I can't believe you said that."

Yup. That's me, making social gaffes through the most unlikely of methods.

**

Simply Sweden:

As an easily identifiable foreigner – I walk around shivering in uncoordinated outfits, don't speak Swedish, etc. – I am often asked what my favorite part of Sweden is.

Public Transportation. I love it.

The SL (Storstockholms Lokaltrafik) system is, in comparison to other cities I've lived in, terrific.

Basically, you can buy a monthly adult SL card for 690 SEK (around 100 dollars), and it works on buses, trains, and the Tunnelbanan (metro). This might not sound cheap, but compared to paying the exuberant Stockholm gas prices/parking costs, and compared to other monthly metro card prices (London, for example), it's not a bad deal.

The SL system has so far been punctual (supposedly it slows a bit during winter), extensive (covers Stockholm suburbs), and easily accessible; bus and metro stops are everywhere.

For me, it's also a personal quality of life improvement. In L.A., I didn't have a car (long story – didn't get my license until my last year there), and was forced to rely on walking, buses, and friends to get around. Unfun. This was partly because the system was not well coordinated – transferring buses involved long wait periods, etc. Also, I didn't like using my friends to get around. Even if they were going to the same place: I didn't like that it was something I could never contribute to (except pitching in with gas).

(During college, no problem. I lived on and close to campus and had easy access to most events going on. After college, unfun unfun unfun. Mostly, the problem was that everyone had a car, which meant that it was a built in assumption into people's way of living.)

So, Life Advice: Don't live in L.A./O.C. without a car. L.A. is not concentrated or connected like New York City. It is sprawling.

In Stockholm, I can get to the center of town in ten minutes taking a bus which is right outside my door. I'm independent again. Minus the fact that I'm living at home. Ah, life.

when i was young i listened to the radio

2010-11-30T10:28:00.000-08:00

I learned a wonderful new phrase today: "Off with the fairies." My Aussie co-worker said it – I had asked her if we were really ending classes next week and she wasn't quite sure; "Sorry, I've been off with the fairies lately."

Excited, I asked if that was a real phrase. She said it was. I'm a bit surprised that my Australian high school math teacher never made the reference towards me (she had plenty of similar things to say).

Basically it means spacing out. Who better to space with than the fairies?

**

I think referring to your body as your "person" is just about the funniest thing in the world. "The money is somewhere on my person." My person? Yes, the person I take around with me everywhere. I wash my person, and feed her and take her out for walks.

but he spoke braid scots, when he courted me

2010-11-29T12:34:00.000-08:00

Today's Smashing Story: Is a NYT piece about an online store retailer whose business strategy is to be rude to his customers. No, not silly Dick's Last Resort rude – more like Hannibal Lecter, graphically threatening emails, 3 am phone calls, messages with photos of the customer's house, rude.

After initially hiring a company to post positive reviews about his site to clear its image, Vitaly Borker discovered that negative reviews were actually more helpful to his revenue – the reviewers negative comments and links caused his site to be placed higher in Google search results, attracting more customers.

Or, as the article quotes him: “I never had the amount of traffic I have now since my 1st complaint. I am in heaven.”

I'm wondering if this guy has an extreme form of Empathy Deficit Disorder, or if he's a psychopath, because I'd like to think that most people wouldn't inflict severe psychological damage on strangers without some sort of mental issue.

I don't really buy into EDD – I think it's not a disorder and not necessarily a "childhood" thing. It's probably a symptom of lots of different conditions (possibly including certain personality types).

**

I had a friend who had a "one date" policy. Basically, she would go on one date with any guy, the rationale being that everyone deserves a chance to prove himself. This made for some interesting stories, and a bunch of 2nd date rejections.

I do not have this policy.

If I know I'm not interested, why waste his time and money? If he's somehow going to change my mind, I doubt one date would do it. Maybe if he wrote me a symphony. Someone once told me that upon meeting a guy, a girl immediately knows if she would ever date him. I think, on a subconscious level, this might be a fairly accurate generalization. This doesn't mean she will immediately say yes, but she might eventually agree to seeing a guy who is on the subconscious "possible" list. Guys who are initially placed on the "never" list, have an extremely slim chance of getting off of it.

And guys who try to pick you up after meeting you once? Personally, not interested. I, and many girls I know, have what I call a "context complex." We need a context – we need to have hung out a few times, shared a class, work together, etc. and gotten to see you interact in a few situations.

"I understand the courage it takes to walk across a room and try to generate a relationship out of thin air," (Hitch), but I'm not going to date a giant question mark. Even a cute one. A company won't hire an employee without asking for references and doing a background check – think of context as a relationship background check (seeing as it would be unromantic to literally ask for references.)

Naturally, all of the above spiel is based on me/my friends, and it's probable that many girls would differ in opinion. Also, I'm perennially single, so mine may not be the best approach out there.

Maybe when I'm 34 and scared of being 35 and tired of people asking when I'm going to meet someone and sick of asking the mailman for help opening spaghetti sauce jars and through with folding sheets by myself...maybe then I'll break down and try to fall in love with a guy I've never met and am not interested in. Maybe at some point it has less to do with a person than a lifestyle and a desire to have a warm, living, being to bounce thoughts off of, who tells you he prefers your voice to Barbara Streisand's, and who smiles at you when you pronounce archive with a "ch."

Until then, I'm happy with my context complex.

**
I thought this video was great, mostly because I love minesweeper, but it's such a pointless game.

If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life

2010-11-21T05:56:00.000-08:00

John Stewart covers Swedish socialism.

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart

Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c

The Stockholm Syndrome Pt. 1

www.thedailyshow.com

Daily Show Full Episodes

Political Humor

Rally to Restore Sanity

ain't that the reason you're at this club?

2010-11-20T15:01:00.000-08:00

"We're all looking for love, ain't that the reason you're at this club?" My sister and I always laugh at these lyrics. The idea of looking for love in a club sounds...ineffective. Sorry Jason Derulo.

**

I recently skimmed through Time Magazines' 50 Best Inventions of 2010.

My Favorite Inventions of Time Magazine's Favorite Inventions:

-A Sarcasm Sensor. Specifically, a Semi-Supervised Algorithm for Sarcasm Identification. Apparently it searches through product reviews and has a 77% accuracy rate. In my opinion, that isn't a great rate. If a birth control had 77% accuracy, no one would use it. Still, I suppose it's impressive for what it does – as someone pointed out, I wonder what the average human sarcasm detection accuracy rate is.

I've had to develop a physical system to inform Mr. Marx of my sarcasm and vice versa. (He signs the letter "S" when he's being sarcastic.)

- Super Super Soaker. Military. Pretty much what it sounds like. I got excited because it's a super super soaker, and that's exciting.

- The Deceitful Robot. A robot that can lie? Uh oh...

- Lifeguard Thingy. A remote controlled floatation zooms through heavy waves at about 15 times the speed of a lifeguard. I read this and wondered why it hadn't been invented before.

-Underwater Kite. Need I say more?

-Iron Man Suit. Yes.

So: I was inspired by all these inventions to come up with something innovative. Here it is: A regulated site where people send in ideas for inventions. A few people monitor the submissions and the interesting ones get published. Kind of like FML but with a purpose. Actually, not like FML at all.

I know so many people who have really decent ideas for inventions, but don't have the money/time/know how to create their ideas. This seems wasteful. Why not compile them on a site which can then be accessed by people with resources?

**

In our preschool English class, 3-year-old Hugo has a crush on 3-year-old Esther. He is always looking at her, showing off for her, and smiling when she's around.

Today they held hands while we sang "Head and Shoulders." This is a difficult feat.

**

Dear tall, young Asian man,

I saw you looking at me and I tried to give a flicker of an encouraging smile but I think it was too subtle. You seemed interesting: confident, not arrogant; reserved, not shy. I wanted to ask you what your story was.

How did you get to Sweden? What's in the bag you're carrying? Why are you wandering around at midnight on a Saturday? Do you miss someone right now? What was your childhood like? If you could relive one memory...? Were your parents strict? Do you like chai? Classical music?

I would have answered your questions. Well, most of them. I'm on my way home from a church event. I didn't make my bus because I overshot my metro stop because I was daydreaming. I could have been charming and clever and sweet. I could have made you laugh. Or smile. You could have told me something interesting, something thought-provoking. Or trivial. Then my bus would have come and we would have parted, each feeling somehow lifted. Lighter. Brighter.

Of course, that's not how it turned out. My mother says I should go back to the bus stop next Saturday. But I think that would kill it. It's a shame.

you're unsuited for the rage of war, so pack up

2010-11-19T03:01:00.000-08:00

My blogging buddy, Emma Cole, recently linked an article from Psychology Today (which she apparently still reads obsessively) about introverts and extroverts.

The two main ideas that struck me were 1) reaction time and 2) internal monologues. I'm working on a story from the 1st person perspective of a 20 something girl, and judging by her internal monologue, she's definitely an introvert.

I thought the reaction time concept was interesting; apparently introverts would rather have a period of time to think so that they have something polished and thoughtful to say. Extroverts generally react immediately.

Best picture in the world.

In my experience, this reaction time theory varies by situation and person. Many of the introverts I have known have given me immediate responses to questions/comments in conversations. Maybe in one-on-one conversations they feel less pressure to think through everything (or they're just more on the spot?) Or perhaps this is only the case when it's a topic they have previously thought through? Or if it's a topic that isn't difficult or mind-bending?

Also, as an extrovert, I admit that my reactions are often immediate, verbal, and rapid. But not always. If it's a conversation about something I haven't really thought about, I generally prefer to listen – I don't like processing new information on the spot. In fact, I'm really bad at it. So is that simply me, an extrovert, displaying some of my introverted qualities? How many introverted qualities am I allotted before I'm considered to be functioning as one? And when my introverted friends are talking away, fully engaging externally, are they displaying their extroverted qualities? Or are they just being chatty introverts (who will be drained later that evening)?

There I go, packaging everybody up into boxes again:) Stereotyping can be useful to get an initial grasp of someone, but if it starts out harmful it might be more damaging than useful (Ie. Extroverts have less depth. Introverts don't like people as much)– I much prefer to assume the best and be proven wrong.

I love getting to the end of thoughts and conversations like this because I go all Ecclesiastes: None of it actually matters. Philosophy - changing anything? And yet I'm so drawn to it.

Favorite part of the article:

Even a simple opener of "Hello, how are you? Hey, I've been meaning to talk to you about X," from anyone can challenge an introvert. Rather than bypassing the first question or interrupting the flow to answer it, the introvert holds onto the question: Hmm, how am I? (An internal dialogue begins, in which the introvert "hears" herself talking internally as the other person speaks.)

Even if the introvert responds, "I'm good," she's probably still reflecting on how she is: Good? That's not quite right. I really have had a pretty crummy day, but there isn't a quick way to explain that. She wants to first work out privately her thoughts and judgment about the day. She also may evaluate the question itself: I hate that we so often just say 'good' because that's the convention. The other person doesn't really want to know. She may even activate memories of how the question has struck her in the past.

– Revenge of the Introvert, Psychology Today

This internal monologue cracked me up. It's the type of thing I might think/write/talk about later, but to rabbit trail like that in the middle of a conversation – it would drive me crazy. And possibly make me really, really insecure.

So: Small Talk Question of the Blog: What do you generally think about when you're by yourself? Do you relive memories/conversations? Do you worry about what you're doing? Do you think about how you're feeling? Do you think through theories and ideas? Do you avoid thinking and look for stimulation?

i need help believing you're with me tonight

2010-11-18T12:41:00.000-08:00

The girl I was tutoring today told me about her fear of the dark, scary movies and haunted houses. I made fun of her until I remembered that during college my friends and I would do scary movie nights where we pushed couches together, fought over good seating (not on the crack), grabbed each other and screamed throughout the entire movie. Except Shawnie. She always laughed.

**

Aside from tutoring Swedish children in English, I tutor a few American boys, usually helping with their homework (mostly Math and Science). Today I had the pleasure of reading "Lancelot the Gigilo" which the ten-year-old had written for English class. The assignment was to write an editorial defending the position of Lancelot as a Gigilo or a Giant. Fun times.

**

Amadeus walked into the kitchen as I was eating dinner tonight and announced that she was sick of having trivial conversations. Instead, she wanted to use cards with pre-messaged answers to hand out to anyone trying to talk to her.

"Aren't 70% of your conversations dull and taxing?!" I told her no, only the ones I had with her. She found this extremely witty and amusing and took everything back. Or something.

**

On It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, Dennis, one of the main characters, explains his system for dating women. It's called the Dennis System, and he describes how he used it on his latest conquest.

The Dennis System

D: Demonstrate Value. He does this by pretending to help a fake sick grandmother.
E: Engage Physically. Yes, this is step number 2.
N: Nurture Dependence. He makes threatening anonymous phone calls to the girl so that he can then go to her house and tells her he will protect her.
N: Neglect Emotionally. He stops talking to her completely.
I: Inspire Hope. He calls her and apologizes profusely, telling her he had been scared of how strong his feelings had been.
S: Separate Completely.

Sunny is Christophe's show, which he occasionally convinces me to watch (by telling me I remind him of Dee. And a bird.) After this episode, I couldn't help complain about what ridiculous jerks the characters always are. Christophe told me to think about all the relationships I or my friends have had, because they probably followed this system pretty closely. Maybe in Missouri Christophe.

tell her how the ...

2010-11-17T07:54:00.000-08:00

"Hi, I'm ----."
"Hi -----."
"I own a shop."
"What do you sell?"
"I sell ....."

This is a game I play with the kids to practice their vocabulary. Each person has to say all of the previous for sale items and make a new one up.

Today's lesson went something like this:

"Hi, I'm Karin."
"Hi Karin."
"I rown –"
"Own. You own."
"I own a –" (asks her brother a question in Swedish)
"Store."
"What do you sell?"
"Uhhh." A minute goes by.
"It can be anything."
She exchanges some more words in Swedish with her brother. He finally says "Draugoon."
"Draugoons."
"Dragons?"
"Yes."

Then it was Sven's turn. He was pretty excited.
"I sell RPGs."
"Rocket propelled grenades?" I asked incredulously.
"No," Stefan butted in. "Rocket propelled grenade launchers."
"OK. Stefan's turn."
He listed a very specific shotgun.
"Where are you getting these words from?"
"Call of Duty 4."
"Well you can't use it. No more weapons."
"But everything can be a weapon. A house can be a weapon."
I rolled my eyes.
"Fine. Sell pillows."
"A pillow can be a weapon."
"How?"
"If you hold it to someone's mouth so they can't breathe."

I eventually convinced him to stop listing weapons. Our list turned out something like this:

Dragons, RPGs, Half Life 2 episodes 1 and 2, butterflies (mine), humans, hair...

Sounds like a store I'd definitely want to check out.

sexy sadie, what have you done?

2010-11-16T16:53:00.000-08:00

Smashing Story: 10 songs you thought were about women. This reminded me of a conversation I had with some guys in high school. One of them asserted that every song was either written about or inspired by a woman. We threw ridiculous songs his way, but he had an answer for every one. (Apparently The Wheels on the Bus was inspired by the menstrual cycle.)

**

Swedes sometimes have a problem with interchanging fun and funny. (Note: I am not making fun of their English – it's excellent and far beyond any of my language abilities). This makes for cute comments along the lines of "I'm having a good time, this is so funny." My personal favorite was in class on Monday when Tristan asked, "Why is it always so funny in English class?" he laughed. "Why is English class so funny?!" I had a hard time figuring out if he was trying to say fun or funny or both. To his credit, it probably would be a confusing concept if this wasn't my native language.

That's what I'm called in the world of ESL – a native English speaker. It makes me feel primal, interesting, specially skilled. Well, not really.

I frequently get in trouble for making up a city or state when people ask where I'm from. If I'm in one state, I choose a different one to avoid detailed questions. I generally pick one that I have some sort of connection with (Texas, Connecticut, California, Virginia, New Jersey, Florida). In Sweden, I tell people I moved here from California. I hope I'm not needlessly upsetting any stereotypes of peroxide blond hair, orange skin, and Valley girl accents. We all need to believe there's a place out there like that.

