I swallow.
Chewing gum, that is. Am I the only person in the world who does this? I've done it as long as I can remember, in part because my mother the nurse used to say: "That's a bunch of malarkey that it stays in your stomach for seven years, it just goes right through you." My mother used to like to use the word "malarkey" a lot.
I've never quite understood why other people find swallowing gum quite so disgusting.
Then again, my niece and nephews don't understand why I find swallowing fish eyeballs so disgusting.
However, I will admit that my swallowing gum - usually as soon as there is the tiniest hint of loss of flavor, that is, after about two minutes - is a reflection of some kind of, er, oral peculiarity on my part and having to do with a distinct lack of self-control.
On a completely different note, it turns out that my friend and former employee R., who moved to Finland last month with his girlfriend, is going to be a pappa. This is the kind of news that makes me swoon. I'm a real sucker for babies, for people having babies, for pregnant ladies, for people just thinking of having babies. I'm all excitement, empathy and envy rolled into a tight little ball smiling so hard it could break in two with the least provocation.
The Swedish verb for the day is, of course att svälja. It means, of course, to swallow.
- by Francis S.
Wednesday, June 12, 2002
Tuesday, June 11, 2002
Happy anniversary to me and the husband.
As of yesterday, we've been married two whole years. We had a little champagne, dinner of caviar and those delightful little potato pancakes, and indulged in reminiscing about how we met (at 3:30 a.m. in a club in Barcelona) and how we kissed the first time (minutes after meeting as we were dancing to "Ray of Light") and how we then talked for hours afterward, drinking water (in the only quiet place in the club). It was a most romantic beginning.
To gild the lily and ice the cake, in the mail was an invitation to the wedding of the priest and her boyfriend the policeman. It was sheer luck that we met her - another priest couldn't marry us when we wanted - and it has proven to be the best of luck, to be able to call her a friend, and a good friend at that.
I can still picture the three of us before the wedding - the husband, the priest and I - chainsmoking as we waited for all the guests to gather before making our grand appearance in the library of the Van der Nootska palatset.
The Swedish word for the day underbar känsla. It means wonderful feeling.
- by Francis S.
As of yesterday, we've been married two whole years. We had a little champagne, dinner of caviar and those delightful little potato pancakes, and indulged in reminiscing about how we met (at 3:30 a.m. in a club in Barcelona) and how we kissed the first time (minutes after meeting as we were dancing to "Ray of Light") and how we then talked for hours afterward, drinking water (in the only quiet place in the club). It was a most romantic beginning.
To gild the lily and ice the cake, in the mail was an invitation to the wedding of the priest and her boyfriend the policeman. It was sheer luck that we met her - another priest couldn't marry us when we wanted - and it has proven to be the best of luck, to be able to call her a friend, and a good friend at that.
I can still picture the three of us before the wedding - the husband, the priest and I - chainsmoking as we waited for all the guests to gather before making our grand appearance in the library of the Van der Nootska palatset.
The Swedish word for the day underbar känsla. It means wonderful feeling.
- by Francis S.
Sunday, June 09, 2002
Last weekend, climbing up onto the rocks overlooking the Baltic at Nacka, the priest said as we were scrambling up a path, "Once, the bishop asked me why I became a priest, what was behind it."
We stopped and caught our collective breaths, especially the priest who is just now starting to look pregnant with four months left to go.
"Everyone always thinks that it's faith," she said.
I nodded, her boyfriend the policeman waiting patiently in front of us, ready to keep climbing.
She continued, "But for me, it wasn't faith, it was fear." And then she laughed.
The Swedish word for the day is församlingen. It means the congregation.
- by Francis S.
We stopped and caught our collective breaths, especially the priest who is just now starting to look pregnant with four months left to go.
"Everyone always thinks that it's faith," she said.
I nodded, her boyfriend the policeman waiting patiently in front of us, ready to keep climbing.
She continued, "But for me, it wasn't faith, it was fear." And then she laughed.
The Swedish word for the day is församlingen. It means the congregation.
- by Francis S.
Saturday, June 08, 2002
After a week of taking the ferry to the new offices, I feel so much more how the city of Stockholm is a city built on water, how the people of the city look to the water, that the city impresses most when approached from the water.
And then on Friday, it was even more apparent how Stockholm harbor is a grand highway. As we pushed off from the landing next to Gröna Lund, ahead of us the deadly and beautiful black-green water was a mad criss-crossing of ferries full of people making an early start on summer and going out to their summer homes on the islands of the archipelago. The enormous cruise ships to Finland, big as skyscrapers laid on end, were sliding into their spots to disgorge passengers and pick up new ones. Taxi boats skimming in and out and making their way to the sluice. A few of the tall ships from the 750th year anniversary of Stockholm were leaving at last, and the absurd reproduction of a Viking boat that is normally docked in front of the royal palace was whizzing along, incongruously without sails, a tiny motor boat tied behind it in such a way as to look like a put-upon child forced to keep up with its parent's swift gait.
The Swedish compound verb for the day is att åka på färjan. It means to go by ferry.
- by Francis S.
