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.)
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.
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.
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.
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 Conversation4.
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
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.
“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.
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.
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."
A conversation in which (thankfully) I was not an active member. I've condensed it for your appreciation:
Brian: Miss Garcia, why do they ask you stupid questions when you're getting a green card? Miss Garcia (laughing): Like questions about the United States and the Constitution? Katie: What's the Constilution? (yes, "lution.") Brian: No, like if I'm a terrorist or stole things and stuff. It's stupid. Miss Garcia: Okay, imagine you owned a country. Would you want to let in a bunch of terrorists and thieves. Brian: Oh...
I know what you're thinking: Siobhan, you've only ever quoted five students from your work. Is it actually a center with 30 kids? The truth is, I'm not sure how many kids there are. BUT, only about seven of them tend to be consistently loud and ridiculous. That's not hard to believe, right? (Believe me, I'm thankful.)
And I also was able to Skype with two of my sisters. Lex, the youngest, informed me that Amadeus, who was not there, actually enjoys reading my blog. Our conversation went something like this:
Lex: Yeah, Emma really likes your blog. Llams: Really? Lex: Yeah. I said, "I thought you didn't like Siobhan," and she said "Yeah, but she's funny."
So yes, charming. Hello to you too, Emma Catherine. The question of course, is would I rather be loved or found amusing. Difficult call. Here's a Dilbert to think about instead.
(click)
I have been corresponding with my older brother in Morocco (from yesterday's video), and his latest email cracked me up so much that I'm reposting a chunk instead of attempting to rephrase. By doing this, I have completely one-upped my parents, who tend to forward all of our emails to EVERYONE in our family/friend circle. Hellooo public.
"I am also using my pressure cooker for the first time. I am really scared. I have heard lots of stories about people getting their heads blown off. I am making vegetable soup. I am living dangerous. Another dangerous thing is all the gas that we use. I have two large green high pressure gas tanks under my sink. I got the large ones, because apparently the little ones have no safety valves and like the pressure cookers, tend to explode and destroy small neighborhoods etc...
Another hazard worthy of mention is that my Carbon Monoxide detector keeps going off after I take a shower. I have gas heated water and we were warned about how sometimes the gas comes through the shower hose with the water. I open doors and windows when I take showers now, but the damn alarm keeps going off.
I can't decide whether it is broken or not. It talks in a robot voice. "Evacuate kitchen!" "Carbon monoxide level at Nine. Hundred. PPM" And then beeps really shrilly. I don't like being ordered around by a plastic object. Sometimes I just turn it off. I guess that I should investigate, but my experience with plumbers here has been frustrating. Also if I've been hanging out in nine billion parts per million carbon monoxide filled air, shouldn't I die? But no, the only thing giving me a headache is the alarm. Not quite the "silent death" we were so direly warned about. "