Today Amadeus informed me she told a classmate she was from L.A. She has never lived in L.A. I'm actually not sure if she's even visited. Possibly once. When I questioned her choice of city, she said, "Well dad's kind of from there." Kind of. As in, he was born in Coronado and then grew up overseas.

So I'm thinking, as long as we're lying we might as well pick a new country. Not that I'm unpatriotic – it just seems easier and would save stereotypes. Being American is like having an unauthorized biography about yourself. There are lots of truths, lots of twisted truths, a few outright lies, and people assume they know something about you before talking. Of course other countries have reputations – but their books don't sell as well (less war, money, power, scandals, etc.).

OK so I'm being silly. Prejudgment – that's life. People assume they know something about you based on your shoes, the set of your shoulders, the size of your phone. And maybe it's good to have a base to build on (or rebuild as the case may be.)

turned me around and you got me believin'

2010-11-15T02:23:00.000-08:00

Amadeus called me a dork earlier today. Later I asked if she knew what her Myers-Briggs letters were. I started to guess the letters, when she said, "I'm an E-M-M-A!" and laughed hysterically.

Yes. I got called a dork by that.

Shout out: To Emma Cole. I've managed to transport your bizarre Japanese cards to Sweden, probably through a misguided attempt to keep them for you until later. My family played 6 with them tonight, and nobody seemed to care about or appreciate the humor. I even tried to explain about the umbilical cord one that was buried inside the deck. (Apparently you have to see it to appreciate it). I'm sorry I stole your cards and your ring. Think of them as a deposit for seeing me again.

you're perfect – you're perfect, so we're perfect together

2010-11-13T13:58:00.000-08:00

(Bride and Prejudice: No Life without Wife)

Yesterday, Amadeus, Lexis and I got to visit some old friends – three lovely girls we knew in Egypt. The conversation turned, as it often does in a small group of girls, to men and marriage. We discussed "lists" of things we were looking for in a guy.

Lexis, my 15-year-old sister had quite an impressive list. Highlights:

-magician
-composer
-someone with a secret (she was quite serious about that one)
-green eyes
-genius
-plays harp, violin, piano
-strong enough to carry her
-British, Scottish, or French accent

So if you happen to know anyone who meets all of these criteria, please let me know and I'll begin the screening process.

Until then, here's a quote from Amadeus:

"I would never date someone I don't love, and I would never sell someone I love for money."

This was her (eventual) response to the question of whether she would dump her boyfriend for a million dollars. It leads me to my...

Small Talk Question of the Blog: What do you think of the idea of only dating someone you love?

**

There you have it. Two of my sisters: selective like the CIA. My other sister, dating an ex-swimmer from Ohio. And me, with the claddagh that I should probably figure out.

it's bedtime, it's bedtime, it's bedtime

2010-11-13T10:58:00.000-08:00

"It's bedtime..." these two words repeated over and over in different keys, comprise the bedtime song of Benjamin, the four-year-old I'm babysitting tonight. Not terribly original, but effective.

**

Sweden's Father's Day is tomorrow, so this morning's craft was a card to Dad, complete with a drawing by the child of him and his father.

This was a pretty easy project, aside from the inevitably ambiguous squiggles that the children labeled as "Dad" and "me." Not terribly flattering likenesses, but endearing coming from your child.

Julius, a six-year-old in the bilingual class who understands barely any English, had a few problems with the project. He grabbed the sample card with a picture drawn of Kenisha (my co-teacher) and her dad. He copied it exactly – including the labels – and ended up with a Father's Day card with a picture of Kenisha instead of himself. I took his paper away and asked him to draw another one, emphasizing that he was to draw "Julius" (point at him), not Kenisha.

He drew himself. And then he drew his mom and told me he was finished. I would have let it go, except for the fact that it was a Father's Day card. So I had him add his father into the picture.

you walked into my life and i thought "hey"

2010-11-12T02:23:00.000-08:00

As I was typing a query into Google this morning I was, as usual, distracted by its suggestions for my search. "How to get a girl to like you." Really? I couldn't help but click and see what type of advice was offered to a young man searching for this on the internet.

Some of the Advice:

-Look Good. Work out run a mile or two, do some sit ups, get a six pack, etc. Also get a tan, so when you go to the pool and she is there, she will be like, "wow". Girls like a guy with a tan and some muscles, but don't overdo it; girls don't like it when you have too much muscles. That just shows that you love your muscles too much. Older people usually look better with normal facial and neck fat content range.

-Tickling can be risky because people who don't like it really don't like it, so beware. Don't take tickling too far, in any case; be gentle, and don't do it to the point that she's begging or screaming at you to stop.

-Don't stalk her. If she doesn't want to date, it means that she probably doesn't want a stalker either.

Some of the Questions:

"hey, valetnines day is coming up, and theres a girl i like... i want to make a card and write something in it that will make her like me, i was thinkin something along the lines of i had a dream once, me and you were together, happy, and we ha da beautiful house and beautiful children, for the first time in my life i was truly happy, and then i started to cry, coz i woke up and realised you werent there in my arms... what do you think? relpy soon please!"

"i meet a girl at a bus stop once in a week...how do i get her to notice me and be my friend?"

"i saw a girl but she doesnt like me. how do i make her like me so i can get a kiss"

**

Ah high school. I don't remember it being like that.

but Moses supposes erroneously

2010-11-11T13:55:00.000-08:00

Today Amadeus told me that I've ruined her interactions with friends at school.

"What?" I asked, a bit confused.

"Yeah," she said, pausing from the dish she was washing. "Like, you and me always have these really boring, mundane, sometimes factual conversations."

I looked at her. This wasn't complimentary so far.

She continued, "But we laugh at everything. Even things that aren't funny. So now at school when someone says something normal, I'll laugh and nobody will join me. Like, someone will say 'Can I sit here?' and I'll burst out laughing."

I informed her that I don't laugh at dull moments, and she was the one with the uncontrollable laughter problem. She reminded me that I had burst into hysterics during dessert tonight.

In my defense, it was over something really funny. And in defense of this blog, I know she will laugh, even if noone else does. I just had bahand tha tares of a clawn.

you speak to me in riddles

2010-11-09T02:16:00.001-08:00

I have a notebook that I used for school when I was seven. On one of the pages, I completed an assignment about what I wanted to be when I grew up. My answer went along the lines of:

A ballerina, because I like to dance.
An actress because I feel great when I'm on stage.
An author.
A mom with a horse.

Apparently being a mom with a horse is greatly superior to the alternative.

The ballerina idea failed (remember my attempt in Sweden?), but the acting and writing have lingered. Acting: fairly typical desire for a young, theatrical, attention-adoring girl. Writing: rather odd choice of future career for a child. As my buddy Dante put it:

But to dream of being a writer is quite a queer concept. If you dream of being an astronaut, you imagine skipping on the moon or hopping about on Mars. To dream of being a sports star clearly brings forth heavenly thrills of game winning catches and miraculous saves.

Yet to dream of writing is to imagine being so enamored with a realm whose existence doesn't expand passed the depths of your mind, that you are driven entirely by an internal monologue within one's self. It's only a romantic image when viewed with an idyllic lens of what the 'tortured artist' should look like.

To dream to be a writer is to dream to choose to live your life inside your head, rather than to share your action-life with the outside world.

Donc, writing is not only an odd choice for a seven-year-old: it's an odd choice for an extroverted social madcap like myself. And, according to Dante, an odd choice in general. He goes on to relate how watching Office Space (combined with this thought process on writing) brought him to the conclusion that he'd rather be physically living in an external world than in his head. This is not the conclusion that I would draw, mostly because I don't think the dichotomy needs to be so extreme; I hope to be able to traverse both worlds.

In Walker Percy's Lost in the Cosmos, he describes the problematic issue of "reentry" – the great writer's return to reality after transcending this world. As one of my friends described it: Dostoevsky has just completed The Brother's Karamazov and goes to the corner store to buy a drink. He overhears the trite conversations around him and is suddenly brought down from his lofty ideals into a dirty, mundane world. He has difficulty coping with this reentry.

Percy cites authors who reacted to reentry in different ways: drinking binges, traveling, sexual escapades, gambling – these writers have so perfectly described their surroundings, yet cannot reenter without finding a new escape.

**

I would like to one day be talented enough to write something which so thoroughly removes me from reality that I find it extremely difficult to reenter. Sounds like an intriguing, natural, productive high. Yes, I do romanticize the tortured artist. And the struggling one. The idea of living in the countryside in Ireland or New England – or anywhere beautiful – and spending my days producing works of fiction, sounds incredibly appealing to me.

Is this along the same lines of monk vs. person of the world argument? Dedicating your life to God through solitary prayer and silence, or dedicating it to God through actions and interactions...

Writer or Actress? Or teaching little ESL kids?

I suppose I could always buy myself a horse and adopt a child. Seems too easy.

**

Improv Everywhere: They perform a spontaneous musical in a food court.

looks like you're not happy, 'less I open a vein

2010-11-08T09:29:00.000-08:00

I need to start making friends without addictions.

Today I visited Scrap Happy Chelsey (don't click if you don't want to get really hungry)at her wonderful red home in Nacka. I will probably refer to her as ScrapCrazyChelsey – SCC – from now on. She. Is. Scrap. Crazy.

Five years ago – after relentlessly teasing her friends about their hobby – SCC made her first scrapbook, preserving memories and moments from her wedding. She was hooked. She kept scrapbooking, started her own business selling supplies online, ran monthly crops, and attended weekend retreats where they powernapped in lieu of sleeping.

In Sweden, she has a room dedicated to the hobby. It hosts shelves and cabinets of supplies – papers, tools, punches, kits, etc. Now I've caught the scrapbooking fire, and am mentally planning an ambitious Facebook photo transference project.

Smashing Story: Apparently the U.S. is spying on Sweden. Well, that isn't true – a disgruntled Norwegian worker accused the U.S. Embassy of spying (really?) in Norway, and Scandinavia generally runs on a "buy one, get all free" policy.

**

Life Advice: When you turn 20, your mother will start thinking about grandchildren.

My mother didn't strike the genetic lottery with me. She, the diplomat's wife with a fondness for afternoon tea, has always had difficulty with me. As a child, I would wiggle and whine when she brushed my hair, and I had a a complete disregard for clothing (only noticing it when it hindered running/playing in dirt or with tadpoles).

"Dress to impress. You're on the market."
"I'm not a slab of meat for sale."

These are the types of conversations we have. Scintillating, I know.

**

Have you heard about the leprechauns?
Favorite part: 10 seconds in; the expression on the male anchor's face.

wearing a dress shaped like a pastry

2010-11-08T02:42:00.000-08:00

I'm still going strong with my genius idea of printing out incomplete lyrics and having the kids listen to the song and fill in the gaps.

A couple weeks ago, I asked one of my classes if they wanted to do a Taylor Swift song. Reality check: Not everyone in Sweden has heard of TayTay. Weird. But they have heard of Michael Jackson, and asked if we could do something like "Thriller." I rejected this on the basis that it's probably the worst song in the world to have 7-year-old ESL students translate. The only words I remember in it are "nnnnnn THRILLER nnnnnn."

Being the flexible teacher that I am, I tried to think of another MJ song that had decipherable lyrics. I came up with Billy Jean. I had a mental image of something like this:

Billy Jean is not my _________
She's just a _____ who thinks that I am the ____ .
The ___ is not my _____.

This idea was quickly nixed; I wasn't enthused at the prospect of explaining "lover." Actually, I wasn't enthused at explaining anything about that song to my 7-year-olds, or their parents.

So: Taylor it was. We did Love Story, and I lucked out – the boys were absent. Olivia asked me if it was I who was singing the song, and I told her it wasn't. My classroom isn't always a den of lies.

**

Amadeus has recently convinced me to join her in watching an extremely dramatic television show. I initially refused on the basis of not wanting to turn my mind into flubber (I'm a firm believer of guarding your mind – "Eat fat, greasy food, become a fat, greasy dude" – etc.), but I soon caved because television is our bonding time (sad?) and I'm weak (more sad?).

No, this isn't interesting blog fodder, except that I've become so wrapped in the drama that Amadeus and I discuss the characters like they're real people. And I've started dreaming about them. I'm mostly wondering what information in my brain was deleted to make room for the dramatic secrets, lies, plots, and character analysis that are now residing in my head. Oh well, I don't really drink, so maybe that cancels it out?

Could we please invent a way to organize mind information? I'm pretty sure the phsyics formulas I memorized in high school are ready to come out. They're only useful with the metric system anyways.

Speaking of; the U.S. has been trying and failing to convert to the metric system since '75. This cracks me up. They call the process "metrication." This also cracks me up. It reminds me of matriculation. Funny words with dull meanings.

we once walked out on the beach and once I almost touched your hand

2010-11-02T13:03:00.000-07:00

Small Talk Question of the Blog: What's some of the best advice ever given to you? Or just any advice that you remember specifically?

My friend Emma Cole used to say "You always have a choice." It was like her catchphrase. I really like it because it's empowering – no matter what mistakes you've made or what situation you're in, you always have a choice in your decisions.

Even if it's been a long, horrible day at the DMV, you still have the choice to stay calm, read a book, and remind yourself that you only have to make these trips every few years. (Or in my case, several times a day to retrieve missing items every few years.)

**

My mother met a Swede today who said that he had been to a DMV in Florida. "Americans are angry people," he told her. I love the idea of basing a judgment on Americans based on a visit to one of our DMVs.

Though if you think about it, that's one of the places where people are showing their true colors. Kind of like not marrying someone before you've gone camping with him.

i had some dreams, they were clouds in my coffee

2010-10-31T10:27:00.000-07:00

"Like my profile picture? I googled fat lemur."
-Lexis

**

Yesterday night, the 4 year-old girl I was babysitting wouldn't go to sleep, so I unscrewed her lightbulbs and locked her into her room.

This was in accordance with her mother's instructions. Yes, apparently Anna won't sleep unless locked in a dark room (and she can turn the light on when the bulbs are in).

"I know it sounds cruel, but it's the only thing that works," her mother said and explained that there was a baby monitor that I could listen to in another room. Fun times.

**

Anna's older brothers were really awesome. They are both fluent in English and Greek, and can speak some Italian, Swedish, and another million languages. This meant that I got a free Greek lesson – my name looks fabulous in Greek. " A bit like Elvish but more like Greek." (Yes, I wish I hadn't said that). Unfortunately Greek, like many other languages, hasn't managed to create letters for all the sounds in my name. They missed out on the "sh" and "v" sound, but made up for it with like three "O's."

The boys (10 and 11) told me about how they used to get bullied at a school they attended in Italy. Pavlo said he and his friends would hide from the bully in some old tires near the playground.

"What about you? Have you ever had problems with a bully?" he asked me.
"No. I was the bully."
They both stared at me.
"Just kidding. I'm a girl...we don't really do that."

They disputed this and I agreed and admitted that I was the kid in the corner with a book when I was in elementary school. I have no idea if bullying went on at my childhood schools.

**

I watched The Social Network last night and really enjoyed it. Movie ticket prices in Stockholm vary both by theatre and film. At the cinema in Hotorget, The Social Network cost 100 SEK ($15), Inception cost 110 SEK ($16.50) and other films went down to 90 or 95 SEK.

When I lived in L.A., I got used to La Mirada's dollar theatre prices – most days $2.00, Tuesdays $1.00) – and the Stockholm prices initially seemed really high. But that's just Stockholm; it's a European capital, and everything is a bit more expensive here. Also, big cities in the States hit comparable cinema prices, especially with 3D glasses.

**
Simply Sweden

Grocery shopping is definitely more expensive here. The US embassy puts out a biannual order to the commissary in Frankfurt, and staff are allowed to bulk order all the American goods that they miss (or are too expensive here).

Our family has been with the State Department for a million years, and we're used to not having American goods; in Yemen we didn't have pork, cereal, candy bars, McDonalds, etc. The order we placed was fairly small; a turkey and a pig for Thanksgiving/Christmas, a box of HeadNShoulders dandruff shampoos (you can only buy in bulk), etc.

Other families were clearly feeling a lack of America in their shopping. I was housesitting for a family, and they received a giant order (30 boxes?) which included a box of chewy bars, a box of bisquik pancake mixes, and a box filled with Ramen Noodles. They missed Ramen Noodles so much that they ordered them from Germany (and by extension, the States) in bulk. I still can't get over this.