And then on Friday, it was even more apparent how Stockholm harbor is a grand highway. As we pushed off from the landing next to Gröna Lund, ahead of us the deadly and beautiful black-green water was a mad criss-crossing of ferries full of people making an early start on summer and going out to their summer homes on the islands of the archipelago. The enormous cruise ships to Finland, big as skyscrapers laid on end, were sliding into their spots to disgorge passengers and pick up new ones. Taxi boats skimming in and out and making their way to the sluice. A few of the tall ships from the 750th year anniversary of Stockholm were leaving at last, and the absurd reproduction of a Viking boat that is normally docked in front of the royal palace was whizzing along, incongruously without sails, a tiny motor boat tied behind it in such a way as to look like a put-upon child forced to keep up with its parent's swift gait.
The Swedish compound verb for the day is att åka på färjan. It means to go by ferry.
- by Francis S.
Thursday, June 06, 2002
Today is National Day in Sweden, and to top it off, the 750th anniversary of the city of Stockholm (the city was actually built to protect what is now a suburb of Stockholm, the city of Sigtuna). And as Aaron, whose birthday it is today, reminded me, on this day not only was the Swedish Constitution adopted in 1809, but in 1654 Queen Christina converted to Catholicism and renounced the Swedish throne.
Strangely enough, it is not what they call here a red day - that is, a bank holiday. However, next year it will be: Score one for nationalism over Jesus - we'll no longer get the day after Pentecost as a holiday.
The Swedish phrase for the day is Du gamla, Du fria, Du fjällhöga Nord.... These are the first words of the Swedish national anthem. They mean Thou old, thou open, Thou mountainous north...
- by Francis S.
Strangely enough, it is not what they call here a red day - that is, a bank holiday. However, next year it will be: Score one for nationalism over Jesus - we'll no longer get the day after Pentecost as a holiday.
The Swedish phrase for the day is Du gamla, Du fria, Du fjällhöga Nord.... These are the first words of the Swedish national anthem. They mean Thou old, thou open, Thou mountainous north...
- by Francis S.
Wednesday, June 05, 2002
The Swedish Parliament has voted to give gay and lesbian couples the right to adopt children (link in Swedish only, sorry). The vote was 178 to 31, with 78 abstaining.
The Swedish phrase for the day is vad kul!. It means nice!
- by Francis S.
The Swedish phrase for the day is vad kul!. It means nice!
- by Francis S.
Tuesday, June 04, 2002
The husband is on his way home from Barcelona now. At least, he's supposed to be. And his absence reminds me of my love and loathing of Barcelona, the city I have the strongest feelings for, and how when I lived there, without knowing the depth of it, I was desperately unhappy and uncertain and feeling loveless:
On the Apprehension of a Second Language in a Foreign City
Take a lover
who speaks no English,
they tell you,
you will learn Spanish
by the time
the affair is over.
In no time,
simple phrases, words,
come to you:
Egoistic verbs --
I have, I want,
I need... I am, I am;
Useful nouns --
what eyes! great sweater!
Modifiers --
most, very, better;
You sound like a child,
yet at least you make sense.
Comprehension,
on the other hand,
is harder.
You often misunderstand,
eavesdropping
when he is on the phone.
In the next room,
you lie in bed afraid
it is you
he meant when he said
cerda -- sow --
in the fiercest tone.
To the end,
adult conversation
eludes you,
done in by conjugation,
excepting the past imperfect.
You can say, "I have gone."
Barcelona 1998
uh, and, while I'm at it, copyright 2002
Yes, yes, it's a little glib. Of course, the reality was that I had no lover, not even dates. One-night stands, yes, but no dates. That is, not until I met the husband in a club, Metro, at 3:30 a.m. on July 18. Interestingly enough, the misunderstandings and worry in the poem came purely from listening to my crazy flatmate yammering on the phone, I felt so shamefully and annoyingly dependent on his great kindness.
The Swedish word for the day is tillbacka. It means back again.
- by Francis S.
On the Apprehension of a Second Language in a Foreign City
Take a lover
who speaks no English,
they tell you,
you will learn Spanish
by the time
the affair is over.
In no time,
simple phrases, words,
come to you:
Egoistic verbs --
I have, I want,
I need... I am, I am;
Useful nouns --
what eyes! great sweater!
Modifiers --
most, very, better;
You sound like a child,
yet at least you make sense.
Comprehension,
on the other hand,
is harder.
You often misunderstand,
eavesdropping
when he is on the phone.
In the next room,
you lie in bed afraid
it is you
he meant when he said
cerda -- sow --
in the fiercest tone.
To the end,
adult conversation
eludes you,
done in by conjugation,
excepting the past imperfect.
You can say, "I have gone."
Barcelona 1998
uh, and, while I'm at it, copyright 2002
Yes, yes, it's a little glib. Of course, the reality was that I had no lover, not even dates. One-night stands, yes, but no dates. That is, not until I met the husband in a club, Metro, at 3:30 a.m. on July 18. Interestingly enough, the misunderstandings and worry in the poem came purely from listening to my crazy flatmate yammering on the phone, I felt so shamefully and annoyingly dependent on his great kindness.
The Swedish word for the day is tillbacka. It means back again.
- by Francis S.
So tonight, A., the former model and aspiring producer, got us tickets to see MacBeth. In Swedish.
Good thing I knew the plot: so-called "weird" sisters talk a lot of nonsense and predict man will become king of Scotland instead of merely a lowly Thane (what the hell is a thane anyway?), man tells his wife, who is, shall we say, a tad ambitious and she, using an equal dose of berating and wile (which included crotch-grabbing in this particular version) urges man to kill current king, which he does, making a bloody mess in the house, and then he kills lots of other nice people and makes a lot more bloody messes, then wife develops somnambulistic obsessive-compulsive disorder and can't stop washing her hands in her sleep which eventually kills her (who knew one could die of a somnambulistic obsessive-compulsive disorder?), then man goes out with a bang, Rambo-style, except instead of singlehandedly killing an English army with thousands of soldiers, he is killed, but pitifully and offstage.
