"Helter skelter in the summer swelter..."

Swedes love to talk about the weather, or so the travel guides say. Personally I think you'll find a similar assertion in travel guides about every country from Afghanistan to Zimbabwe. Nevertheless, when I'm stuck in the elevator with one of the hundreds strangers I share an apartment building with, internally debating whether it would be more or less uncomfortable to initiate conversation, a statement about the weather never goes amiss - especially because I know lots of weather words in Swedish. Over the past few weeks, I've found myself repeating "fan, vad värmt det är idag". ("It's really goddam hot today").

And it is. The apartment is unbearable, even with our windows wide open. I've been forced to go swimming almost every day to avoid melting like a mjuk glass (overpriced soft serve ice cream that melts all over your hands before you get a chance to introduce it to your tongue). There's a beautiful lake (Delsjön) only a 20 minute bike ride from our house, which is where the entire population of Gothenburg seems to live on a Sunday, but which still offers plenty of secluded spots to lie on the big flat rocks or splash around in the deep warm water. I managed to fall in while approaching one of these secluded spots; a branch snapped underneath my foot and suddenly I found myself, complete with backpack, shoes, and bicycle helmet, lying in the lake with a bruised bottom. But if you have to fall in a Swedish lake fully clothed, summer is the time to do it!

I also had my first swim in the Swedish sea. Axel and I, and our friends Mark and Anna, had decided to spend the day swimming, eating and lying in the sun on one of the idyllic islands in the Gothenburg archipelago. Axel and I had bought our en-gångs grill (disposable barbecue) and chorizo sausages nearly a week in advance, and I planned to add to the feast with home-made tzatziki and foccacia bread. Of course, the day turned out to be the only overcast and windy day during the heatwave, I forgot to pack the sausages, I took too long making the bread and couldn't bake it, and we missed our boat. Instead we went to the beach at Fiskebäck, and all our failures didn't seemed to matter when two things became apparent: 1) Good friends make anything fun, especially when one of the friends is willing to take an extra 40 minutes on the bicycle to buy you food; 2) THE SEA WAS WARM! It was kind of an amazing experience bobbing about in this black sea under an iron grey sky, surrounded by gargantuan hunks of stone worn smooth and flat by aeons of ice. It felt almost primeval, if only the water had been colder. Despite appearances, it was warmer than Wellington beaches. Swedes, however, are total wimps. Mark (an Irishman) and I both enjoyed lenthy swims, but our daintier other halves merely dipped in and hurried out after less than a minute, claiming to be too cold. When I got stung by a small jellyfish on my third swim that day, Axel told me he hoped I'd learned my lesson about staying in the water too long.

As if I wasn't spoiled for choice with both a lake and the sea to hand, I've also signed up at the swimming pool a couple of minutes from our apartment. My first visit to the swimming pool reminded me what it is that makes me feel foreign - it's when I break the social codes that everyone else knows and follows without thinking. Initially I thought I was doing quite well, I spoke some Swedish to the reception lady, and found my way to the locker rooms entrance. I opened the door and emerged into a tiny room lined with benches, and a sign that instructed me to take off my shoes. Carrying my shoes, I passed into the next room, which was filled with lockers. I got changed, stowed my gear in the locker, and passed into a third room. This room was harshly lit, and filled with steam and naked women. The walls were papered with signs instructing people to take showers before swimming, and that it was forbidden to wear your swimsuit in the showers. So I took off the swimsuit I'd just put on, and jostled for space with the other naked women in the communal showers. Only, I couldn't figure out how to turn my shower on. Strangely enough, I felt decidedly uncomfortable about standing there naked and using my broken Swedish to ask the naked woman next to me how to turn the shower on. Eventually I found another shower, quickly washed, and put my swimsuit back on. Then went through another door and found a kiddy pool. Then went through another door and found, at last, the swim-training pool.