**

me and my friends made comic book

2010-10-29T02:36:00.000-07:00

Things I Like

- When you start out not liking something and grow to love it. Examples: all of my friendships (kidding!), onions, mayonnaise, chocolate, transferring unis, tiny dogs, saunas.

- Yellow leaves

- One word hilarity triggers. Every time I say "Buster," one of the kids I tutor starts cracking up uncontrollably. We just sit there laughing because we think the name is funny.

- Finding things in coat pockets. Money, phone, unused Kleenex

- Being on the right side of an insane exchange rate (yes, I get paid in Krona)

**

Sometimes I write stories in my head as I'm walking. The other day, a couple of characters were having a dialogue in my mind and one of them said something funny. I laughed out loud. I then realized I was laughing at the voices in my head. Problem?

**

Swedes are all about saunas. Alright, maybe that isn't entirely accurate. But compared to Americans, Swedes have a lot of saunas. Many of the buildings (at least in Ostermalm) have them, and private homes have them too. Americans seem to prefer jacuzzis.

"To get rid of the chill you have to take off all of clothing and jump into a wooden box heated to over 100 degrees. It sounds a little drastic but once you’ve tried it, you know the meaning of the phrase ‘toasty warm’." (repairhome.)

There is nothing that thoroughly heats your entire body like a sauna does. It's really fun to watch the beads of sweat rise on your skin and tickle as they trickle. And the phrase "beads of sweat" is also really fun. It's so perfect.

it's a cancer fatal to my soul

2010-10-28T02:40:00.000-07:00

I got rejected as a volunteer today. This is a fun form of rejection, as they are essentially telling you that they don't want you even though you're free.

Or, as Emma Cole put it:

"You're like a box of kittens on the side of the road that nobody wants. You come with your cage and food and shots, but nobody wants you anyway."

Thanks Emma Cole.

**

In the English lessons I teach, I've started having the kids listen to songs and fill in the blanks of a lyric printout.

Next week I'm doing "Yellow Submarine." I took out all the "yellow"s. I'm really excited.

her mind is tiffany twisted

2010-10-25T12:20:00.000-07:00

Today I walked into Carl and Edvin's home for English tutoring. I was met by a very hyper Carl and his equally hyper grandfather who sang at me something along the lines of, "Sheevon, we've been waiting. I'm so happy I got to be here today."

Carl was doing a funky little dance while holding an iPhone playing "Hotel California."

"What are you doing?" I asked, laughing.

"Guess what song this is?!" Carl exclaimed.

"Hotel California."

Both Carl and his grandfather were ecstatic over this reply. Apparently they had specially chosen the song because I had come to Sweden from California. It was really adorable. I was glad they had chosen The Eagles' California song over Katy Perry's.

**

A church friend of mine recently online posted her need for a dog sitter. Christophe, who does not know her, replied to the ad and she figured out that he was my brother. With a bit of information I supplied her, she replied to him with this email:

With some of the details you gave me, I was able to do a bit of research and I do have a few additional questions...I talked with someone who seems to be well acquainted with you and he mentioned that you are really into Animal Collective and Vampire Weekend? I don't know much about those bands, but the names make me a bit nervous? Also, the Robert Plant poster? My dog really prefers a quiet environment and is very low energy, so I am not sure if this is a good fit? What do you think?

He got a bit spooked. Sho 1, Christophe 0.

**

I occasionally think about horrible ways to break up with someone. Mostly these ideas are from the experiences of various friends and acquaintances. But noone plans a breakup, right? They just happen. Wrong. I recently had a conversation with a friend who told me she had not only planned her breakup, she had planned it with her boyfriend. As in they negotiated a date ahead of time.

OK, fine. My odd friends aside, I've started compiling a list of ways to "win" your breakup. This means breaking up with them in a horrible "Got you last!" way.

How to Win Your Breakup: 3 Ways to Dump Someone

1) Associations. A few weeks before the breakup, start creating strong memories with their favorites: Start making their favorite foods for dates, start wearing their favorite scents, start playing their favorite band, etc. When you eventually break up, make it a messy one and these favorites will be ruined for them: they won't be able to smell lavender without hearing your screaming voice, or eat pork without seeing your angry face, or listen to Coldplay without wanting to throw something.

2) Pick a good date. Birthdays, Valentine's Day, the day before Prom, the day after they get into a motorcycle accident: these all work. Personal suggestion: April Fool's Day. Because then the actual breakup lasts for at least two days in their head.

3) Don't Actually Break Up. Just get really half hearted about everything and avoid confrontation like the plague. You could actually make this last for years.

(Right, so the last one doesn't really fit in the list, but I had run out and it was donated by someone who said it worked for him.)

**

OK, so just to let you all know that I'm really a good person – I don't actually suggest any of the options on the previous list. Think of it as a social commentary. Also, I've seen all of these happen in the personal lives of my friends/family members. So you could think of it as an extremely vague piece of history.

for papa, make him a scholar

2010-10-22T07:27:00.000-07:00

Today the dog I was walking thought it would be a good idea to prove that the ice on top of the pond would hold his weight. It didn't.

Today the fingerprint guy said my fingers were like bird claws.

Today I met a woman from Norwalk, Connecticut. This wouldn't have been a problem, had she not heard that I was from Wilton, the neighboring town. I had put Wilton on my bio hoping that it wouldn't draw attention because it was such a small, random town. I had fun explaining to her that I had never actually lived in the town where I was "from."

Today winter started. It ends in May.

**OR**

Today, while walking Adam, I was fascinated by the thin sheet of ice sitting on a pond. I poked at it, threw snow across it, and admired the branches that were half under, half above it. Adam became curious and jumped onto it, immediately breaking through the ice. Luckily it was really shallow, and he jumped right out. Also, he looked hilarious with part of his body half the size of the rest of it.

Today, my siblings told me that the fingerprint guy said my fingers were like bird claws. I told my sister that he had said hers were like sausages. I win.

Today I met a woman from Norwalk, a small town bordering Wilton, the town my mother and grandparents are from which I've visited every summer my whole life. It was neat thinking that we had probably eaten at the same restaurants and probably knew some of the same people.

Today it snowed and Stockholm was transformed from a place of coldness to a place of cold beauty. It is hard to describe the feeling of peace to be gained by sitting by a window, warm in your room, watching the snow fall to the street below.

the freckles in our eyes are mirror images

2010-10-21T14:21:00.000-07:00

Last week, Adam's owner asked me if I'd like to have tickets to the dress rehearsal of a dance show her company was putting on.

"They like to have a small show beforehand. You know, so they don't have to go naked in front of Stockholm on the first night," she explained.

Naked on the first night? I decided that this was a figure of speech – they didn't want to be exposed without having tested an audience. It was a dance show; surely there wouldn't be nudity.

I was wrong.

It was a modern dance performance, and on the whole really enjoyable. The first act included a crazy Bollywood number, a couple of pokes at the audience on our need to pay money to be entertained, and some up close time with the dancers (they donned Rudolph noses and walked into the audience, standing still and staring). The choreographer/writer was clearly going through some sort of existential crisis when he/she penned the piece: one section was devoted to bizarre dancing, dark lights, flashing words, and an increasingly dramatic voice repeatedly asking about beginnings and endings, life and death.

The second act got crazier. A lady sat upstage with a glazed look, repeating the word "Expectations" in a monotone voice. Clothing was shed with every light change, and the final scene had a naked body lying on stage right (just the back of it) and a naked man writhing across the stage on his belly (again, no frontal view). His body was moving madly, but on his face was an extremely realistic looking happy mask; the whole time he crawled/writhed across the stage, his face was in a huge, frozen smile.

in december drinking horchata

2010-10-21T01:47:00.000-07:00

"Once it decides on a destination, it propels itself by thrusting its body up and away from the tree, sucking in its stomach, flaring out its ribs to turn its body in a "pseudo concave wing"[8] all the while making a continual serpentine motion of lateral undulation[9] parallel to the ground[10] to stabilise its direction in midair in order to land safely."

–Flying Snake description on Wikipedia. I love English.

"I don't have a girlfriend. I just know girls who would be really angry if they found out about each other."

–Christophe

**

English sounds like a crazy person language when it uses words like:

– surds
– gerunds
– ints

i don't mean to seem like i care about material things – like social status

2010-10-21T00:22:00.000-07:00

Through a D.I.Y. Foreign Aid NYT article, I recently discovered Maggie Doyne, a 23- year-old from New Jersey who took a gap year before college and ended up living in Nepal, starting and running a children's home and school. My favorite part of her story is when she won a CosmoGirl Leadership contest and they sent her $20,000 for her school. They also flew her to NY for a makeover, which she laughed about, saying that at the time she had lice in her hair and rarely wore makeup.

Her story is awesome. Watch the video.

"Last week you had it out, and the week before you had a hat, but now it's up –" Carl made a gesture, pretending to pull his hair back.

Yes, my eight-year-old pays more attention to my hair than I do. This weirds me out because a) he's a boy and I'm all about gender stereotypes and b) he's eight.

My friend Natalia, also a teacher, frequently posts statuses about comments her children make on her physical appearance – clothing, hair, eyes, everything.

"Yesterday one of my little girls patted my tummy and said "wow, big!"--great. Today, however, a different little girl said, "miss Natalie has nice eyes, and nice mouth, and nice ears!"--THIS is why i teach little kids...they're good for the self-esteem--at least most of the time. hahaha :P"

Simply Sweden.

"I love this ad!" Amadeus showed me a Snickers advertisement from her student issued scheduler. "Snickers is amazing!" I looked. "Peanut power!"

The ad had a Kama Sutra book with a bunch of post its inside it. "Got a big job to do?" was the slogan.

"That's the Kama Sutra!"

"What's that? One of those holy texts?"

(snickers kama sutra ad)

So the photobooth shot I took is backwards, but you get the point.

Welcome you Sweden.

turn my head with talk of summertime

2010-10-18T11:45:00.000-07:00

Numbers in Sweden are different.

I have strings of memorized four digit door codes floating about in my mind. (Almost every apartment/work building has a four digit code required to enter.)

Time is done in 24 hours. Really it's efficient because you never have to specify a.m. or p.m., or rack your brain trying to remember if 12 midnight is a.m. or p.m – it's 0.00. Of course, a.m./p.m. is rarely needed for context (no, school doesn't get out at 3 a.m.), but when it is needed, things can get confusing. I've known many people who have missed flights over these confusions.

Time is also different because Swedes are on it. They are always on time. They are never late, and if they are early, they drive an extra time around the block so that they arrive exactly on time. (The embassy's briefing words, not mine). You can see this obsession with time in the bus system – buses often hit arrival time to the minute, and if they're running late, they're libel to drive right by you to make up for time. (Haven't experienced this, but heard it happens). Not convinced? Perhaps the omnipresent giant outdoor clocks will help make my point.

Numbers are also different in the dating game. Well, perhaps not, but I thought I'd use the segway. Every Swedish girl who has met my 21-year-old brother has fallen immediately, madly, and aggressively in love with him. This includes quite an age range – high school (19) to well-established (late 30's). They call, text, invite him out, invite themselves in, cook him dinner, introduce him to rock legends, the list goes on. He seems almost bewildered by the attention, but, like any reasonable man, quickly attributed it to karma; "Girls didn't like me when I was young." Not quite true Christophe.

**

It's 8° C here (46°F). To my Middle-East/Californian internal expectations, this is very cold. A glance at the weather forecast gives the joyful news of the degrees marching steadily down; by Thursday we're hitting 2°.

And I've handled it OK so far. No bad weather, only bad clothes. I get that. Problem is, if it gets much colder, I'm going to start thinking that there are a lot of bad clothes out there, because I'm barely getting by.

Of course, when I bring up my weather worries, people always remind me that the actual hard part of Swedish winters is that it is dark all the time. Oh yeah, and that winter lasts for about seven months. S.A.D. Fairly high suicide rates (#28 in the world).

They have "happy lamps" here which give off sunlight type rays and include possible side effects of "being wired."

**

Funky Story:

The benign thief. This is thief we all aspire to be stolen from – he stole a laptop from a professor, and then returned the contents in a magic stick. (Yes, that's what I call them.)

All I ask of you:

Watched part of Phantom the other day. Emmy Rossum was 16 when she played this part. My ex-roomie was called Christine, and she looks quite a bit like Christine in the movie. I occasionally sang Phantom songs at her, but I don't think it had the same effect as Gerard Butler/Patrick Wilson.

smell the wine and cheap perfume

2010-10-15T08:34:00.000-07:00

"Prater du Engelska?"
"Yes."
"My sister and I are making a book, and we're asking people 'What is love.' What do you think love is?"

This was the exchange we had multiple times as we interviewed locals about the meaning of love. Ammadeus was wearing her 30's looking oval hat and cream colored coat. I wore her long, shiny black jacket with the buckle in the front; on my head sat a poofy green hat that Llama had knit – it made me feel artsy.

Ammadeus toted the pen and notebook while I manned the camera. As we headed out, I warned her that interviewing people can be a tricky process – some people do not want to talk, and many people refuse to be photographed. They would probably not want to give out personal information such as name and email, and they would most likely regard us suspiciously. I had conducted many spur of the moment interviews as a journalism major in California and Swedes are generally much more reserved than Americans.

Naturally, after my little pep talk, we ran into the friendliest, open, willing-to-be-photographed-and-give-email-and-name-and-where-they-were-from people imaginable.

And what do Swedes think love is? You'll have to read the book.

Just kidding. Here's some of what we came across.

Nature. A mid-thirties dark-haired Swedish woman, dressed casually and sitting on a dock, staring over the lake and sipping coffee. She says that love is in nature. It's being able to come outside after being sick for a few days and re-experience the scenery.

Physical. A middle-aged man, sitting on a bench with his iPhone, tells us that love is about a physical connection.

Togetherness. We serendipitously stumbled across a newlywed couple. They happily laughed when we asked our question, and the woman explained that love is about just being together.

These were a few of the answers we received. I really do want to follow through on the book.

lucky to be coming home again

2010-10-14T10:57:00.000-07:00

There's a giant clothing advertisement here that features four young (under 10) children, immaculately dressed and posed almost suggestively. When I see this poster, I am bothered by the barely disguised sexualisation that seems far too early. And then I wonder why we are so much more concerned about protecting children than adults. Certainly, they are born innocent, tabula rasas, impressionable – we want them to be preserved and shielded as long as possible.

So what's the magic age? What's the age when we decide that youth are old enough to be plunged into the dirt? Why don't we try to protect ourselves as much as our children? Must knowledge and exposure to grays mean that adults do not deserve an attempt at purity/preservation? Child porn is not OK but adult porn is? A 40 year-old with a 17-year-old is not OK, but a 40 year-old with an 18-year-old is? An 80-year-old with a 25-year-old?

I know we need to be able to make our own choices. I just don't understand them sometimes. And it seems as though society as a whole only seems to care about aiding the moral choices of minors.

**

Butterflies

Eyes aloft, over dangerous places,
The children follow the butterflies,
And, in the sweat of their upturned faces,
Slash with a net at the empty skies.

So it goes they fall amid brambles,
And sting their toes on the nettle-tops,
Till, after a thousand scratches and scrambles,
They wipe their brows and the hunting stops.

Then to quiet them comes their father
And stills the riot of pain and grief,
Saying, "Little ones, go and gather
Out of my garden a cabbage-leaf.

"You will find on it whorls and clots of
Dull grey eggs that, properly fed,
Turn, by way of the worm, to lots of
Glorious butterflies raised from the dead." . . .

"Heaven is beautiful, Earth is ugly,"
The three-dimensioned preacher saith;
So we must not look where the snail and the slug lie
For Psyche's birth. . . . And that is our death!

–Rudyard Kipling

**

I love dogs because they get excited about sticks. And funky smells. And every other dog in the area. And they're so transparent – tail wags furiously when excited, tail droops when sad. But while I enjoy dogs, I have always loved cats more.