I went because a friend of mine, the former model and ex-girlfriend of the new-age popstar, was playing Lady McDuff and one of the witches. The former model and ex-girlfriend of the new-age rockstar goes to Sweden's equivalent of RADA.
Naturally, I thought she was the best of the lot - she sure screamed when they slit her throat! In fact, she was the only one who really moved like she belonged on stage, everyone else was a tad stiff as they walked back and forth across the stage purposelessly, although I assume they were great elocutionists. Of course, since I have enough trouble following Swedish when it's not Shakespeare, perhaps I was paying too much attention to the movement and not enough to the words. It would be accurate to say that the first part of the play flew up and hundreds of feet over my head.
However, the second part - which is much more exciting and in fact, downright creepy if you ask me - well, I understood most of it. What helped, of course, is that all the great speeches are in the second half:
"...bort, förbannade fläck..." (that would be how I recall the out, damned spot speech - when I try to find a translation on the web, all I come up with are detergent sites) and the "Imorgon, och imorgon, och imorgon..." speech (er, I bet you could guess that that means tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow).
It's so nice that my friends are making sure that while the husband is away, I'm being taken care of - not only did we see the play, but A. and her boyfriend C., the fashion photographer and his daughter, O., and me had dinner afterwards at my favorite Thai restaurant down the block, Koh Pangang (they write your name on a board when you come in because they don't take reservations and you almost always have to wait for a table; the Swedish King came to the restaurant once and they even made him write his name on the board and wait like everyone else. Now that's Sweden for you. I love that story.)
But the husband is back tomorrow, and despite wishing I could be with him, part of me thought that it would be kind of nice to be on my own for a little while. Yet as always, I think it will be fun - I'll read and write and watch t.v. and not feel guilty about being a slug but I end up bored after one evening and by the time I'm ready to go to sleep that night, I'm wishing he was there beside me in bed.
Which he will be tomorrow.
The Swedish phrase for the day is Shakespeare- tragedi. I'm not going to bother to translate that, because if you can't figure it out, you shouldn't be reading this in the first place.
- by Francis S.
Good thing I knew the plot: so-called "weird" sisters talk a lot of nonsense and predict man will become king of Scotland instead of merely a lowly Thane (what the hell is a thane anyway?), man tells his wife, who is, shall we say, a tad ambitious and she, using an equal dose of berating and wile (which included crotch-grabbing in this particular version) urges man to kill current king, which he does, making a bloody mess in the house, and then he kills lots of other nice people and makes a lot more bloody messes, then wife develops somnambulistic obsessive-compulsive disorder and can't stop washing her hands in her sleep which eventually kills her (who knew one could die of a somnambulistic obsessive-compulsive disorder?), then man goes out with a bang, Rambo-style, except instead of singlehandedly killing an English army with thousands of soldiers, he is killed, but pitifully and offstage.
I went because a friend of mine, the former model and ex-girlfriend of the new-age popstar, was playing Lady McDuff and one of the witches. The former model and ex-girlfriend of the new-age rockstar goes to Sweden's equivalent of RADA.
Naturally, I thought she was the best of the lot - she sure screamed when they slit her throat! In fact, she was the only one who really moved like she belonged on stage, everyone else was a tad stiff as they walked back and forth across the stage purposelessly, although I assume they were great elocutionists. Of course, since I have enough trouble following Swedish when it's not Shakespeare, perhaps I was paying too much attention to the movement and not enough to the words. It would be accurate to say that the first part of the play flew up and hundreds of feet over my head.
However, the second part - which is much more exciting and in fact, downright creepy if you ask me - well, I understood most of it. What helped, of course, is that all the great speeches are in the second half:
"...bort, förbannade fläck..." (that would be how I recall the out, damned spot speech - when I try to find a translation on the web, all I come up with are detergent sites) and the "Imorgon, och imorgon, och imorgon..." speech (er, I bet you could guess that that means tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow).
It's so nice that my friends are making sure that while the husband is away, I'm being taken care of - not only did we see the play, but A. and her boyfriend C., the fashion photographer and his daughter, O., and me had dinner afterwards at my favorite Thai restaurant down the block, Koh Pangang (they write your name on a board when you come in because they don't take reservations and you almost always have to wait for a table; the Swedish King came to the restaurant once and they even made him write his name on the board and wait like everyone else. Now that's Sweden for you. I love that story.)
But the husband is back tomorrow, and despite wishing I could be with him, part of me thought that it would be kind of nice to be on my own for a little while. Yet as always, I think it will be fun - I'll read and write and watch t.v. and not feel guilty about being a slug but I end up bored after one evening and by the time I'm ready to go to sleep that night, I'm wishing he was there beside me in bed.
Which he will be tomorrow.
The Swedish phrase for the day is Shakespeare- tragedi. I'm not going to bother to translate that, because if you can't figure it out, you shouldn't be reading this in the first place.
- by Francis S.