Here though, was another challenge. In NZ we have lanes to separate Slow, Medium, and Fast swimmers. I didn't understand what was written on the signs here, but I knew it wasn't to do with speed. Eventually I asked someone, and discovered that the Swedes differentiate based on what kind of stroke you want to do - freestyle or breast-stroke. The breast-stroke lanes are the most popular, with people going round and round in perfect harmony with hardly a ripple. In case you don't get the idea, they even have a sign that directs you to turn around again once you get to the end of the lane. I had my little chuckle at that, but then had to re-enter the cursed bureaucratic changing rooms on my way out: Back through the doors to the shower-room; off with the swimsuit... wait, my towel and shampoo are in my locker... Back on with the swimsuit, and into the locker room, which I suddenly realised was completely dry except for the trail of water I'd trecked in. I got my shampoo and went back to the shower room, hoping no one had seen that it was me who defiled the sanctity of the dry locker room. Off with the swimsuit, then shower... oops, forgot the towel. Back to the dry locker room, taking more water with me. I got dressed, and because I was in such a fluster, I put my shoes on before I reached the appropriate outer-cubicle. In the matter of Me and Swedish Swimming Pool Ettiquette, the judge decalres a verdict of FAIL.

Akta/äkta Svenska...

The posts have been few and far between, I know. I've been busy over the last couple of months. I'm now working on the final assignment for my Scandinavian Studies course at university, which turned out to be not all that interesting, for all that I did learn about some Swedish history and culture. I've been having a lot more fun with my SFI Swedish language classes, which I attend 4 days a week. My Swedish is progressing quite well - I know my vänlig (friendly) from my vanlig (ordinary), and my äkta (real) from my akta (watch out!). The importance of such differences become clear when one reads a headline such as "Kackerlackor har blivit vanlig-are i Sverige" (Cockroaches have become more ordinary in Sweden) or when travelling around town one sees many korv (sausage) kiosks with signs stating "äkta mos!" (real mashed potatoes!). I've been using Swedish more and more in conversations with friends and people in shops. My pronounciation is relatively good, and my appearance doesn't mark me out in any way, so often I am accepted by strangers as the real deal.

However, having strangers assume that you're Swedish does have its downsides. I've run in to trouble often because I know how to ask for directions, but not what people are saying when they give them. It's too complicated to say, oh even though I asked in Swedish, can you repeat in English, please? Usually I just nod and pay very close attention to where they're pointing.

These kind of challenges have become especially manifest now that I've started a språkpraktik (language apprenticeship) at a hardware store. They subscribe to the IKEA model - epic-sized store stocking everything from kitchen utensils to motor oil, with a hot-dog stand and 5kr ($1)-per-use public toilet. The idea is, I work there for free 12 hours a week, and thereby get to practice using Swedish in a working environment. It sucks working for free, especially in a place to which I am so clearly unsuited, but I'm actually really lucky to have got the opportunity. The Swedish job market is so crappy at the moment that nobody's keen to take on even free labour! I don't understand it, but there you go. So far I've been stacking shelves, or in one memorable case, un-stacking them. I put about 800 individual lightbulbs into boxes that day, and that was just a small dent in the sea of light-bulbs that needed to be re-packed. I don't know what place the lightbulbs were going on to, but I hope it was a happier, less dusty one. This kind of work isn't inherently difficult, except for the 20 long minutes I spent with one tiny shelf area filled with plastic flasks that were almost exactly the shape of upside-down bowling pins... If the one you're moving so much as brushes another, they're all down. I wish I was as good at knocking real bowling pins over.

What really makes the work challenging is the incessant stream of customers that want you to help them. You've just bent over to deal to the stupid inverse bowling pin flasks, hoping that the painful posture will hide you, when you hear an ever so polite (Swedes are always polite) "Ursäkta, kan jag fråga dig?" (Excuse me, can I ask you something?). The customers have variations on two questions, 1) Where can I find x?; 2) How do I use y? I can almost never answer either. For Q1), I most often don't understand what they're looking for, having not yet memorised hard-ware related vocabulary, or if I do understand I'm not sure where we keep it in the Nevada Desert sized store. For Q2), I don't think I could answer even in English, as I don't know anything about boat-chrome or what kind of primer to use on your tractor. So I spend most of my time on the job in an endless cycle of explaining to customers that I can't help them, and running desperately through the maze of aisles trying to find the one or two personnel that are actually employed to talk to the hundreds of customers that pour through every day. And because my Swedish sounds right and I don't look like an immigrant (read: I don't look like I come from outside Western Europe), the customers just think I'm a magnificently unhelpful idiot.

Oh well, at least I'm getting a lot of practice at saying - "sorry I can't help you, talk to him instead" in Swedish. I try to vary the mantra, which means I occasionally end up referring to the bicycle expert as a small boy instead of a young man, which raises eyebrows.