I love cats because they love sunshine and warm laundry. And sleeping. And sneaking up on birds. Mostly though, I'm a cat person because cats make you feel like it's their choice to stay with you. Dogs seem to give away their affection to anything with a hand to feed them and throw their sticks. Also, you never need to fake excitement with cats.

she's a good girl, loves her mama

2010-10-12T07:55:00.001-07:00

A couple of the Swedish kids I tutor are nine-year-old boys. This means that they are far beyond me in all video/computer game knowledge, even with their limited English. When discussing video games, their voices speed up, their eyes brighten, and their hands start gesturing.

They introduced me to Steam (not 'Stream' which I, understandably, thought they were saying), and explained their love for Half Life, Oblivion, and various other sequeled games (Dark City 4?). I tend to be fairly unenthused about any gaming, mostly because I'm terrible at everything except Tetris, but also because it doesn't seem like the healthiest of addictions for little boys. However, these boys also have other hobbies (they love reading), and it's hard to condemn something that brings so much excitement into their faces. I did make an attempt at addressing the possible violence exposure.

"So do you guys use guns in these games?"

They looked at each other in a half 'what planet is this lady from,' half 'I can't wait to answer this question' way.

"Yes! In lots of them. In '.....' and '....' and '.....' "

"Maybe you should go around hugging instead of shooting. Or giving flowers." (Yes, I tease. I'm so cool.)

"But...we kill Zombies."

"Oh. Well I guess that's OK then." Really, there isn't any other way to deal with Zombies.

**

In my experience, Swedes have odd taste in American media. Ammadeus tells me that the kids at her school constantly sing Toto and other random old bands. The radio stations keep us entertained by playing Dusty Springfield, Billy Idol, Gnarls Barkley, Guns&Roses; all in a row.

My kids have funky movie taste too. Their list of favorites include Men in Black, Star Trek, Star Wars, I Robot, I am Legend, Ace Ventura Pet Detective, and the Scooby Doo movies.

**

Life Advice: Don't take public transportation home at midnight on the night of a Beer and Whiskey Festival in Sweden. Piles of puke. Stumbling, staggering, sickly people.

A mid 30's pale man with curly blond hair, glasses, zigzagged his way toward me and sat down too close, mumbling something in Swedish.

I smiled and shrugged until it became clear he expected an answer. We switched to English – he was fairly incoherent, but this might have been his extreme intoxication, not his language abilities.

"I'm so stupid," he looked distressed.

"Oh." I tried to sound sympathetic as I put a few more inches between us. I don't mind having these conversations as long as they maintain a certain distance.

"I only listen to my own things."

"Ah. That's alright."

"Nooo. I am so – " he said a foreign word I didn't recognize. I looked blankly at him.

"You are not Russian?"

"No," I shrugged. "American."

He spent the rest of our conversation trying to convince me that we were the same age (I denied), and telling me that he liked music. Just...music.

"You are...nice," he leaned to touch my arm. I stood up. "My train is here."

"Sorry!" He called after me.

I got home and told Ammadeus the story. She said I should have gotten his number and texted him in the morning about all the stupid things he had said. I think that would have been 1) harsh or 2) completely ineffective. (ie he would have found it funny.)

**

"Lady Gaga sings strange songs, but she doesn't wear many clothes." Tristan (age 9). Quite well put.

flipping your fins, you don't get too far

2010-10-07T08:42:00.000-07:00

What's the name of the restaurant?

His text reply was prompt.

Vapiano. By Zara.

Zara. A reasonably priced Spanish clothing store that reminded me of shopping at a branch in Oman. Shopping. Ammadeus.

Hey, where's Zara?

Her reply was to be expected.

Are you going SHOPPING without me?

No. Chris and I are meeting some babysitting parents for lunch. The restaurant is near Zara.

Oh. It's in Kungsgatan.

I hopped off the metro at Sergels Torg, the city center, and started walking in the direction a bus driver had pointed at when I asked for Kungsgatan.

There it was; Zara. I kept walking. And walking and walking. After I had thoroughly covered the area around Zara, I called Christophe.

Fun Conversation 1:

"Hey, I'm near Zara but I can't find the restaurant."

"Where are you?"

"Um. In a flower and fruit market. There's a giant PUB sign."

"What?"

"I took a right after Zara's."

"Why would you take a right after Zara's? He said 'Go right past Zara'"

"I tried that and it didn't work, so I figured maybe I should turn right."

"Okay, go to the Maxburgare." (Maxburgare = Sweden's version of fastfood.)

"I don't see one."

"Do you see a McDonalds?"

"Yes."

"There's a Maxburgare across from the McDonalds. Do you see it?"

I was far away, but I thought I saw the telltale red markings of a Maxburgare.

"Yeah."

"Okay go there and I'll meet you."

**

Naturally, we soon discovered that we were at a Mcdonalds in two different parts of Stockholm, near two different Zaras. Neither of us could see Vapiano, our restaurant destination. I hopped a bus to Kungsgarten (where he was) and called him for Fun Conversation 2.

He picked up with, "I was wrong. I just spoke to the guy we're meeting and it is in Sergels Torg, not Kungsgarten."

"Great. Well I'm in Kungsgarten now."

"Okay, I'm here too. What do you see?"

"Umm...an H&M?" (This is like saying you're near a tree in Ireland...or a Starbucks in LA.)

We discovered that we were both near NK, Sweden's version of Saks Fifth Avenue; a giant, classy clothing/everything store. We decided to meet under the big NK sign a la Sleepless in Seattle. This led to Fun Conversation 3.

"Hey. I'm under the NK sign."

"I'm under the NK sign."

"Uh, no you aren't. I can't see you. I'm under the sign. It's a huge NK."

"I know. I'm under the huge NK sign."

"Like right under?"

"Well, I'm a bit to the right."

"What right?"

"Like, looking out from NK's viewpoint, I'm to the right."

"Okay, stay there. I'll come."

Naturally, we finally figured out that there are two huge NK signs, about 30 feet apart – the very distance, it turns out, that removes the other from sight.

**

We arrive 40 minutes late after discovering a 3rd Zara within the same two mile radius. Apparently Zara is a big hit here? This was the type of comment we used as we profusely apologized to the man, woman, and four toddlers who were waiting for us.

We then continued on to Fun Conversation 4.

CH, the father we were eating with, asked Christophe what he was doing in Stockholm. Christophe told him about his tutoring/babysitting/housesitting jobs. I decided to pitch in.

"And he's writing screenplays!" This was true, and I thought it made him sound pretty cool, like a struggling writer.

"Oh really? What kind of screenplays?" CH asked.

Christophe smiled, "Oh, you know..."

"Horrific ones," I chimed in. I meant to say "Horror ones"– Christophe has written a very dark, disturbing story about a serial killer which I thought was really well done. Possibly not great conversation fodder for a first meeting with a babysitting client. Other, better topics, might have been his comedies

Oops.

**

Classic Monty Python:

lay you down in six feet of ground, 'cause we were born to raise –

2010-10-05T23:56:00.000-07:00

Try explaining "tacky" to an English speaker. Then try explaining it to two eight-year-old Swedish girls who don't know the months of the year in English.

This is what I ended up with (after many faces and half started sentences):

"It's like if you go to a birthday party, and everyone brings beautiful gifts. –– Do you bring gifts on birthdays here?"

They nod.

"Right, and everyone brings a beautiful gift, but you bring a stick."

They giggled.

"Kind of like that."

I told mumsi and Ammadeus about definition.

"But that's not what tacky means!" Ammadeus said.

"I know! But kind of. And how would you do it?"

Mumsie chimed in: "Read them "Tacky the Penguin!"

"That's what I was doing! That's what got me into this!"

**

Inevitably confusing explanations aside, Tacky the Penguin is a marvelous book. It follows the adventures of Tacky, a back-slapping, funky marching, belly-flopping penguin, and his friends Goodly, Lovely, Angel, Neatly and Perfect.

**

"So how are you liking Sweden?" This is one of the first questions I get when people learn that I'm a foreigner (the moment I open my mouth) and fairly new to the country.

My general response is "Oh I really like it here, it's so beautiful." True.

If they ask more questions, I delve into my appreciation for the extensive public transportation, the glittering lakes, accessible nature.

"If you like it that much, why are you leaving?" They never ask this question because I never tell them that I'm planning on heading out in the Spring. It would be a fair question though.

**

Ammadeus is 17 and in her final year of high school. She is at a Swedish school, and constantly makes silly complaints about how it's hard to understand concepts in Physics and Higher Math when taught in Swedish. Apparently the symbols used in the math here are the same but have different meanings. What a complainer.

She keeps changing her mind about college. And when I say "changing her mind," I don't mean the way normal people do it – getting enthused about an idea for a few days and then switching to another one.

No, she gets dead set on an idea and dives headlong into researching and understanding it. First it was chef. She bought cookbooks, started making recipes from scratch, set up a profitable homemade pasta business, and researched the New York Culinary Arts school.

Then she decided Neuroscience. She would be a doctor and help people. She constantly brought up questions about the function of the brain, and came to dinner with the weirdest facts. She declared it as a desired major on all of her college applications, and chose schools with appropriate programs.

Two days ago, she announced that she wants to go to business school and has to rewrite all of her essays extolling the merits of neuroscience.

The problem is, I can't make fun of her. Well I can. But six years up the road and I still daily change my mind.

**

I'm currently tutoring a 4 year old named Buster. This is very difficult for me, as I am a huge Arrested Development and have certain, indelible, associations with the name. Also, maybe name the dog Buster and name your kid Jack.

you're so lovely, are you lonely?

2010-10-04T13:07:00.000-07:00

I cradled baby Lila, rocking her slowly. Her eyes were closed and her lips forcefully sucked the bottle of milk as though afraid it would be removed at any moment. Three quarters of the way through the bottle, she sighed and her arm involuntarily lifted until her tiny hand rested on mine. A tear rested beneath her eyelashes, a lone tribute to her earlier cries of hunger.

**

Babysitting is actually the best job in the world. You put the kids to bed and then get paid per hour to read/watch a movie/go online.

**

"You hate it when people just don't care about things." My professor, Dr. L, was telling me about myself after reading some of my opinion articles. "You just want to shake them up." He went on to describe me further, all settled statements, some accurate, some oddly off, all unsolicited. Still, it was interesting for me to hear an analysis from someone who barely knew me except through my writing.

**

In Los Angeles, I got around by bus which occasionally worried my roommates and friends. One night after riding the bus home with a guy friend who usually drove, I explained to him that the bus system was quite safe.

"Everyone I've spoken to says it's pretty safe. I've never had any problems, and there are always lots of people."

He looked at me. "Didn't you notice some of the people in the back? The ones who have no connections?"

No connections. No one tying them to a sense of purpose.

**

History class. 11th grade. It was a discussion based class, and our conversation had delved into what we wanted to do in the future. I announced that I wanted to make a lot of money so that I could use it to help the poor.

After class, the history teacher, Mr. J, pulled me aside.

"One of the reasons I teach is because I get to meet students who give me hope for the future," he said warmly. "You are one who gives me hope. Hope that things won't always be like this, that things will one day be better."

I felt like I had been knighted. Words are powerful.

**

Dreams From My Father:

" 'Don't you think, Francis, that sometimes Christianity not so good? For Africa, the missionary changes everything, yes? He brings...how do you say?'

'Colonialism,' I offered.

'Yes –colonialism. White religion, no?'

Francis placed the Bible in his lap. 'Such things troubled me when I was young. The missionaries were men, and they erred as men. Now that I am older, I understand that I also can fail. That is not God's failure. I also remember that some missionaries fed people during drought. Some taught children to read. In this, I believe they were doing God's work. All we can do is aspire to live like God, though we will always fall short.' "

– Barack Obama describes a conversation during a safari he went on with his sister.

**

it's only a paper moon, sailing over a cardboard sea

2010-10-02T04:30:00.000-07:00

I am house sitting for a beautiful Schnauzer named Bob. He is smallish and soft with lovely gray fur that shimmers like a silk pashmina (his face is darker as per photo). He is quite comical looking after a recent shearing which left a buzzed body, long curly-haired legs, and a face covered in extensive furry eyebrows and an adorable dog-beard.

I'm pretty sure Bob loves me more than any person ever has – when I'm on a couch he isn't allowed on, he whimpers and looks up at me, begging me to sit somewhere closer to him. Also, his entire body shakes with excitement when we get ready for a walk. Sure, his affection is based solely on the fact that I feed him, but people have gotten married for worse reasons.

**

Today one of my 5-year-olds managed to cut a hole in the crotch of his jeans before I grabbed the scissors out of his hands.

**

This week I had some of my older kids write out "I can" sentences. They started with "I can play," and "I can read." A few minutes after writing "I can read" perfectly, Carla erased it and wouldn't tell me why. I then remembered that she had told me she can't read, and had probably erased it because she didn't want to write a lie.

**

On Monday, I gave Carl and Edvin a career vocabulary list. I started running out of ideas, but decided against garbageman and bus driver in case their parents thought I was encouraging underachievement. Instead I used jobs like doctor, dentist, and lawyer.

"What is lo-yer?" Carl asked.

"A lawyer? Well..." I tried to think of 1st grade ESL descriptors. "You know the man with the big thing he hits?" (I made a gavel-like gesture.)

His eyes brightened. "Oh! It's him?"

"No. That's a judge. But he's in the same room. He's one of the ones who talk."

"Oh. Does he...make the ––what are they called?"

"Laws?"

"Yes!"

"No."

He looked confused.

"Ummm. Okay, do you know what a criminal is?"

He shook his head. "No."

"A criminal is someone who does something bad. Like murders or steals."

"Okay."

"And then the police catch the criminal."

"Yeah."

"And then the lawyer is a man who says "No! This person did not do that. He tells the man with the loud thing (another gavel gesture). Do you understand?"

He scrunched his nose and shook his head.

"Oh well, that's OK. Maybe you can ask your parents later."

I think I'm going to start ending all my conversations with that line.

**

I'm writing this from the house of a little boy and his baby sister who I'm babysitting – Benjamin (4 yrs) and Lila (11 mos). It's been a little odd hearing Benjamin chatter nonstop; I've been used to Swedish children, who, if not naturally more reserved than Americans, certainly are quieter simply because they don't know much English.

I feel a bit like my ex-roomie Rebekah who couldn't get over a friend's verbose toddler sister after working with deaf children every day.

Benjamin's parents were a bit nervous about how he would act with a babysitter because he's only ever been watched by family members, and not at all since moving to Sweden. Turns out there was no need to worry; he was so excited showing me his toys that he barely said goodbye to his dad.

"And these are my trucks! And this opens like this! And here are some cars! And here's an engine!" His words were tripping over themselves in his excitement. He laughed like crazy while he talked for five minutes straight.

He looked at his baby sister, sitting in her bouncy seat. "Lila is very interested in watching me. She loves me very much!"

I realized that I had called him Ben even though his parents had referred to him as Benjamin.

"What do your friends call you? Ben or Benny? Or Benjamin?"

"They call me Benjamin, because that's what I like to be called."

"Oh. Why's that?"

"Because that's my name. It's the name God gave me."

Hard to argue with that. And probably not my place to be giving nicknames, so Benjamin it is. He is an energetic sweetheart with sandy brown hair and vivid blue eyes. Tonight he is wearing a green NotreDame Fighting Irish shirt (which he says is big enough for a 6-year-old), and he is reluctant to change out of it into his pajamas. I convince him that it is necessary, and step out of the room for privacy.

"Miss Siobhan, I have to go potty!" he bursts out of the room pantless.

"Okay," I say. "You can do that on your own right?" The last time I helped a boy go potty turned into quite a literal mess.

"Yes." After potty, he washes his hands. He then uses the towel to mess up his hair because he "doesn't like it at night." Then he decides he wants his hair nice, after all. Water is applied – "to make it straighter" – and he runs a comb through it.

I finally get him into bed, where he informs me he must say his prayers, but that we aren't going to cuddle. An Our Lady, Our Father, and ? later, and he's done.

"I won't tell you my sins because I'll tell mom and dad."

"Okay," I smile.

"I threw a temper tantrum at breakfast."

"Ohh," I say seriously.

"But I'm not going to tell you the rest. I'll tell mom and dad."

I assure him that this is fine and bid him goodnight.

"But we haven't talked about the day." No, we haven't. I sit down.

"Well I woke up. And went for a walk. And had breakfast. And then didn't have no lunch. And then played. And then dad went and picked – what's your name?"