Sunday, June 02, 2002
I've taken to sleeping with a sleeping mask on and I feel like Joan Crawford in The Women. Next thing you know, I'll be both talking on the phone and eating chocolates while in a bathtub overflowing with bubbles. Although to be honest, the mask is a cheap one given in the packet they hand out to you in business class flying from Stockholm to Chicago on SAS. And the reason I'm wearing it is because of the invincible sun, which comes driving through the thin blinds relentlessly and in full blinding force by about 4 a.m.
It happens so quickly this time of year. Already, I noticed that the sun was hovering just below the horizon at midnight last night as I walked home from dinner with A., the former model and aspiring producer and C., the fashion photographer. We ate at PA's, which turns out is a photographer hangout, and the two of them seemed to know just about everyone in the place. I felt hopelessly unfashionable and unaware, the waiters and waitresses bringing in more and more chairs to jam us all in.
"The swordfish carpaccio is good," said the man sitting next to me, who I'd met several times before but I can't remember his name, or the name of his new wife.
"There's Staffan over there," A. told me. "He's getting married soon and they have to plan his svensexan." (A svensexan is an all-day bachelor party in which the groom-to-be endures a day of humiliation and increasing drunkeness that should properly end in soul-wrenching vomiting and a three-day hangover.)
"Say hello to New York from me," A. said to a thin and pretty girl with a supercilious gaze, sitting and holding court with an Englishman amidst a crowd of Swedes talking madly in English and Swedish all at once.
"Oh, you're an American," said the 50-year-old dapper Swiss-Irish man with the wheezey tobacco rasp and the pipe, his laughing eyes barely in focus behind his Ari Onassis-lite glasses.
We left in a flurry of handshakes, air kisses and promises to see each other in the morning, as all but me seemed to be going to a party at 11.30 a.m. to watch Sweden play England in the World Cup.
As I walked home, the city crowded and overjoyed at it being summer, Skeppsbron was lined with tall ships docked for the 750th birthday celebration of Stockholm, teenagers were streaming from the boat that comes from Gröna Lund, the ancient amusement park two islands away, and me, I was regretting that the husband wasn't there walking with me, but at least happy that he hadn't been crying when he had called me while I was waiting for my dinner.
The Swedish phrase for the day is öppet dygnet runt. It means open 24 hours.
- by Francis S.
It happens so quickly this time of year. Already, I noticed that the sun was hovering just below the horizon at midnight last night as I walked home from dinner with A., the former model and aspiring producer and C., the fashion photographer. We ate at PA's, which turns out is a photographer hangout, and the two of them seemed to know just about everyone in the place. I felt hopelessly unfashionable and unaware, the waiters and waitresses bringing in more and more chairs to jam us all in.
"The swordfish carpaccio is good," said the man sitting next to me, who I'd met several times before but I can't remember his name, or the name of his new wife.
"There's Staffan over there," A. told me. "He's getting married soon and they have to plan his svensexan." (A svensexan is an all-day bachelor party in which the groom-to-be endures a day of humiliation and increasing drunkeness that should properly end in soul-wrenching vomiting and a three-day hangover.)
"Say hello to New York from me," A. said to a thin and pretty girl with a supercilious gaze, sitting and holding court with an Englishman amidst a crowd of Swedes talking madly in English and Swedish all at once.
"Oh, you're an American," said the 50-year-old dapper Swiss-Irish man with the wheezey tobacco rasp and the pipe, his laughing eyes barely in focus behind his Ari Onassis-lite glasses.
We left in a flurry of handshakes, air kisses and promises to see each other in the morning, as all but me seemed to be going to a party at 11.30 a.m. to watch Sweden play England in the World Cup.
As I walked home, the city crowded and overjoyed at it being summer, Skeppsbron was lined with tall ships docked for the 750th birthday celebration of Stockholm, teenagers were streaming from the boat that comes from Gröna Lund, the ancient amusement park two islands away, and me, I was regretting that the husband wasn't there walking with me, but at least happy that he hadn't been crying when he had called me while I was waiting for my dinner.
The Swedish phrase for the day is öppet dygnet runt. It means open 24 hours.
- by Francis S.
Saturday, June 01, 2002
It's time for another in-depth Swedish lesson - this one in the form of a test.
7. Swedish attitudes about Americans. Although it seems unfair to generalize about the attitudes of all Swedes, I don't care. I work with them, live side-by-side with them, hell, I'm married to one, so I like to think I know a bit or two about what Swedes think about Americans. (For the sake of brevity, I'm using the term "American" to refer to citizens of the United States. My apologies to all those Canadians, Mexicans, Brazilians and other residents of North and South America out there.)
Leave your answers in the comments so everyone can see. Oh, and this is an open book test.
a. Swedes themselves are humble people and while they do have opinions about Americans, they assume that Americans don't give a damn about the opinion of the people of a sparsely populated country with an obscure language. Swedes agree that Americans are notorious for being a bit isolationist and not caring what anyone thinks of them. But in fact, we Americans have a terrible inferiority complex when it comes to Europe. We have no royalty, we have no roots, we have no class. We do care what Europe thinks, and it hurts our feelings.
Do Americans feel lacking somehow when it comes to Europe, true or false? (Yeah I know, this question is about American attitudes. Gotcha!)
b. Swedes are completely confused by Americans' attitudes toward guns. "I read that a governor was trying to pass a law that allowed people to buy one semi-automatic weapon a month!" a friend said to me once. I regretted to inform her that the law in question was in fact a gun control measure trying to lower the current limit.