I'm in love with a fairytale...

So far my resolution to be thoroughly involved in every Swedish celebration has failed. I burned myself on Fat Tuesday, and so was in pain the whole time I munched my semla. I had the worst diarrhoea of my life over Easter (no candy filled paper-eggs for me!). Axel's brother Alfred and his partner Cissi (and their adorable baby Igor) were down for Walpurgis Eve and May Day, and we decided it would be more fun to hang out together than stand around a bonfire on the other side of town with drunk students.

Last night, all that changed. I sat around the TV with eight other people, home-made scoresheet in one hand and a delicious daquiri-ish drink in the other, and witnessed my first... Eurovision Song Contest. I spent almost the entire show with my mouth hanging agape in wonder. I just cannot believe that with a whole year in which to plan, that those performances are the best a country can come up with to represent themselves musically. My fingers quiver on the keys as I type out the 'music', as music is the last thing Eurovision is about.

For those who don't know, Eurovision is a song competition for Active Members of the European Broadcasters Union, which includes countries outside Europe such as Israel and Azerbaijan. Due to time constraints, only 25 countries can compete in the final, so the pool is weeded down in two semi-finals. The 25 finalists sing one song live on television, and the winners are decided half by tele-voting and half by a jury from each country. No one is allowed to vote for their own country, but it is common for countries to vote for their neighbours regardless of song quality.

I quickly learned that my taste in music is not shared by any of the people that voted last night. I did think the Norwegians deserved to win - they took a Zac Efron look-alike, gave him a violin and some camp back-up dancers in Norwegian lederhosen, and had him sing about love and fairytales. How could this combination fail? My favourites were France - the sole country to opt for class over pop with their throaty-voiced (and relatively modestly clad) soloist; Armenia - exotic purple women, weirdly synchopated beats and traditional instruments; Portugal - folky riffs with flute and accordion, and a charismatic singer; and Russia - a catchy chorus and morbid visuals. The Swedish entry wasn't too bad, even if the performer did look more like a mermaid in a wedding dress than Ariel did at then end of the Disney film.

What horrified me was that all the songs I hated came so far up the rankings! Iceland came second with an entry of pure insipid dross, and with visuals featuring a dolphin diving through cloud formations. Why? The song is more interesting if you think about it in terms of Iceland's current economic and environmental crisis: "falling out of a perfect dream, coming out of the blue... Is it true, is it over? Did I throw it all away?" As for England (5th place), SHAME ON YOU Andrew Lloyd Webber.

Though Iceland and the UK went for the sweet and virginal, some of the acts were hilariously raunchy. The Greek entry had us drooling (with laughter) over their bare-chested hunk and narcissistic antics (best bit is at 1:30-1:40 in linked video-clip). The Germans were a little bit disturbing, and thorougly under-used Dita Von Teese.

But really, the whole thing was so tacky and soulless it made me long for ABBA to smash down the door in a blaze of white flares. They would have kicked ass. What happened to songs that you actually want to hear? France Gall won in 1965. It is especially disturbing to me that they got a couple of guys up in space to give viewers the order to "VOTE". The presenters chanted to millions of viewers, "vote vote vote". Why does no one put that kind of effort into getting people to vote for elections that actually matter? Maybe if there was an Asian guy in space telling American people to vote we wouldn't have had two terms of George Bush. But I guess that kind of voting doesn't make millions of dollars for broadcasters. Go figure.

Poisoning Pigeons in the Park

Spring is here, a-suh-puh-ring is here! (Life is expensive with too little beer).

I am now immersed in the first spring of my life. It is fantastic. The trees are still bare, and the grass is still sparse, but little crocuses are bursting from the earth in rich hues of purple and gold, daffodils are blooming in outdoor pots, and the other day it was warm enough for me to wear a sleeveless top. Mind you, the Swedes are still wrapped up in scarves and mittens and giving me funny looks. And to be fair, it did snow only a couple of weeks ago, a proper snow that lay on the ground. I have been told that in Sweden, if a month has an 'r' in its name, then snow is possible. But the change in whether is so abrupt and brings with it such a communal joy that I feel like I have never understood the meaning of the word "spring" before. The streets are suddenly full of people, and the cafes have begun uteservering (outdoor eating areas), one of the Swedish hallmarks of the arrival of spring. [Apparently there's even a legislated date for when they can put them out. Typical, the Swedes have legislation for everything.]