"Miss Siobhan."

"Shu-von?"

"Shivon."

"Shivon. Shivon. Picked Miss Shivon up."

"What a fun day," I say (or something to this effect). "Well, goodnight Benjamin."

**

The rest of the night passes without incident, aside from baby Lila squirting pee right when I take her diaper off to change her. How can her timing be this terrible? Also, why don't mothers go on Fear Factor? They deal with a lot of grody stuff.

the river's just a river

2010-09-30T10:17:00.000-07:00

Expat kids tend to have an odd sense of geographical entitlement. Nony and I were discussing this the other day – how she complains about having never been to Berlin, like it's something she deserves. I feel the same about Prague and Paris and St. Petersburg (the list goes on). The TCK world is so shrunken that TCK expectations to visit certain countries are comparable to non-TCK expectations to visit bordering cities and states.

With this geographical entitlement comes a nonchalance towards general traveling. I'm housesitting for an American family for the upcoming week, and today the son showed me around the house as I asked questions about their trip.

"So where are you going?"

"Rome," he said flatly.

"Have you been before?"

"Nope."

"That's exciting."

"Yeah." We walk quietly for a few moments, and then he continues. "But I've heard that there's not much to do there. You know, besides seeing the sights."

"Oh." I tried to think of what a 12-year-old boy would want out of a city. A theme park?

"Like there aren't any amusement parks or anything." Bingo.

I suppose his apathetic attitude towards Rome could be attributed to a youthful apathy in the same way that museums are wasted on young children. Still, it's hard for me to imagine a non-expat kid being so blase about such a trip.

silently your senses abandon their defences

2010-09-29T13:49:00.000-07:00

Smashing Story: Awkward – TV hostess on live TV announces the wrong Australia Top Model winner.

**

Silence. Solitude. Reflection. Time.

I've never really felt a need for time. In my current, vaguely employed state, this might not be surprising information. But you'd be surprised how much there is besides "employment" to fill my life – reading, writing, socialization, photography, cooking, music, etc. Actually, you probably wouldn't be surprised, because it seems to be pretty common to have a need to fill in possible blank spaces.

For me, high school was about joining a million clubs/groups/sports, thriving on the input, socialization, and knowledge from each. I'm not exaggerating – my life sounded like a somewhat desperate college entry essay – MUN, band, choir, softball, soccer, basketball, plays, talent shows, fashion shows, student council, piano, youth group band, yearbook, all accompanied by constant reading and an active social life.

People who stressed about time always puzzled me, and when someone said they couldn't go out because they didn't have time, I generally assumed they didn't want to – after all, there is always time for the things that are important to you; and there is always so much time.

I still think that people will always make time for things that are important to them. I just think that they should reflect more on their choices of "things of importance." (And when I say "people," I mean "me.") Perhaps time isn't as bountiful as it appeared to my 17-year-old self; not when using it properly.

**

In Lifegroup tonight, one of the girls spoke about how solitary reflection can be scary because there are certain things that you might not want to confront. We spoke of God's whispering voice and the importance of stillness.

These are jarring ideas, considering the mayhem of 2010 living; traffic, radios, television, kjhagjhfdkjfhgjskdhgklj.

**

Sometimes, when I'm walking alone, I look nervously over my shoulder and quicken my pace. I then look back again, and walk even faster. This makes me feel like I'm in a John Grisham novel, or Erin Brockovich. The girl with the pearl earring, maybe. (She and Erin Brockovich share a blurry space in my mind.)

It also appears to make the people behind me uncomfortable. Casualties happen.

so if you care to find me, look to the northern sky

2010-09-27T09:45:00.000-07:00

timer camera photo

This week I:

- made sushi for the first time
- ate reindeer for the first time
- was visited by a high school friend I hadn't seen in five years
- was told by a policeman to calm down and get back into the car
- accidentally set off a silent alarm inside the metro station (looking for a bathroom light switch)
- experienced 50F (10C) weather for the first time in two years
- got to listen to my sister and Nony discuss whether I was scruffier in high school or now ("she used to stick her hair up in a knot every day and it was nasty"; "no – have you seen it now?" etc)
- saw a fully intact ship that sunk 20 minutes into its maiden voyage
- almost picnicked at a castle
- discovered the sauna in our building's basement

Exciting stuff. Got to reminisce with Scarlet and Nony over the silly things we were in high school. Realized that we still have a lot of the same conversation topics; ie. every two minutes is: "Okay, new plan. You two move to Ecuador with me..." or "How about this? Ash gets her teaching degree, and we all go to New Zealand"... until the inevitable "One of us marries rich and supports the others" idea is reached.

And of course, there were Nony's fun facts. "Fun fact: there is actually a treasure seeking career!" Well, that one is fun...most involved weird bits of information. Nony is my barmy geek friend who, while procrastinating writing her Master's thesis at her geek school, decided to memorize all the countries of the world. Most people procrastinate on Facebook.

Naturally, the week was also filled with "Have you heard of" countries. (Yes, I've heard of Djibouti. No, I haven't heard of Burkina Faso.) That's right, she sucked us into her web of knowledge.

don't you hear sincerity in my voice when I talk?

2010-09-20T11:25:00.000-07:00

“I’m not much of a dancer, but I’ll walk you there,” my father says willingly. He has always been crazy about walking, and living in Stockholm has provided him ample opportunity to engage in his long strolls. He and my mother are the only ones without metro/bus passes, and they walk an hour or two every night.

Occasionally they come back from these walks with fantastic stories about places they found (an extensive animal cemetery, a labyrinth) or events they bumped into (free concerts, etc). Last Sunday’s walk ended at a musical/dancing extravaganza, which they had wandered into on one of the nearby islands. They came home and raved about the free dancing lessons and music, until my sisters and I decided that we would go the next week.

“It’s about a 20 minute walk.” According to father, everything in Sweden is approximately 20 minutes from our apartment. This includes Gamla Stan, Sergels Torg, and every church we’ve visited. In his brain, these walks might actually be 20 minutes – after all, time is a philosophically complex notion, and I accept the idea of its relativity.

But tonight I want something more concrete. “What’s that in human time?”

He smiles. “OK, maybe half an hour. It took us 27 minutes last week. I’ll time it again.”

**

We amble along the waterside, admiring the boats and considering how lovely it would be to own one.

“That could be the Stewart,” he says of a medium-sized yacht. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have it for a family business? I could be the skipper, you could do the bookings and stuff, and Hannah could dance.”

I agree, and we continue walking. The subject inevitably moves to a Stewart dude ranch – a dream that is usually shot down by the family. I assure him that I am game and am, in fact, very fond of horses…and dudes.

It’s around seven and twilight is settling in. I cannot help remembering the summer skies when we first arrived which stayed bright until late. Changes are coming.

**

My father drops me off, and I enter a large, quaint building, which is leaking music into the chilled evening air. The inside of the building feels small – there are many rooms, corridors, and people milling about, practicing instruments and chatting.

The folks inside the building are just that – folks. Literally. They are a range of ages, but mostly older; very relaxed, simply dressed, and completely different than the Swedes who have daily surrounded me in Stockholm. The idea hits: this is real Sweden. It dawns on me that I have based my judgment of Sweden on Stockholm: somewhat akin to judging the United States based on a month in New York City. Informative, but limited and inaccurate.

I enter a cozy, well-lit room toward the back. It is the beginner’s dance class, and there are about seven couples painstakingly attempting the waltz-like moves they have just learned. The instructor is a short, bald, thick-necked man in his early 70’s. He is singing and keeping time in Swedish.

My mother tries teach me what I’ve missed, and softly chants the instructor’s words in English, “Outer, outer, inner.” She is trying to do the man’s part, and it is confusing her. The other couples start twirling, and we join in, our feet are a jumbled mess.

I have always been cursed with a love for dancing combined with a complete lack of any natural or gained ability. I am the 12-year-old who never got used to her growth spurts, and my limbs flail like a baby bird. Everything is awkward; I am tense in the wrong places and loose where I should be controlled. My only consolation is the knowledge that I have never done this dance before, and my partner is my mother.

The instructor stops singing, and begins monologuing in Swedish. Everybody detaches from their partner and finds a new one. As I register this information, an elderly man approaches me, hand held out. He is taller than me, thin with softening features and gray hair.

His hand settles firmly on my ribcage, and we start to dance. I am fine until the twirling commences, and then my feet are stampeding on his. I look down, trying to see what is going wrong, but my attempts are futile.

He tries to help – “Put your right foot here…then…here…Talar du Svenska?” Do you speak any Swedish? He is desperate.

I shake my head with an apologetic smile. “Engelska.” I hope he doesn’t think I am terrible because he is bad at explaining. I am terrible because I was born this way.

The class ends, and we all file through a corridor where a violin lesson is taking place. Lively music follows us as Ammadeus gravitates toward tables covered with piles of homemade food. There are burgundy soups, fresh vegetables, soft spreads, and a variety of baked goods.

Another group of violinists is enthusiastically playing in the corner, and the tables are filled with a mishmash of casually dressed Swedes, eating and talking.

“I’m going to get some food, try to get a seat across from the spicy guy,” Ammadeus instructs me. She has been eyeballing a young man with dark sideburns and big, light eyes. There is no room at Spicy Guy’s table, and we make do with a table in an adjoining room.

**

I walk home with my mother and younger sisters, still feeling energized from the community. Ammadeus is also animated, and we start rapping Justin Timberlake and Eminem. We decide to try rapping Jason Mraz and Taylor Swift songs and are delighted with the effect.

“Lucky I’m in love with my best FRIEND!” our rap is angst ridden; we are expressing our anger, channeling Tupac, electrifying the streets of Sweden.

“We were BOTH young when I first saw YOU!” We are rap geniuses. Superstars. How have we not been discovered?

We are also clearly American, and I am glad the streets are empty – no need to be enforcing Loud American stereotypes. The air is chilly, we can see our breath, and we are walking briskly against the cold, passed on one side by the occasional bit of traffic and staggered buses. On our other side, fancy private yachts are darkly sitting on the water, just beyond the reach of the streetlights.

Our repertoire of original rap songs has run out, and our conversational audibility has mellowed into a tone more complementary with our surroundings. So this is Sweden.

look at the world and I notice it's turning

2010-09-18T14:18:00.000-07:00

This guy is wonderful.

This morning I discussed adoption with my parents and ended up with a conversation that went something like this:

mumsie: "You should be glad I'm all for it. When I was thinking about it, my mom was completely against it."
me: "Really?"
mumsie: "Yeah. I mean that was after we already had six and were looking..."
me: "Ohh."
mumsie: "Anyways it wasn't my passion. It was something that I always thought would be a wonderful thing to do, but I wasn't committed enough."
me: "That makes sense."
mumsie:"And you know what tipped it over? When I realized we wouldn't all fit in the Suburban. We'd have to get some sort of commercial van or something."

So I missed out on another little sibling because we didn't want another car.

**

I want to design a website where you can put ingredients in and it outputs recipes.

i had a barbeque stain on my white t-shirt

2010-09-15T13:40:00.000-07:00

iWood

Things I like:

This website. It has a list of 40 web designer's online portfolios. I love the amount of creativity that is possible on the internet – it's almost magical.

The iWood. Actually, I mostly like the photo and the concept – the descriptions are a bit snarky.

MIT's OpenCourseWare. You can literally take an MIT class for free; they've filmed lectures and uploaded tests and answers. (Well, it's more like an audit than a class because you don't get course credit.) I'm currently doing one of the classes and I've found it amusing and highly informative. Also, my brain has stopped atrophying.

**

Small Talk Question

Is it ever wrong to have a feeling? "Bad" feelings: anger, jealousy, lust, pride. Or what about "good" feelings at inappropriate times: happiness, sadness, excitement, etc.

Are we responsible for controlling our minds to the degree that we can actually prevent "wrong" feelings? Or are we only responsible for what we do with those feelings (ie. dwell on them, act on them). Are we simply supposed to acknowledge them (not as good or bad, just as existing), get to the heart of the issue, and then move on?

**

I think the scariest possibility of old age is not losing vision or hearing, but mental acuity. There have been times when I've felt like my mind had to work really hard to grasp something and I felt like my brain was dysfunctionally slogging through thick mud. (Being introduced to higher math/physics concepts. Reaching what appears to be a limit of certain philosophical concepts. Having a conversation in the early morning/while exhausted.)

The idea of my cognitive abilities slowing down to this rate for everyday ideas and activities is frightening. Maybe I'm not properly acknowledging resilience.

that wars would never start

2010-09-14T07:11:00.000-07:00

Is it wrong to appeal to pathos for a good cause? Ie. publish pictures which tap an emotion in order to get someone to donate money to the poor. Sure, the numbers and facts about hunger, poverty, etc. can be factually explained and used to convince someone to give to others – but tapping into empathy seems to be a more effective method. Is it manipulation or communication?

**

I met a film major at Biola who was struck by the poverty he saw when visiting Africa on a church trip one summer. He decided to create a documentary to raise awareness of global poverty (while living on $1.25 a day), and he is planning to start a nonprofit enabling youth to combat poverty. Currently, he's trying to get funding for his project through a Pepsi contest.

I think it's a pretty cool project. It's easy to get overwhelmed with Social Justice causes, and it's easy to criticize something from the outside...

It's also easy to go to the Pepsi challenge websit e and vote for his project. Sure, Pepsi is using the giveaway for publicity. And this sort of setup allowing people to sit in their bedrooms and feel better about themselves through the click of a button. But hey – they should feel better about themselves – at least they're bothered enough to spend a couple minutes on it. Right?

going down the only road I've ever known

2010-09-13T12:36:00.000-07:00

I grew up reading comic books. Specifically: Garfield, Calvin and Hobbes, Farside, Asterix and Obelisk, Tintin, Archie, Dilbert, For Better or For Worse, and Foxtrot. I read other comics in the newspaper and upon occasion, but I only read collections of the ones I just listed. I devoured them like novels, and rereading them always gives me a sense of nostalgia and heightened appreciation for the intelligence and talent behind each strip.

Naturally, as with most of my interests/entertainments, I decided to try the art out for myself. I read my favorite authors' descriptions of their work processes, was given a "How to become a cartoonist" book, and set to work developing characters. I ended up with a young girl and her obnoxious pet monkey who would mock/make terribly witty remarks towards anyone else entering the scene (think Lord Henry Wotton).

I'm not sure what makes animals in cartoons so appealing – perhaps because paper is an equalizing medium: they have an equal claim to reality as their 2D human counterparts. Vraisemblablement, there is something naturally humorous about animals; especially talking animals. Particularly cows. (Yes, I adore Larson beyond all reason.)

**

This is the part where I move away from the mike to breathe in.

At Lifegroup the other night, the topic of trust came up – trust in God, trust in others. Somebody tied trust into control, and I haven't been mentally able to break the two since. Trust requires relinquishing a certain amount of control; like the chair example – you don't trust it until you sit in it.

Even when trust is simply a matter of spending time with someone and believing that they will accept you and your intentions, it allows them to have a certain amount of control over your well being. Any relational investment does, just ask Simon and Garfunkel:

I've built walls,
A fortress deep and mighty,
That none may penetrate.
I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain.
It's laughter and it's loving I disdain.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

Don't talk of love,
Well, I've heard the word before.
It's sleeping in my memory.
I won't disturb the slumber of feelings that have died.
If I never loved I never would have cried.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

I have my books
And my poetry to protect me;
I am shielded in my armor,
Hiding in my room, safe within my womb.
I touch no one and no one touches me.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

**

Sometimes when I'm walking, hiking, or riding the bus, I turn on the LOTR soundtrack and pretend I'm on an enthralling quest. I highly recommend it.

**

Every day I have the joy of hanging out with and walking Adam, a 6 month old Havanese Shih tzu.

When I first met Adam, he made a mad cap dash towards my crotch, wondering if I was a suitable love interest. He then flung his body in the air, aiming for my face, but contenting himself on chewing my hands. I'm glad that humans have developed a system of social norms to prevent this sort of behavior.

Adam is young, eager, and rather a ditz. He has the energy of a youthful John Travolta, and the attention span of Ellen Degeneres. When I throw a stick for him he runs frenetically at it with what appears to be a single minded fixation until he overshoots the target and runs onwards until called back or utterly confused.