Do Swedes believe that everyone owns a gun in America, true or false?
c. Swedes are horrified that America still has capital punishment. "No country in Europe has capital punishment anymore. Isn't that against the Geneva Convention or something?" they ask.
Do Swedes believe that Americans are barbaric on account of their support for the death penalty, true or false?
d. Swedes believe in a concept called lagom, which is usually translated as the middle way. It basically means everything in moderation or doing things just enough, but not too much. Swedes also travel extensively, and almost everyone I know has been to America, and they always comment about how Americans do everything in excess. For instance, they think the portions of food served in restaurants is definitely not lagom, but way over the top. "No wonder people are overweight," they say.
Do Swedes believe that almost everyone in America is fat, true or false?
e. Despite their criticisms of America, Swedes are somewhat unique in Europe in that they don't have love-hate feelings toward America. It takes no scratching below the surface to determine if they like the place, they are in fact quite open and unambivalent about it. "It's a great country," they say.
Do Swedes devour American culture with avidity, albeit not without some picking and choosing, true or false?
- brought to you by Francis S.
7. Swedish attitudes about Americans. Although it seems unfair to generalize about the attitudes of all Swedes, I don't care. I work with them, live side-by-side with them, hell, I'm married to one, so I like to think I know a bit or two about what Swedes think about Americans. (For the sake of brevity, I'm using the term "American" to refer to citizens of the United States. My apologies to all those Canadians, Mexicans, Brazilians and other residents of North and South America out there.)
Leave your answers in the comments so everyone can see. Oh, and this is an open book test.
a. Swedes themselves are humble people and while they do have opinions about Americans, they assume that Americans don't give a damn about the opinion of the people of a sparsely populated country with an obscure language. Swedes agree that Americans are notorious for being a bit isolationist and not caring what anyone thinks of them. But in fact, we Americans have a terrible inferiority complex when it comes to Europe. We have no royalty, we have no roots, we have no class. We do care what Europe thinks, and it hurts our feelings.
Do Americans feel lacking somehow when it comes to Europe, true or false? (Yeah I know, this question is about American attitudes. Gotcha!)
b. Swedes are completely confused by Americans' attitudes toward guns. "I read that a governor was trying to pass a law that allowed people to buy one semi-automatic weapon a month!" a friend said to me once. I regretted to inform her that the law in question was in fact a gun control measure trying to lower the current limit.
Do Swedes believe that everyone owns a gun in America, true or false?
c. Swedes are horrified that America still has capital punishment. "No country in Europe has capital punishment anymore. Isn't that against the Geneva Convention or something?" they ask.
Do Swedes believe that Americans are barbaric on account of their support for the death penalty, true or false?
d. Swedes believe in a concept called lagom, which is usually translated as the middle way. It basically means everything in moderation or doing things just enough, but not too much. Swedes also travel extensively, and almost everyone I know has been to America, and they always comment about how Americans do everything in excess. For instance, they think the portions of food served in restaurants is definitely not lagom, but way over the top. "No wonder people are overweight," they say.
Do Swedes believe that almost everyone in America is fat, true or false?
e. Despite their criticisms of America, Swedes are somewhat unique in Europe in that they don't have love-hate feelings toward America. It takes no scratching below the surface to determine if they like the place, they are in fact quite open and unambivalent about it. "It's a great country," they say.
Do Swedes devour American culture with avidity, albeit not without some picking and choosing, true or false?
- brought to you by Francis S.
I woke this morning with a fitful headache and hungry. I stayed up too late, and the husband has gone to Spain. His mother has had a heart attack, and all the messiness of his poor family rises to the surface, his difficult sisters, his father's untimely death in 1972, the horrible cult masking as Christianity that he was raised in lurking in the corners always.
He called me at one in the morning crying because the doctors are so awful, because he doesn't want his mother to die or to be in pain, because his mother is frightened, because he heard a man dying in the next room, the heart monitor sending out a horrible drone marking the fact.
"I don't ever want to grow old," he told me. "I want to die before."
There was no comforting him, at the other end of the phone, at the other end of the continent. Not that it would help for him to be here; he doesn't take well to being comforted. At least not in the ways I selfishly want to comfort him: taking him in my arms, kissing his tears, stroking his head with the utmost tenderness and gently. Instead, what he wants is for me to sit quietly as he chain smokes, moving throughout the rooms of the apartment putting away stray magazines, polishing the mirror in the bathroom or fishing his passport out of the chest of drawers in the bedroom, his sense of purpose vestigial but persistent somehow.
It hurts to feel as if one is unable to give any sort of solace.
"I wish I was with you," he said to me last night, sobbing. "I can't sleep at all, I keep waiting for the telephone to ring and tell me she's died."
Don't smoke too many cigarettes, I told him. Have a drink. I love you more than anything in the world, I said, and I wish I was there with you, too.
So this morning I was listening to Purcell's Dido and Aeneas. And although Tatiana Troyanos has a lovely voice, I'm always disappointed that the witches' chorus sings its part straight and not as a pack of cackling hens as in the recording I had when I was young.
"Harm's our delight and mischief all our skill," the witches sing, but beautifully. And beautifully, it doesn't convey the same evil intent.
The husband won't be home until Tuesday at the earliest, if things don't change for the better or the worse.
The Swedish phrase for the day is jag saknar dig. It means I miss you.
- by Francis S.
He called me at one in the morning crying because the doctors are so awful, because he doesn't want his mother to die or to be in pain, because his mother is frightened, because he heard a man dying in the next room, the heart monitor sending out a horrible drone marking the fact.
"I don't ever want to grow old," he told me. "I want to die before."
There was no comforting him, at the other end of the phone, at the other end of the continent. Not that it would help for him to be here; he doesn't take well to being comforted. At least not in the ways I selfishly want to comfort him: taking him in my arms, kissing his tears, stroking his head with the utmost tenderness and gently. Instead, what he wants is for me to sit quietly as he chain smokes, moving throughout the rooms of the apartment putting away stray magazines, polishing the mirror in the bathroom or fishing his passport out of the chest of drawers in the bedroom, his sense of purpose vestigial but persistent somehow.
It hurts to feel as if one is unable to give any sort of solace.
"I wish I was with you," he said to me last night, sobbing. "I can't sleep at all, I keep waiting for the telephone to ring and tell me she's died."
Don't smoke too many cigarettes, I told him. Have a drink. I love you more than anything in the world, I said, and I wish I was there with you, too.
So this morning I was listening to Purcell's Dido and Aeneas. And although Tatiana Troyanos has a lovely voice, I'm always disappointed that the witches' chorus sings its part straight and not as a pack of cackling hens as in the recording I had when I was young.
"Harm's our delight and mischief all our skill," the witches sing, but beautifully. And beautifully, it doesn't convey the same evil intent.
The husband won't be home until Tuesday at the earliest, if things don't change for the better or the worse.
The Swedish phrase for the day is jag saknar dig. It means I miss you.
- by Francis S.
Friday, May 31, 2002
Goodbye to Gamla Stan. Goodbye to Slottsbacken and the Royal Palace. Goodbye to Bollhusgränd and to Köpmanstorget with its statue of St. George eternally slaying the dragon, which is a copy of a wooden statue, the original being in the Storkyrkan. Goodbye to Stortorget dressed up for winter with its Christmas market, and goodbye to narrow little Mårten Trotzigsgränd.
My desk is packed, my computer unplugged, countless old papers, magazines and photos thrown away. On Monday, the company starts the day in Östermalm on Linnégatan, in new offices. Sweden won't be quite the same for me. I miss the old office terribly, and it's only been an hour and a half. I know, I'm a sentimental fool.
The Swedish words for the day are farväl, adjö and hejdå. They mean farewell, adieu and goodbye.
- by Francis S.
My desk is packed, my computer unplugged, countless old papers, magazines and photos thrown away. On Monday, the company starts the day in Östermalm on Linnégatan, in new offices. Sweden won't be quite the same for me. I miss the old office terribly, and it's only been an hour and a half. I know, I'm a sentimental fool.
The Swedish words for the day are farväl, adjö and hejdå. They mean farewell, adieu and goodbye.
- by Francis S.
Thursday, May 30, 2002
Have weddings in America always been nearly five days of feasting and fetes? Events of nearly royal proportions, it seems? Not that I'm complaining. I had a grand time.
First on the agenda was a small family dinner with one of my beloved little brother's oldest friends, who runs an eco-hotel in Ecuador - I hadn't seen him in nearly 10 years and amazingly, he is exactly the same as when I last saw him. Well, almost the same; perhaps a little more settled, a little more realistic, but just as kind. My youngest nephew fell in love with him. (The husband and I will definitely be going to Ecuador sometime in the near future.)
Then, there was the day where the bride, the groom, another old friend of the bride's, the husband and myself all spent the afternoon in the city getting pedicures and drinking champagne (the husband thought the pedicures were deplorably bad as pedicures go, but I'd never had one before so it seemed perfectly wonderful to me), yakking it up with people we'd never met before in an apartment across from the venerable old Ambassador West hotel, eating bad sandwiches at Cosí, some kind of new sandwich shop I'd never seen before that tries desperately to look funky and unique, serving toasted marshmallows that can be cooked over a can of sterno and with weird mismatched sofas. Except the same mismatched sofas can be found at every Cosí, of which there seem to be, er, at least more than 20 in Chicago, judging by the five or so we encountered in our brief wanderings.
Next, there was a dim sum lunch for 30 at Phoenix in Chinatown, with my sister-in-law officiating and arguing with the waiters in Cantonese while my beloved little brother made the rounds from table to table, introducing all the various factions of his life to all the various factions of his soon-to-be wife's life to one another.
Then, instead of a rehearsal dinner, my parents rented a bowling alley the night before the wedding, so 50 people spent the night drinking beer and bowling badly (I think I hit an 88 once). My favorite part was watching the various people under the age of 11, who had a grand time despite the constant announcements over the loudspeaker ("No walking in the lanes!" "The orange balls are for children only!" "Only one ball at one time in the lane!").
Oh, and then there was the actual wedding. The chuppah held up by among other people, my sainted sister and the husband; the very explanatory ceremony by the rabbi (she speaks Danish!?!); the breaking of the glass on the second try; my very bad singing (I was too nervous and too emotional); the bride's mother having a wee bit too much to drink; the fighting over the cakes (each of the ten tables had its own different cake and everyone wanted the gooey chocolate one); the karaoke singing ("Delta Dawn, what's that flower you have on?" was, perhaps, my favorite choice of song, sung by the voluptuous C. with great verve and gusto, if little understanding of the concept of pitch).
The Swedish words for the day are brud och brudgum. They mean bride and groom.
- by Francis S.