Occasionally he doesn't run past the stick. Instead, he simply gets distracted before reaching it. Causes of distraction include other sticks, leaves, bits of dirt.

At only 6 months, he has only recently learned the art of lifting his leg and marking his territory. He is extremely excited about this discovery and literally marks objects every seven feet. At the beginning of our walks, that is – about halfway through he runs out of ammo and lifts his leg as more of a symbol of power than an actual deposit. (Once in a while he manages a few drips at the end.)

you could jumble them together, the conflict still remains

2010-09-12T10:45:00.000-07:00

pi back art

My little sister Ammadeus is the mathematically inclined one in our family. I decided it would be a good idea to write part of pi on her back and take photos. I think it would be really cool to cover an entire body in pi (like across the face and wrapping around the torso, etc), but that will probably have to wait until winter when we will be forced to rely on indoor activities.

She is also the artistic (painting, sketching, etc) one in our family. An artist who is talented at math seems like it should be the most obvious thing in the world: after all math and art are so entwined. Still, it makes sense that some people naturally experience/intuit/sense more of one than the other.

I think I would rather have terrific mental skills and ify social skills than vice versa. The people worth being friends with shouldn't mind a bit of awkwardness. And if they do, I would still have my robot buddies.

I don't remember where I first heard of Daniel Tammet, the English savant, but I remember being fascinated with his story. After a series of childhood epileptic attacks, he ended up with some wires crossed in his brain, causing him to become a synesthist – someone who experiences numbers as colors or tastes (or vice versa). Through this condition, he also can multiply large numbers in his head (think 347 to the power of 4), and can recite pi to over 20,000 digits.

Here's a clip of the first part of a story BBC did on him. This is the type of journalism I want to do:

I've started viewing the people in my house as distractions to my reading. There is probably a happy medium for this sort of thing.

Here's a pi tattoo:

no no no no, stick to the status quo

2010-09-11T04:59:00.000-07:00

"It's a shame not to get pregnant here." The man speaking was perfectly serious. No, he wasn't using a bizarre pickup line – he was referring to Sweden's policy of parent worship That's right, a year and a half paid pregnancy leave split between mom and dad.

I know a young, American, pregnant woman who has been working here for around a year. When she found out she was pregnant, she was nervous about telling her boss because she was a new hire. To her surprise, he was excited and supportive of her condition. Work philosophy is different here.

Things I like:

-tubes that are sealed shut and have a little pointy thing on top that you can flip over and use to pierce them. (harder to describe than you'd think)

-bus drivers who wait an extra couple seconds because they see you hurtling towards them like a mad(wo)man

-people who already know how to pronounce my name

-and can spell it

-children

**

I once put up an online bulletin trying to get more volunteers at an elementary school. I titled it "Like kids? A whole lot?" The inside of the post explained that we needed volunteers to come hang out and help with homework.

The one response? "You should think about changing the title of your post."

**

It's amazing the things bored people will do to fill up their time. I've always enjoyed reading the internet forwards about spicing up your life. I think my favorite suggestion was: End every sentence with the phrase "In accordance with the prophecy." I still get a kick out of that.

**

Intelligence is an interesting concept. Geniuses and dummies aside, what do you mean when you call someone smart? Do they have a lot of trivia type information in their heads? Do they pick concepts up really quickly? Do they have an ability to understand more than the average person? (ie. maybe they don't pick things up quickly, but can comprehend more)

I've known some extremely intuitive/perceptive people who aren't skilled at language or numbers, but who can communicate and understand interpersonal relations exceptionally well.

We've all known the seemingly vacuous classmate who can barely find their way out of a room, but who pulls straight A's.

When someone is described as "smart" to me, I either assume a philosophical conversationalist who is well read, or a math/sciencey/nerdy type.

But hey, apparently everything you thought about study habits – including visual/audio learners and right/left brain learners is wrong.

Small Talk Question : Would you rather be exceedingly intelligent and mildly beautiful or mildly intelligent and exceedingly beautiful? Which would get you farther careerwise? relationshipwise? happinesswise?

**

Last night I babysat a 4-year-old named Inaru. She had a wonderful drawer labeled "Make Believe" containing tiaras and fluffy pink skirts and bits of shiny fabric and outfits. I told her I wanted to be a princess. She refused and told me that I would be a dog. So I spent the next ten minutes barking and walking around on all fours as she told me what I could do.

She later asked me if I was an adult, or still a kid. This was the first time I had been asked this question. After assuring her that I was the most responsible, intelligent example of a grownup she could encounter, I turned the question around on her. (One cheap shot deserves another.)

"Are you still just a kid, or are you an adult?"
"No, but I will be one soon."
"How soon?"
"In a few days I think."

**

Babysitting is ideal rehab for recovering sarcastics. Sarcasm simply doesn't translate well to a four-year-old, and when nobody is chuckling at your remarkably pithy comments, you lose your drive.

Case in point: The daughter of a family we were eating with asked my brother and me where ours other siblings were.

I shook my head and said, "We don't talk about them much."

"Really? Why?"

"Because they aren't as attractive as we are."

She just looked at me. My brother, sitting next to her, gave me a look before turning to her:
"We pay her to say things like that."

Again, silence.

i'll be here tomorrow, that is if you're here – and you promise to keep this between you and me

2010-09-06T12:51:00.000-07:00

I'm trying to slow down on here. I've been mildly successful this month, but I can't help share a bit of my latest happenings.

I met a boy. Two actually. And they are wonderful, adorable little fairy creatures who talk to me with ready smiles and big, confused eyes. AND they have the best names – Carl (every male in Sweden is or wants to be named Carl), and Edwin (pronounced EdVin). They are six and eight and have been teaching me that I take the English language for granted.

I decided that we would talk about our emotions today – heavy first date topic, I know – and I drew 10 blank circles with a different feeling written under each. We were to discuss what each feeling meant and fill in the circle with an appropriate face.

The first three were pretty easy to draw:
Happy: Smiley Face
Sad: Frowny Face
Angry: Eyebrows slanted, teeth bared

Unfortunately, Edwin didn't know what "angry" was, and I was fairly incoherent in my attempted explanation.

"You know..." I made an exaggerated mad face. "Like that. Like if you don't like something." (By the time I'm done with them, they will be fully acquainted with English filler words.)

He stared up at me.

"Umm...like if you're watching football" – I wildly banked on the European football fetish – "and the other team scores a goal against you and you're like 'No!'" I shook my fist.

In retrospect, if he didn't understand the word "angry," he probably didn't understand my extended explanation. I console myself that it was good for him to hear the words anyways.

**

Angry was the beginning of my definition problems. I also found it difficult to define excited: "Like if you're really happy!" I used my enthusiastic, cheering voice. "Yay! Like if your football team scored and you're really happy!" Hopefully he's a little sporty boy and not a little bookish boy. (Yes, he has to be one or the other.)

Then of course, there were the last few emotions that I stuck in to make an even ten: hungry, calm, hyper.

Hungry = not really an emotion, but very easy to describe/communicate.

Calm = Very hard to mime/act out. "You know, it's when you're like this," I leaned back and looked around, mentally deciding not to use the word "chilled." I'm teaching English, not American teen slang.

"Umm...you know. The opposite of excited. When you're excited, you're all crazy and energetic - you know what energy is? No? Okay well it's like when you have a lot of movement. But this is the opposite. You know what opposite is? No? Okay it's like a different thing. Like happy is the opposite of sad." And so on. I kept reverting back to my actions, except it's pretty hard to act out calm.

As it turns out, it's also hard for a six-year-old to draw "calm" in a smiley face and make it look different than "tired," "hungry," and "confused." It's also hard for a college graduate.

Hyper = The last word on the list, and the one I used because the only other one I could come up with was "depressed" and I wasn't sure how that would go over with mum and dad. And, honestly, I didn't want to attempt that explanation. "It's like when you're sad for a long period of time and lose interest in activities that you used to enjoy, and everything seems meaningless and you can't stop thinking about death..." Hmmm.

So Life Advice: It's hard to describe basic words without synonyms. Especially when your vocal expressions appear to be less universal than you thought.

**

I have also found my dream job: someone who wants to pay me to talk to him in English for an hour every week. Why yes, I'll take your money while you fulfill my need for human interaction. Thank you.

My father, naturally, is displeased at the notion of my meeting a strange man for English lessons:

"No. You are not doing this. I don't like this."
"I'm an adult."
"How many adults have been mutilated and butchered? What kind of an answer is that?"

A few minutes further into the conversation:

"What's his name?"
"(name)"
"What does he look like?"
"I don't know I haven't met him."
"Well you're going to meet up, you'll need a description."
"He told me he was a gangstery looking guy with a knife."
"That's very funny ha ha ha ha ha. I'll tell that to the cops when they ask for a description."

whenever i lose a wrestling match, i have a funny feeling that i've won

2010-09-05T01:37:00.000-07:00

I'm starting an ugly nanny service. (OK the cartoon maid is more devious than ugly, I know.) It's a win-win situation. No mom wants a hot young thing around the house, doing her work AND looking better than her. No dad really wants that temptation – or if he wants to cheat, he should use a separate part of his life. (Think Jude Law, etc.) And finally, this is a chance for plain girls to get ahead in life. If they're going to be judged on their looks anyways, why not use it to advantage.

Finally they can embrace facial warts and unibrows and peg legs and tar-stained teeth and greasy hair.

**

I had a professor who told us that all women are beautiful. He really believed it. I thought it was a beautiful thought. And it wasn't even a line.

This could only happen to me

2010-09-02T01:42:00.000-07:00

Simply Sweden:
Apparently you can't get through a winter in Sweden without wiping out on the ice patches. Oh, and big shafts of ice also work themselves loose and dive into passerby.

**

Last night I ran around strangling people. Clones, actually. And they were in my dream, so that almost makes it better. I mean it would be problematic to indict someone based on dream crimes. Unless you're talking Inception. But that's a dream too.

The problem with clones is they look like real people. And they're evil. So I was madly running around trying to warn people before they got cloned that a clone of themselves might appear. I tried to explain how to recognize if it was their clone or a real person. In retrospect, this information was fairly superfluous – 95% of the time you're the one who can tell if it's a clone or yourself. You're having a pretty serious identity crisis if you aren't sure whether you are yourself or your clone.

Anyways, the clones tended to give themselves away by repetitively muttering something along the lines of "We want you, we want you." So that was helpful.

I spent my night sprinting towards people, discerning if they were a clone, warning them if they weren't, and violently attacking them if they were. I didn't feel guilty then, and I still don't. They're clones.

**

Right, I know. Nobody really wants to hear about someone's dream. Dreams are filled with intense emotions that don't translate in "reality." They differ from memories because they don't deal with normal laws: time, gravity, our freedom from clones. It's hard for a listener to empathize. And, of course, they aren't "real," so they're considered less significant.

Also, half the time dreams are stupid, but the dreamworld was felt so strongly by the dreamer that he/she thinks it will somehow translate to the listener: "And then we walked over to this building! And I was with Mike, but he looked like Jake, but I knew it was Mike!" Or, the dreamworld isn't fantastic, it's mundane, and the subconscious is having extended conversations with friends. Just sitting and talking.

Fine, nobody really needs to share those dreams.

But what if the most interesting thing I did this week was fight clones? Why shouldn't I tell you about that story instead of how I missed my alarm and was late for the bus and blah blah blah? Most conversations are silly, small-talk affairs; why should it make a difference if our stories happened in our head or in the realm we share with others?

Maybe it's selfish to expect someone to only talk to you about something you could have done.

Clones, man. Get you thinking.

Oh, and next time you're telling someone a dream and they're acting like they actually care, consider these options: Either

1) they are faking it, OR
2) they feel guilty and are trying to make it up to you by listening, OR
3) you are a terrific storyteller, OR
4) they think you are telling them something that actually happened (notice their expression when you mention how you started flying and your cape changed colors) OR
5) your dreams are actually entertaining to the general population, OR
6) your listener is madly in love with you and listening very carefully trying to decipher a hidden symbol of reciprocated affection (ie. in my case: were you a clone in my dream? Did I strangle you or shoot you? etc.)

**

We're house sitting a dog named Peanut. He's small, white and fluffy and we generally refer to him as a "she," despite the Harley Davidson handkerchief his owners tied around his neck in an attempt to avoid such gender confusion.

We also call him Peepee. This is because everytime he sees a leash he gets so excited that he tinkles on the carpet.

**

There are some marvelous radio stations here. This was playing yesterday:

they're like the real world meets boy meets world meets days of our lives

2010-08-30T10:12:00.000-07:00

My father chose the wrong family for his career. I suppose he only has his genes to blame. Still, a few of us have suggested that he utilize a separate, representational family, for various family-included functions he has to attend. He treated this suggestion as a joke, "Haha how witty we all are," but, like most humour, there is much truth to be found.

Today our family was invited to fika (Sweden's version of afternoon tea. But it's coffee. They're obsessed) with an ambassador and his family. Or, as it turned out, a foreign ambassador, his wife, and their DCM. No children. Except, of course, the four giants in our family.

Eventually the conversations diverged into their natural directions: the men discussed politics and history, the wives discussed the women's clubs in Stockholm, and the four offspring had our own quiet conversations which ranged from biology to adult content to gender roles.

**

Highlights from our fika conversation:

Ammadeus (my 17 year old culinary sister) lectured me on her newfound knowledge of viruses. I'm not going to give anything away because she has promised a guest blog, but it's exciting stuff. In her virus speech, she went through the qualifications of life (reactions to surroundings, transference of energy, etc.), including reproduction.

"You aren't alive! You haven't reproduced!" she exclaimed and laughed hysterically at her own genius.
"Well then you aren't alive," I protested. "You haven't reproduced."
"I have reproduced! I've created many poop babies." Nice. At the ambassador's residence.

Ammadeus staring at me as I looked across at the foreign dignitaries:
"I see your profile! I see your profile."
I quickly turned to her, but it was too late. "I can still imagine it!"

That's the scary thing in life: you have no control over the imagination of others.

Ammadeus: "They just had this conference to define pornography, and they finally came up with 'We can't define it, but we all know what it is.' Hahahhahaha." (she is easily amused)
me: "Like love."
Ammadeus: "Like life."
me: "You've already defined life."

**

I get no kick from champagne

2010-08-30T06:17:00.000-07:00

Simply Sweden:

"There is no bad weather, only bad clothing."

So say the people trying to prep me for wintering in Stockholm. The fact that this mantra has already been thrust upon me several times – in August – bodes ill for its veracity. Still, it is clever and probably necessary PR.

According to my pseudo co-worker, Swedish men are currently on the lookout for a woman to settle down with over the winter. They like to have these things fixed before the weather sets in. Breakups happen in Spring.

My American notions reject this mindset: Winters are spent cold(ish) and lonely, and Springtime is lovetime, twitterpation time, Valentine's Day. Spring is a terrible time of year to break up. Don't the Swedes watch Bambi?

I have often dreamed of a far off place

2010-08-30T02:37:00.000-07:00

Belonging. That's what everyone is looking for, just ask Disney. Their cartoons are filled with characters searching for a sense of place, somewhere to fit in – a desire to belong. Hercules, perhaps, is the most blatant in this theme, with its title character singing, "I would go most anywhere to feel like I belong." But they all have it: Simba cannot escape his destiny, Arielle is tired of her underwater world, Mulan tries the cross-dressing thing, and Belle yearns for "something more than this provincial life."

It's conflict, it's a plot point, I get it. The story can't start at perfection, because there will nowhere for the character to go; no way to grow. But the plot doesn't need to be centered around a need to belong; there is plenty of potential conflict for characters satisfied with their placement both emotionally and physically. So why is this such a prevalent theme in Disney cartoons? It sells. Why does it sell? Because it connects. It resonates.

The idea of a search for belonging particularly resonates with youth, especially those who have not settled on a career, spouse, or even location. Unwilling to commit, unwilling to settle until they find their ideal position/situation: a Disneylike quest for "where they belong."

Robin Marantz Hening wrote an NYT piece on this trend, and Don Miller also had some words on the subject. Oh, and I have about a million friends going through this phase; it's real, I promise.