First on the agenda was a small family dinner with one of my beloved little brother's oldest friends, who runs an eco-hotel in Ecuador - I hadn't seen him in nearly 10 years and amazingly, he is exactly the same as when I last saw him. Well, almost the same; perhaps a little more settled, a little more realistic, but just as kind. My youngest nephew fell in love with him. (The husband and I will definitely be going to Ecuador sometime in the near future.)
Then, there was the day where the bride, the groom, another old friend of the bride's, the husband and myself all spent the afternoon in the city getting pedicures and drinking champagne (the husband thought the pedicures were deplorably bad as pedicures go, but I'd never had one before so it seemed perfectly wonderful to me), yakking it up with people we'd never met before in an apartment across from the venerable old Ambassador West hotel, eating bad sandwiches at Cosí, some kind of new sandwich shop I'd never seen before that tries desperately to look funky and unique, serving toasted marshmallows that can be cooked over a can of sterno and with weird mismatched sofas. Except the same mismatched sofas can be found at every Cosí, of which there seem to be, er, at least more than 20 in Chicago, judging by the five or so we encountered in our brief wanderings.
Next, there was a dim sum lunch for 30 at Phoenix in Chinatown, with my sister-in-law officiating and arguing with the waiters in Cantonese while my beloved little brother made the rounds from table to table, introducing all the various factions of his life to all the various factions of his soon-to-be wife's life to one another.
Then, instead of a rehearsal dinner, my parents rented a bowling alley the night before the wedding, so 50 people spent the night drinking beer and bowling badly (I think I hit an 88 once). My favorite part was watching the various people under the age of 11, who had a grand time despite the constant announcements over the loudspeaker ("No walking in the lanes!" "The orange balls are for children only!" "Only one ball at one time in the lane!").
Oh, and then there was the actual wedding. The chuppah held up by among other people, my sainted sister and the husband; the very explanatory ceremony by the rabbi (she speaks Danish!?!); the breaking of the glass on the second try; my very bad singing (I was too nervous and too emotional); the bride's mother having a wee bit too much to drink; the fighting over the cakes (each of the ten tables had its own different cake and everyone wanted the gooey chocolate one); the karaoke singing ("Delta Dawn, what's that flower you have on?" was, perhaps, my favorite choice of song, sung by the voluptuous C. with great verve and gusto, if little understanding of the concept of pitch).
The Swedish words for the day are brud och brudgum. They mean bride and groom.
- by Francis S.
Wednesday, May 29, 2002
I've been there and back again. The United States is still the same, just with more flags. And more god-bless-america. I guess everyone everywhere has already noted the irony of both sides of the war on terrorism invoking god as being on their side. Not that it surprises me, I just find if funny.
However, I was amazed that the airport security wasn't overwhelming. And unlike the previous visit, the person at passport control didn't seem to be extremely uncomfortable about the fact that the husband and I are homosexualists.
When we visited in August of the past year, the woman at the passport control desk asked us as we stood together in front of her, "How are you family?"
We told her we were married.
She said with disgust, "We don't recognize that in this country. Next time you come up separately, understand?" Which made my stomach lurch, and my knees nearly shake. I wanted to say something nasty, but passport control is one place where you can't win by saying something. The passport control police are all-powerful.
This time, however, passport control was nothing like that.
This time, though the husband went up first by himself, the man behind the desk gestured to me to come up once the husband said that he was traveling not alone but with his husband, namely me.
This time, the man behind the desk said "Have a good stay," as we left after he stamped our passports.
This time, the husband didn't ask me how the United States dares to call itself the home of the free.
The Swedish word for the day is onöjdig. It means unnecessary.
- by Francis S.
However, I was amazed that the airport security wasn't overwhelming. And unlike the previous visit, the person at passport control didn't seem to be extremely uncomfortable about the fact that the husband and I are homosexualists.
When we visited in August of the past year, the woman at the passport control desk asked us as we stood together in front of her, "How are you family?"
We told her we were married.
She said with disgust, "We don't recognize that in this country. Next time you come up separately, understand?" Which made my stomach lurch, and my knees nearly shake. I wanted to say something nasty, but passport control is one place where you can't win by saying something. The passport control police are all-powerful.
This time, however, passport control was nothing like that.
This time, though the husband went up first by himself, the man behind the desk gestured to me to come up once the husband said that he was traveling not alone but with his husband, namely me.
This time, the man behind the desk said "Have a good stay," as we left after he stamped our passports.
This time, the husband didn't ask me how the United States dares to call itself the home of the free.
The Swedish word for the day is onöjdig. It means unnecessary.
- by Francis S.
Monday, May 13, 2002
The New World beckons with a crooked finger. I could have conceived and bore a child in the time it's been since I was last there. If men could bear children that is. It's the longest time I've spent without going back. And I haven't missed it really.
Now, I just need to remember to give the husband plenty of space, and to grab some time alone just the two of us so that he doesn't drown in the too-muchness of my happy family. If there's one thing I learned from my ex, it's that it is important to show to one's spouse that they are No. 1 when it comes to family.
Rationally, it shouldn't matter: There is no contest between spouse and in-laws, it isn't a competition for my affection, I don't love one above the other, it's apples and oranges. But life on planet earth has little to do with rationality and everything to do with emotion. And wanting attention is in fact natural when faced with in-laws, no matter how well we all get along.
Chicago, here we come.
The Swedish word for the day is släktingarna. It means the relatives.
- by Francis S.
Now, I just need to remember to give the husband plenty of space, and to grab some time alone just the two of us so that he doesn't drown in the too-muchness of my happy family. If there's one thing I learned from my ex, it's that it is important to show to one's spouse that they are No. 1 when it comes to family.
Rationally, it shouldn't matter: There is no contest between spouse and in-laws, it isn't a competition for my affection, I don't love one above the other, it's apples and oranges. But life on planet earth has little to do with rationality and everything to do with emotion. And wanting attention is in fact natural when faced with in-laws, no matter how well we all get along.
Chicago, here we come.
The Swedish word for the day is släktingarna. It means the relatives.
- by Francis S.
Sunday, May 12, 2002
My mother and father spent last night hanging out at a gay club in Oak Park, Illinois. It's not like the clubs downtown in the city, the men are less beautiful, more tentative, more real than at the big clubs in Chicago. But there were strippers - "They were really handsome!" said my mother with conviction - and a dancefloor and loud music - "My ears are still ringing!" said my father after they arrived home.
The reason they went was to raise money for the Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays organization my mother started. Another local branch of the organization recommended it. My mother gave out hershey kisses in little bags tied together with rainbow ribbons with cards attached with a phone number and address.
"I kept telling your father 'our mothers are probably rolling over in their graves right now,'" my mother said to me. "But maybe your grandmother would understand, deep down."
I replied that I thought now that she's dead, my grandmother most certainly understands everything.
"Yes, I guess you're right about that," my mother said.
I keep envisioning my parents sitting there in that club, friendly and smiling and giving out chocolate kisses - as well as the real thing - to all these hundred or more gay men, listening as one by one they tell my mother about their relationships with their own mothers, my poor nearly deaf father unable to hear a thing but nodding amiably and sympathetically, both of them cool as cucumbers when the strippers come out. It about makes me burst with pride.
The second Swedish phrase for the day is Mors dag. It means Mother's Day, which is on May 26 in Sweden this year.
- by Francis S.
The reason they went was to raise money for the Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays organization my mother started. Another local branch of the organization recommended it. My mother gave out hershey kisses in little bags tied together with rainbow ribbons with cards attached with a phone number and address.
"I kept telling your father 'our mothers are probably rolling over in their graves right now,'" my mother said to me. "But maybe your grandmother would understand, deep down."
I replied that I thought now that she's dead, my grandmother most certainly understands everything.
"Yes, I guess you're right about that," my mother said.
I keep envisioning my parents sitting there in that club, friendly and smiling and giving out chocolate kisses - as well as the real thing - to all these hundred or more gay men, listening as one by one they tell my mother about their relationships with their own mothers, my poor nearly deaf father unable to hear a thing but nodding amiably and sympathetically, both of them cool as cucumbers when the strippers come out. It about makes me burst with pride.
The second Swedish phrase for the day is Mors dag. It means Mother's Day, which is on May 26 in Sweden this year.
- by Francis S.
I can see on everyone's faces, feel it in the air: the promise of summer is almost too much to bear. April and May have been heaven-sent, sunny and warm and full of pale green leaves. But will the summer live up to this glorious spring? It's rumored that June and July will be hellishly cold and damp.
I would never have imagined living in a country where the collective national psyche is so dependent on the weather. Where one is forced to throw oneself into a warm and sunny day as if jumping from a high cliff into the unknown, where the ten lesser months of the year are mere preparation for a tenuous summer that could possibly never come.
Me, I'm as nervous as the next guy that today will be the end of the balminess, as the husband and I wander around the city, buying presents for the upcoming trip to the States for my beloved little brother's wedding to my friend the Rebel.
I'm sick of worrying about the weather, especially when it's this perfect. Perhaps this means I really am becoming a Swede.
The Swedish word for the day is sommaren. It means the summer.
- by Francis S.
I would never have imagined living in a country where the collective national psyche is so dependent on the weather. Where one is forced to throw oneself into a warm and sunny day as if jumping from a high cliff into the unknown, where the ten lesser months of the year are mere preparation for a tenuous summer that could possibly never come.
Me, I'm as nervous as the next guy that today will be the end of the balminess, as the husband and I wander around the city, buying presents for the upcoming trip to the States for my beloved little brother's wedding to my friend the Rebel.
I'm sick of worrying about the weather, especially when it's this perfect. Perhaps this means I really am becoming a Swede.
The Swedish word for the day is sommaren. It means the summer.
- by Francis S.
Saturday, May 11, 2002
Dogs are allowed in Sweden. In shops and on buses. Just about everywhere except restaurants. So it was no surprise to hear strangled and asthmatic barking in the subway as our train pulled away from Central Station - dogs are allowed in the last car.
The question is, however, whether pig-dogs are allowed. Because what was making the noise was small and round and pink and white and indeed, the ugliest canine-type critter that I have ever seen. An albino pug with a few white patches on its back, the rest of it a rubbed-raw pink, its owner was visibly proud of its pathetic ugliness.
Is it possible to be so ugly as to be endearing?
The Swedish word for the day is husdjur. It means pet.
- by Francis S.
The question is, however, whether pig-dogs are allowed. Because what was making the noise was small and round and pink and white and indeed, the ugliest canine-type critter that I have ever seen. An albino pug with a few white patches on its back, the rest of it a rubbed-raw pink, its owner was visibly proud of its pathetic ugliness.
Is it possible to be so ugly as to be endearing?
The Swedish word for the day is husdjur. It means pet.
- by Francis S.
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