Donc, welcome to America of 2010. We have 20 somethings involved in a generational-wide identity avoidance, 30 somethings who are recovering from their 20 somethings phase, 40 somethings who are having their midlife crises, and everyone is convinced that Obama is now Muslim. (Okay so only 18%, but it's been making headlines.)

Back to belonging. I think that we've all been glimpses of perfection, of the world to come, and will never have a true sense of belonging until then.

"Much on earth is concealed from us, but in place of it we have been granted a secret, mysterious sense of our living bond with the other world, with the higher heavenly world, and the roots of our thoughts and feelings are not here but in other worlds. That is why philosophers say it is impossible on earth to conceive the essence of things. God took seeds from other worlds and sowed them on this earth, and raised up his garden; and everything that could sprout sprouted, but it lives and grows only through its sense of being in touch with other mysterious worlds; if this sense is weakened or destroyed in you, that which has grown up in you dies. Then you become indifferent to life, and even come to hate it. So I think."
-- The Brothers Karamazov

BUT, in the meantime, here are some thoughts:

1) Except in extreme circumstances, internal contentment has little to do with external location. (Hercules learned this the hard way.)

2) There is peace to be found in accepting that there will be constant striving; the journey doesn't end until death.

3) It's okay to be uncertain about a lot of things, if you're certain about the right things. (Don't remember where I got that from.)

4) Smile at strangers.

**

My brother has suggested that maybe we've got it all wrong and everyone is simply on a quest for a giant bowl.

My father went through an 'everyone is looking for entertainment' phase.

And of course, the whole "All you need is love" thing has been big with hippies, rockstars, and Evangelicals alike. Too bad people can't seem to agree on a definition: though I suppose it's easier to sell as a panacea when it remains a hazy ideal that everyone has sensed in one way or another.

"Love will save you. Will save our world. I'm not really sure what it is, but I've had a taste of it and I know it's worthwhile." That sort of thing.

"What is love" is the second Google suggestion when you type in "What is." No. 1? "What is my IP." Two most important questions in life? I think so.

**

There is a book on our shelf here titled "How to raise a healthy child in spite of your doctor." My mother has always had a very acute acceptance of the fallibility of doctors.

this clock never seemed so alive

2010-08-27T00:16:00.000-07:00

Uncle Joe's broken legs:

Luckiest People on Earth:

she looked right through me

2010-08-26T00:09:00.000-07:00

Simply Sweden:
Job interviews are personal here. They ask you your age, what salary you expect, and what your hobbies are. You send in a photo with your CV. You aren't expected to slather your resume with accomplishments – it's considered bragging.

So basically, they want to know you have a nice face, personality, and hidden potential.

**

My ex-roomie Jess is the most talented television reporter in the world. Here's a clip:

i'm in the corner

2010-08-25T12:59:00.000-07:00

Nebula (National Geographic Photo).

I remember the first time I saw photos of nebulae, I couldn't believe that something so wonderfully colorful and beautiful was part of our universe. They looked like photoshopped images from an art show. I suppose this was a funny reaction considering the beauty in nature all around me.

Smashing Story: Nine day long traffic jam in Beijing. And people complain in LA...

Simply Sweden: Parking here is expensive. It makes me appreciate the "Free Parking" space in Monopoly which I had always thought of as no big deal. (Okay, house rules sticking $500 and all Chance/Community Chest fines made it a biggish deal.) Free parking is a big deal here though.

A couple Swedish Road Rules:

– Pedestrians always ALWAYS have right of way. The minute a pedestrian looks like he/she is about to step into the Zebra crossing, you must stop. The fines/repercussions are serious.

– Drinking and Driving is hardcore. BAC level is .02. (In the States it's .08). That means, a girl, I probably have to wait a couple hours after a glass of wine before driving. Penalties are severe (depending on BAC levels, suspension of driver's license, imprisonment, etc)

Though apparently being imprisoned in Sweden is a sweet deal. (That's where Saddam Hussein wanted to be interned.)

and i thought "hey, this could be something"

2010-08-25T11:32:00.000-07:00

So my Llama has been teaching me some quick photo tricks and I thought I'd share some of the results.

Green Beast!

Leggy

Summer of Skinny Jeans

Supercilious

Like a sprained ankle, I ain't nothin to play with

2010-08-24T00:06:00.000-07:00

Simply Sweden:
"In Sweden, H&M is like Starbucks. It's on every corner," Ammadeus explained to me. It's true. They are everywhere, and they're all different. They're very reasonably priced, like in the States.

**

There is a California Whopper at the Burger King here, which I am anxious to try and review for y'all. Until then, another AFN life lesson:

The Sun Also Rises

2010-08-23T12:48:00.000-07:00

A friend and I at a beach in Oman

Tomorrow. There is always promise in tomorrow. As Anne Shirley was fond of saying: "Tomorrow is always fresh with no mistakes." No matter what we do, no matter how life-shattering today is, the sun will rise tomorrow.

We are, as individuals, such small players in the grand scheme of things:

"The sun - The sun is in perpetual motion, rising, setting, and rising again, and so constantly repeating its course in all succeeding days, and years, and ages; and the like he observes concerning the winds and rivers, and the design of these similitudes seem to be; to shew the vanity of all worldly things, and that man's mind can never be satisfied with them, because there is nothing in the world but a constant repetition of the same things..."

–Wesley's Notes on Ecc. 1:5

I love the hope that comes from the acceptance of my own insignificance. Putting my trust in something bigger takes all the pressure off my antics. I'm not talking a free pass to irresponsibility. It's just helpful and healthful to have a big picture perspective sometimes.

So that's the thought behind my blog title. Also, "The Sun Also Rises" is the name of Ernest Hemingway's first novel. I haven't read it, but plan to this year. It's about expats living in Europe so it's appropriate on that level.

all this beauty crowds my eyes

2010-08-23T03:32:00.000-07:00

As an expat brat, I didn't grow up with normal television. I grew up with AFN – Armed Forces Network, which was a compilation of old and new shows (Brady Bunch, I Love Jeannie, Seventh Heaven, etc.) and contained no commercials.

In lieu of commercials, we were given important life lessons. Like practicing good OPSEC (operation security).

Welcome to my world.

if I know you, you're doing that thing you do

2010-08-22T00:52:00.000-07:00

Facebook Find: Is for the ladies today. A link showed up on my homepage, a link to a tumblr account called Polaroids of Hot Guys Reading. It's a thing of beauty.

**

My cousin Irene is about three years old, and is currently the only toddler in our extended family. So she's an only child/firstborn x10. Everybody adores her, and names are being changed. She couldn't pronounce Alexandra or Diane. Alexandra became "Akax...andera" and Diane became "Diaga" (long 'a' in the middle). My name she got perfectly.

She called Sadie the dog "Sasie," and her parents officially changed the dog's name because they thought it was so cute. My uncle has also taken to calling my mother "Diaga," but hasn't convinced the rest of us.

Hey, you know this could be something

2010-08-21T07:02:00.000-07:00

What would you not like to find under your bed?

A hog
Me (think about that. finding yourself under a bed. weird.)
Peter Pan's shadow
Chris Brown

What would the P.S. to your suicide note say?

Take care of the dog for me
Tell Joe to write my requiem mass
I was the one who broke the vase, not Scotty
Just kidding!
The shirt you wore yesterday was really ugly.

Yes, Empires has taken a morbid turn. Also, at the store today they played TWO of the songs on the "I never want to hear this song again" mix. "I will survive" and "It's raining men." That's right. I thought I had a free pass on that one after 2002.

Howl's Moving Castle is a wonderful, gorgeous movie.

Meg White, you're alright

2010-08-20T23:55:00.000-07:00

Cheater Punishment

A Million Little Pieces, James Frey's 2003 memoir about a drug battle, was discovered to be partially faked, and he was scolded on-air by Oprah. Wikipedia calls it a "semi-fictional memoir" which amuses me.

On the other hand, I would very much like to write one of these fake memoirs. (Check out Misha Defonseca's fake memoir – she threw in a sequence where she lived with a pack of wolves.) Take my life, doctor it so that it's a bit more interesting throw in a nemesis, maybe have an old mentor/oracle type character; ultimately produce what America wants: a tragedy with a happy ending.

But I would label it fiction. I might pull one of those "based on true events" things. Or I might let future biographers research my life and try to extract parallels to my work.

So here's the question: why not simply sell these as fiction? Fiction authors often weave real life circumstances into their works. A good story should sell, no matter what the label. Well, not necessarily. I did some half hearted research and discovered that 1) America's (useful) publishing statistics cost a lot of money to get your hands on, and 2) In 2005, the NYT published an opinions article asserting the growing dominance of nonfiction.

And it's true. There's something compelling about reading an amazing story that happens to be real. (Remember my post on In Cold Blood?) I bet the average public want their escape to be plausible; they know they probably won't discover that they are secretly royalty (or a wizard): but maybe they could survive an impossible drug battle, or even live with wolves.

Or maybe it's not about selling books. Maybe nobody ever told these authors that white lies aren't OK – especially widely published white lies.

I really liked Obama's comments in the introduction to Dreams from my Father. He acknowledges the inconsistency of memory, and says that he has done his best to accurately recreate what happened, but retold conversations will not be verbatim:

"Finally, there are the dangers inherent in any autobiographical work: the temptation to color events in ways favorable to the writer, the tendency to overestimate the interest one's experiences hold for others, selective lapses of memory. Such hazards are only magnified when the writer lacks the wisdom of age; the distance that can cure one of certain vanities. I can't say that I've avoided all, or any, of these hazards successfully. Although much of this book is based on contemporaneous journals or the oral histories of my family, the dialogue is necessarily an approximation of what was actually said or relayed to me. For the sake of compression, some of the characters that appear are composites of people I've known, and some events appear out of precise chronology. With the exception of my family and a handful of public figures, the names of most characters have been changed for the sake of their privacy."

Smashing Story: Angel at the Fence: the True Story of a Love that Survived, was the canceled ("true") story of a romance during the Holocaust. Salon did an interesting piece on this story.

**

I have never understood why, from a moral standpoint, single men and women get involved in affairs. If you know the man has a girlfriend/wife, have some respect for the woman and refuse the guy. Same goes for men.

What happened to doing things for the good of society, even at your own expense? Is it that radical to think of the committed partner, even if he/she is faceless to you? In When Harry Met Sally, all the sympathy is on the woman who is seeing a man who won't leave his wife. In He's Just Not that into You, Scarlett Johansson is advised by Drew Barrymore that the married man she is seeing might actually be "the one." Excuse me? It should be considered morally wrong to engage in an affair, even if you aren't the one attached.

Society's attitude needs to shift. Or the attitude the media portrays needs to shift.

Not only are you thinking of the other person in the equation, and refusing to enable the cheater; you are also respecting yourself. Who really wants to be the hidden relationship, the booty call? And even if he/she finally commits, who really wants to end up with a cheater?

I realize that affairs are often unintentional. I get it. Affairs are like a riptide; you're in the ocean, you step into the wrong area, and before you know it you're in over your head. Fine. Don't go to the ocean: don't casually flirt, don't hang out one-on-one, etc.

"Oh but men aren't biologically designed to be with one person!" Without commenting on the truth of that statement: a man who feels that way shouldn't get into long term relationships. Or he should get out of the first one before going on to the next.

I know this wasn't very empathetic. How empathetic are you going to feel when your wife of 10 years walks out on you for a guy with a Lamborghini? Nobody empathizes with the leaver/cheater. Why empathize with the enabler?

**

I miss my cat.

For the first time in history

2010-08-19T08:09:00.000-07:00

My family is fond of a game called Empires in which each person is required to come up with an answer in a chosen category.

Bright moments have included:

What would the title of your autobiography be?

Answer: My amazing life will never end. (This was supposed to be "My amazing life in Wonderland, but was miscommunicated to a much better answer)

Break up lines:

I'm sober
We were never together
Two letters: B and O
Your eyes aren't symmetrical and I don't understand your accent
Dog already sawed in half? This should be easy.

Reasons to leave a party:

God told me to.
I'm in labor.
Justin Bieber arrived in his boxers.

Last words:

I thought it smelled like bread.
My name is Edgar.
My fingers were crossed.

Songs you never want to hear again:

Party in the USA
Paparrazi
Feliz Navidad
I will Survive
It's Raining Men
The Macarena

**

The song list, naturally, was accompanied by loud renditions of each song (so not much chance of never hearing them again.)

I thought it was a pretty good list, though. It reminded me of an

Undeleted Text: I was just at a Fourth of July party and they played Miley Cyrus's "Party in the USA." America fail.

you know you liven my eyes

2010-08-17T12:41:00.000-07:00

SIOBHAN

I realize these came out tiny. Maybe I'll fix one day.

Ideas I should have had which are now making profits while I remain unemployed:

Runpee. An application that warns you when a good time to go to the bathroom while at the cinema. It maps out the boring/slow parts of movies and tells you when to safely go. This app could probably double as a movie rating system.

Fiverr.com is a site which lists things that people will do for you for a dollar. Some of what you can purchase on the site:

– poems
– a picture of your name written on someone's hand
– "Happy Birthday" sung to you a la Gollum
– "I will create custom abundance meditation for you for $5"
– debating politics
– a message written in sand

At a mall in China, there is a women's only room filled with unwanted TV's, furniture, etc. For a small fee (or with some sort of validation), women can go in, put on a helmet, grab a baseball bat, and physically vent their frustrations. It's apparently a big hit for girls with cheating boyfriends, difficulties finding jobs, etc.

you know i read it in a magazine

2010-08-17T04:24:00.000-07:00

"Siobhan, guess what your sister subjected me to that is something you would subject me to?" Llama looked vaguely pained.

It's prefaces like these that make me excited about the person talking to me. A friend was spouting out golden prefaces to his thoughts one day, my favorite of which was: "Now this may be an indication of my severe psychoses..." (Or something to that effect.)

Anyways, in Llama's case, Ammadeus (our younger sister) had "made" her model every letter in a yellow shirt and yellow tights. I have placed X as the photo for this blog, but I will be creating an image of my name for your viewing pleasure.

Life Advice:

How to Make People Like You

1) Give them unsolicited advice
2) Mix up the gender of their baby
3) Sniff them
4) Pull an April Fool's prank on April 2
5) Tell them they don't take criticism well
6) Tell them they resemble a celebrity of the opposite sex. Or Sarah Jessica Parker.

None of these have worked for me so far, but I'm thinking it will happen for me one of these days. (And unspoken #6: Make like an absent father and throw money and gifts at them.)

**

Or try liking them first. But Siobhan, if people only like me because I like them, are they liking me for me or for them?

I don't know. Why do you want them to like you in the first place?

**

Simply Sweden: The samples at the grocery store are actually not samples. This happenstance has resulted in my brother and mumsie coming home with a ton of guilt candy that they bought after chowing down on the samples.

**

Hit #2 for "How to Make People Like You" (I figured I'd check out the competition) was this site. It includes advice like "Make a good first impression" (what if it's too late); "Project a 'Really Useful' Attitude" (wow), and my personal favorite: "...learn how to be like them. This requires you to deliberately control your behavior to become sufficiently like the other person to form a connection..."

Yes, these were taken out of context. I gave you the link, go look at the context. But really...really.

"Oh yeah, Romeo. I used to have a scene with him."

2010-08-17T02:03:00.000-07:00

Funky Story: Justin Bieber asked the public which country he should tour next and the result was North Korea.

I'm starting a weekly poll on here. You can vote for more than one answer, but you can't vote for the same answer more than once. After being in charge of the Opinions poll at The Chimes Online, I realize that allowing viewers multiple votes can result in inaccurate results. (Alright I suppose you don't need experiential knowledge for that.) Anyways, it's just for fun; I probably won't be selling my results, so I'm not too worried.

**

This week's poll was inspired by the Colombia air crash in which the plane was struck by lightning and split into three.

For my nervous readers, I have decided to share an article entitled "How to survive a 35,000 foot fall." It includes advice on body positioning and targeting – "Trees aren’t bad, though they tend to skewer." Apparently landing on water is a bad idea.

"Like concrete, liquid doesn’t compress. Hitting the ocean is essentially the same as colliding with a sidewalk, Hamilton explains, except that pavement (perhaps unfortunately) won’t “open up and swallow your shattered body.”

Also, there is hope. Remember the 12-year-old girl who survived the Yemeni plane crash?

the girl with kaleidoscope eyes

2010-08-16T08:06:00.000-07:00

When you hover over this image on xkcd, the text reads: "You know that I'll always love you. As long as she's with someone else."

This reminded me of Karen Sharp, the host of Love Songs on the Coast, a shmoopy radio station which was all about dedicating songs to the ones you love. Karen Sharp's voice is the most soothing, kind, maternal sound in the world. California adores her. They send their love letters in for her to read. They call her to dedicate songs to their loved ones. Heck, they call her to help deliver their babies. (I seriously heard a lady call and have her play a song for her daughter who was in labor in the hospital, who loved the station.)

The above cartoon reminds me of the one time I heard a dedication go a little wrong on air – the fault of the fellow calling in, not Karen. Karen behaved swimmingly. It went something like this:

youngish guy: "Hi, I'm calling to dedicate a song to my girlfriend Jill."

Karen (utterly empathizing with his great love): "That is so wonderful. Why don't you tell me about her?"

youngish guy: "Well, she's really fun. I'm convinced she's the girl for me...right now...at the moment."

Right now. At the Moment. We died laughing. Karen didn't.

Karen: "That's so sweet."

**

Small Talk Question of the Blog:
Why do people settle? When should people settle?

Guinness Link: Man with the stretchiest skin in the world.

Simply Sweden: I don't know if this is Sweden, or our family simply discovering what can be done all over the world.

But here, we buy lettuce in a pot. That's right, it grows in our kitchen. Take a look:

It made me feel special, like I was hunting for my own dinner. Organic.

i have to close my eyes until the color goes

2010-08-16T01:09:00.000-07:00

The above video is terrific.

**

Yesterday, the house phone rang at midnight. I was alone in the front family room, utilizing the wireless that is markedly absent in my own room.

Is it my parents calling from their room? I was skyping with Shawnie, and neither my Skype voice, nor my Shawnie voice are of moderation. No, it wasn't my parents.

"Hello, this is Post One at the Embassy. Is everything OK there?"
"Yes. Why?"
"We received notification that your security alarm has been tripped. Is everything alright?"
"How am I supposed to know?" This was not said with an attitude – I was genuinely worried. It was late, and I had just heard stories about professional robbers in one of the nearby suburbs.

I had also just watched a movie which I should actually not be allowed to watch. In it there was a deathly game of hide and seek in the main girl's house. I was alone in the family room, right next to the hallway with the front door. What was OPSEC protocol for figuring out if there was an intruder?

Post One wasn't terribly helpful. "Well I don't want to wake your parents. Please call back if there are any problems and we'll send the local police over."

This sounded like terrible, awful OPSEC to me. Didn't I get the kind operator who tells me in very calm details what to do and how well I was doing it? I quickly asked him for their phone number which was, naturally, about 15 thousand digits long. I didn't think to ask for the emergency number in Sweden.

A security alarm has been tripped. And now this thought was tripping my brain. I walked in pitch blackness toward my room at the back of the apartment. A light was on in Christophe's room, and I poked my head in, warning him of our plausible imminent danger.

He gave a slight smile. "Oh. That must have been me. I pressed a strange button while looking for a light switch, and was wondering if it was a security alarm."

"Oh."

Yes. There are secret triggers everywhere. I spoke to my mom this morning and she didn't seem surprised.

"I forgot to tell you, there are all these alarm buttons around the house." Surprise!

Apparently my mind thinks it's a horribly good idea to freak out about completely safe situations and ignore actually problematic ones.

I'm just glad I haven't gone around pressing all the alarms – because I have noticed some pretty neat looking buttons.

**

I was once asked if I would push a button if I was alone in a room and told not to push it. I really, honestly don't think I would. Sometimes I'm very good with authority. And, again, I've seen a film in which every time a button is pushed, someone dies.

It might be a matter of time. If I was alone for years, I might eventually go crazy and push it, but I don't know if that counts because it's not really my choice at that point. Or maybe I would pull a John Locke and become obsessed with guarding the button. (Okay, so the situation is reversed. Still.)

**

I can quantify the length of my moral fortitude. It's about 35 minutes. After that I stop caring quite so much.

A few nights ago, there was a bee in my room at 3:00 am. I'm not a fan of mindlessly killing bugs. I don't know where I picked the idea up, and I'm not PETA (please click the link) crazy, I just think it's harsh to kill something because it's tiny, annoying, and there are a bunch of them. (I'm refraining from chihuaha comments right now. You're welcome, Auntie B.)

**

Someone once asked me why tearing the wings off a butterfly was wrong, but squashing a beetle was fine (or something to that effect). Is it all about comparative beauty? And just because we personify our animals doesn't actually mean they have more of a personality than bugs...

I think maybe it's more about natural lifespan. We don't feel bad about killing something whose only purpose is to breed and die in a few days. (Though some spiders live up to 20 years...) So I suppose they don't have time to develop personality.

**

Anyways I decided that instead of killing the bee, I would chase it out the window. 35 minutes later, I gave up and smashed it with a pink flip flop. Even after watching it rub its little face with its little appendages.

So, yes. 35 minutes and you've got me.

Guinness Link: World's Tallest Man.

but before the night is through

2010-08-15T04:08:00.000-07:00

Smashing Story: I just discovered the parasailing donkey advertising incident in Russia this July. Sounds like the type of idea I would have. I clearly need to go find friends who are more enabling.

Simply Sweden: The signs here are wonderful. My favorite so far has been the company named "We are the Superlative Conspiracy." I plan on taking a photo and sharing it on here soon.

**

Youtube recommended this video to me. I found it worth sharing. It's called "Sad Panda."

Today's Quote:

Mrs Cadbury: Tell me what you know about yourself.
Anne: Well, it really isn't worth telling, Mrs. Cadbury... but if you let me tell you what I IMAGINE about myself you'd find it a lot more interesting.

Life Lesson: Secondhand sermons make for a simple message. My dad, sitting next to me, would lean over translating: "Jesus can save your...life."

that every day he finds just what he's looking for

2010-08-13T10:41:00.000-07:00

I stole this from my Auntie B's facebook. It made me laugh so hard the first time I saw it, and has continued to do so...

**

Also, I found a site that sells novelty Rubik's cubes, including a calendar one that you solve for the date every day!

i bet the rooms just won't shine

2010-08-13T04:51:00.000-07:00

Today, after much wrangling – "Oh but then I'll look like you!" – Llama agreed to let me chop her bangs. I then insisted on a photoshoot. The result is a Hilary Duff meets Keira Knightly meets me. Judge for yourself.

Is she not lovely? Or, as Christophe once put it:

"Look it's the creature from the Poltergeist! Oh no it's Hannah, and she's still really, really skinny."

Her haircut came out better than some of my past attempts. (Minus the fact that she says she looks like a nine year old.) Last year I cut the hair of my aunt's Swiss foreign exchange student, and the next time I saw him he had shaved his head.

As the camera was already out, I also snapped some shots of Lexis.

Consider this post my gateway into sticking photography on here. I'm currently saving for a sweet camera, but while I wait I'm using my mom's SLR.

**

I have two interviews this week! I'm hoping that my interviewing skills have miraculously improved since last year. At least my hair is one, fairly natural, color.

I once got a tutoring job because I like Star Wars. Seriously. I beat out a bunch of other applicants, too. Basically the ad said they were looking for tutor in Math for a ten-year-old and mentioned at the end that he loves Star Wars. In my reply, I added a "P.S. I love Star Wars too!" and when I went in to interview, the mom said that after all the other applicants, the boy kept saying "I want to meet the Star Wars girl." Apparently nobody else had brought it up.

Yep. Of course he was really into the new ones (I think his favorite character might have been Darth Maul, which is wrong on every level), and I, as the old person, like the old ones.

Anyways I'm hoping I can pull off some sort of strange but desirable trait again.

and we'll all go together to pick wild mountain thyme

2010-08-12T15:04:00.000-07:00

Today was a day of firsts.

I completed the Rubik's cube for the first time. It was a thing of beauty. What was not a thing of beauty were the instructions on some of the sites I went through to find good instructions. The first site tried to hook me and get me to pay for the final steps. The second site went into very detailed mathematical reasoning involving matrices and variables that weren't x or y.

Luckily, I found this guy on Youtube who was nice and visual and nicely supplemented my written instructions. I'm thinking of filming and posting my own Rubik's video on here.

**

I also went busking for the first time. Christophe and I went out and wooed the Swedish population (and their tourists) with Johnny Cash, Pink Floyd, Wheatus, and some folksy Irish numbers including the one in this video:

It's a beautiful song, especially with harmonies.

All in all our experience was a positive one; we made 35 kroner, which is – deceptively – about five dollars. There were some cute moments, including a little boy who begged money off his mom and ran up to us, throwing it into the gaudy red hat we had set up. (On top of Chris's lucky Omani flag.)

**

Funky Word: Kibosh. It means put a stop to, as in "his attitude put the kibosh on our good moods."

Facebook Find: My siblings all thought it would be terribly funny to post something about my using the internet to solve the Rubik's cube today. Anyways, they had several discussions of the spelling of said cube, and came up with three different statuses. Lexis was my favorite:

"siobhan is currently googling how to solve a reubix cube while holding one in her hand." Reubix. Very French – as the comment under it pointed out.

Christophe Guest Blog

2010-08-12T04:25:00.000-07:00

This is my younger brother's second guest blog (his first one is here):

To begin with, Hannah is clearly way too full of suppressed stress. Sometimes I worry about her worrying about me. She sleepwalks and sleep does-laundry and sleep cleans and even sleep worries. I know that her bursting heart has a lot of worry over me and...I dunno...global warming perhaps. But I wish it didn't.

Anyhow, all in all, it's better for her sleeping and dreaming mind to be wracked with such concerns than for it to cripple her in waking life, as with some.

Right? Right?

Wouldn't it be odd and entirely surprising if Hannah snapped and offed us all in her sleep? I mean, of all of us to do that, Will, me, Alex...Hannah? Oh that would be rich.

She could carve the letters "OGK" into our bodies and smear it with our blood on the walls as her calling card. You know what that stands for. We all do, but the cops would never figure it out! It's perfect.

Iz late, me'z sleepy. You? You'z sleeping. You iz making all little "Zs" coming fromz your headz now. I go to check and....yepz, you iz doing that. All little Z's is floating above your sleeping head.

Iz cute.

So I just read approximately fourteen pages of your blog. I wanted background so that I could be suitably cheeky while having some modicum of knowledge regarding what your reading audience already thinks about me based on your comments.

I discovered that:

1) You don't write about me much. Thank you. But also me hurt. But also we lived far apart and you only called when you were walking home and had no one to talk to and I only called when drunk so....all in all....understandable

2) Also we both called with questions and trivia bits, this should be remembered for the sake of both of our images.

3) Your blog is perceptive and tells me things that you don't.

Those things and more I learned from your blog. Also that you cultivate much more dynamic and healthy friends than I do. We really are classic drawn-to-good-kids/drawn-to-bad-kids parallel. Well not bad, but the folks I fall in with tend to be philosophically disgruntled, passionate, full of life and death, existential, drunks, tireless workers, lovers of life and people and love, physical wailers and mourners and touchers and tasters.

Alexandra, she's quite the number, eh?

Found a piece of paper on the table today addressed to Peter. Commented on his pleasant smell. Said that she didn't want to have to "wait a week" before his arrival but she "would wait".

So what happens in a week?

My heart aches for Alexandra so much that I fear sometimes that it will break. I love you all and each so deeply and so much, truly, but I tell you, she inspires a particular feeling. Perhaps what Hannah feels for me? I don't know.

I've never felt a drug or pleasure that has come on harder and faster than yesterday when I rode out with mom to the store. The sky was a bluing greying mass whose sharp-edged clouds pooled low over-head at odd angles and dropped thin shadows over the water. Wind crested through, the temperature was ideal. Normally the clouds would bring on dull pain or depression in my mind but that day it hit me with crisp vitality and clear bucolic reality.

It was much realer than my thoughts. It pressed low and wide and broader than my eyes could see. I took it in peripherally while riding and feeling and moving. I could barely speak "It's gorgeous" to mom, but when I did it burst out with sober energy and I jerked up my back straight, thinking of how she would want me to.

do you smile to tempt a lover, Mona Lisa?

2010-08-11T14:46:00.000-07:00

Remember Sweden's Ice Hotel? Well now they've built a tree hotel. So that makes one ice hotel, one treehouse hotel, one ship hotel, and one underwater hotel.

Also, the JetBlue flight attendant story is still cracking me up. If you missed it: here. Basically the flight attendant got into a fight with an extremely rude passenger, walked to the front and announced on the PA that he'd had it, grabbed a couple beers, and opened the emergency slide for an exit.

they say he wandered very far

2010-08-11T08:02:00.000-07:00

"Jatt Cool. You look super interesting and artsy."

This was my sister's opinion of my new blog layout. And I said, "Pretentious, moi?" Not really, but that was the punchline of a joke in a Fawlty Towers episode. I couldn't find a clip of the fellow saying it, but this is from the same episode (The Psychiatrist): Mr. Fawlty and Manuel always have wonderful interactions.

**

"We put out on Mondays." This is written on the back of one of Christophe's Current (the college newspaper he worked for) shirts. Nobody in my family had really commented on it, but my grandma saw it this summer and read it aloud. He grinned and told her that was the day the paper came out.

"Double entendre?" she asked. He flashed another smile. Called out by my grandmother. "Oh yeah, I wasn't there when we voted on that. But we have another shirt that says 'We have issues,'" he said distractingly.

"That's more tolerable," she said. I agree.

**

Today's Article: Is a New York Times psych piece. (surprise). I read/skimmed most of it and ended up with an excessive amount of knowledge about the author. Her writing choices/style gave away almost as much information as her story.

I think one of the reasons I enjoyed journalism was that it gave me an excuse to talk to random people and ask them questions about themselves. It created a context where this was normal and reasonable.

Naturally this context didn't always occur with the greatest baggage: people generally don't like reporters (like lawyers, except we aren't well paid) – they have inevitably been misquoted or have discovered the reality about cable news networks.

On the other hand, local news (campus and town) is often not taken seriously enough to be antagonistic towards the reporter, and interviews for these stories often involve subjects who are very excited to be talking about themselves/their cause or event. Sometimes they just seemed to like having someone to talk to.

It was this line, the one I invariably blurred over and over again, which probably indicates that I will never be cut out for hard news or investigative reporting. I always treated interviews like conversations, and my personal conversational style tends to be very friendly: I find most things amusing which means I am constantly giggling and cracking jokes. This personable style makes it very hard for me to write a piece that might cast anyone I interview in a negative light because it would feel like betraying a friend.

It's like Hasting's article which got General McChrystal fired. Hastings has been criticized for being decptively buddy-buddy and printing things which were off-the-record.

If I could figure out a less manipulative approach, I still don't think I would enjoy that sort of reporting. I'd like to think of this as the positive side to my people pleasing tendencies: they are mostly the result of an (occasionally) misguided attempt to treat people with love and respect.

And yes, I am all for investigative reporting and hard news stories which bring evil to light and pursue justice. I just don't personally have that sort of constitution and feel no call to develop it.

**

My youngest sister, Alexis, is currently reading Alice in Wonderland aloud to herself in a British accent. She is the performer of the family, and constantly wears bright eyeshadows, rouged cheeks, and curled hair with blue bows and ribbons. She has taken to curtsying to new acquaintances, instead of shaking hands. When we lived in Egypt, she would walk around pouting that "nobody can discover me here."

Currently she is obsessed with preserving youth/childhood, which naturally means an obsession with Peter Pan. She is on the hunt for a 19th century white nightgown like the one Wendy wore. Last night at 3:00 am, she shot up in bed and whispered "Peter? Peter?" staring out the window. This was immediately after Llama had slept talked. Christophe has been writing existential noir scripts and plans to do a Freemason musical. Willikins is in Morroco, Ammadaus is in Cyprus.

I think these circumstances are God telling me that my grip on reality is perfectly fine and that I am actually very, very normal.

**

Facebook Find: Is a link to an article about Reality LA a church some of my friends attend.