The only downside is the increased activity in our little home district, Gårda, otherwise known as
the Event Area. All the sports arenas are blaring with activity, and I am dreading the monster truck rally in June. Ah well, it's a nice neighbourhood, and close to the city centre. Axel has discovered a state-of-the-art skate park nearby, and we go sometimes to watch the skaters - delighting in the small helmeted children, admiring the older indie kids, and criticising the posers. Especially the girl posers. Why aren't there more female skaters?

So it's been pretty idyllic. We eat ice creams and bask in the sun. We lie in bed and watch movies from the library, drinking herb tea and balancing the coffee table on the bed. There are bad things, worries... I've had a persistent stomach ache, we're totally broke and are worried about the summer when Axel's CSN money ceases... but in general, no complaints. Spring is an occasion of hope and joy. ("Ev'ry Sunday you'll see/ My sweetheart and me").

"So if Sunday you're free,
Why don't you come with me,
And we'll... "

Holding Hands, Feeding Ducks

I love our little canal, even if I did once see a dead duck floating in the it, upside-down, with its orange feet exposed and its head under water. I tried feeding the ducks the other day, but they're spoiled and less friendly than NZ ducks. I had to practically beg them to eat my bread. Assholes.

Here find enclosed some photos from our neighbourhood: end of winter - beginning of spring.

Herr(ing) Song

I am luxuriating in bed listening to the amazing Eliza Carthy album 'Rice', which in addition to a song about herring also has a tune called "Swedish". If you look, you find Sweden everywhere... especially when you live there.

We have furniture - about half of which comes from IKEA, and the rest comes from the recycling room in our apartment building. IKEA, for the uninitiated, is a global furniture empire originating in Sweden that aims to sell cheap furniture while adhering to basic standards of taste and quality. It certainly is amazingly cheap, but because of this everyone in Sweden has it, and it all has the conspicuous IKEA look because everything in the store is designed to match everything else. So it is a little bit disturbing to have IKEA in your home with its conspicuousness and clean-line faux-yuppie pretensions of style. The chipped ugly furniture from the recycling room is much more to our taste, but we were very lucky to get all the IKEA furniture from Axel's mum, so we're not looking a gift horse in the mouth. The red courdoroy fold-out-bed sofa is really cool too. We had a flat-warming to celebrate the arrival of the furniture, which was a really nice time. Our friends here make up in quality for what they lack in quantity.

Axel has been beavering away at his music, and has just bought a fancy acoustic guitar off a local pop-musician. Right now he's practising on his fancy New Orleans electric guitar, learning blues finger picking from a DVD. I love the library here! They have an excellent selection of DVDs, CDs, English language books and more, all for free. We've been watching a couple of films every week, and taking out stacks of CDs at a time. So for all that we're short of money, we're never bored.

Yesterday was the International Women's Day, a fact that often goes unremarked in New Zealand (last year the Dom Post ran an article on 'blokettes' - women who "drink like men", with no mention of the date's significance, or the irony of running such an anti-feminist article). Here there is much more awareness, including a short film festival about women's issues and women's rights. I am told that in Sweden it would be very un-PC to not describe oneself as a feminist, and that even arch-patriarchs embrace the term. Of course, patriarchy isn't defeated here, but the gender relations certainly feel different. You wouldn't get felt up in a bar here, or be whistled at on the street. The notion of equality is very dear to the hearts of Swedes, and thus far I have found it to be firmly drilled into the Swedish mentality. It is amazing to me to see men so confident with feminist discourse and struggles. It is different from male feminists at home, who still often seem to see feminism as a women's issue. I'm not suggesting that NZ male feminists (or at least the ones I've met) are any less concerned or passionate, but it seems that they still view the struggle as on behalf of the category 'women'. Swedes seem to see feminism as a struggle for the benefit of society, they protest unequal treatment of people, not unequal treatment of 'women', and therefore men can own and claim feminism too. Of course, I'm speaking only from my own feeling of general sentiments, so nobody quote me on this! I just think it is interesting that the word "feminist" is so political and dangerous in NZ (and the US and many other places), and yet here it is as ubiquitous an ideal as democracy, which are in fact part of the same ideal for Swedes.

CSN suxxx

Sometimes it seems as though Sweden is a country that provides everything. The tap water here is of good quality, and many people drink from the taps in the bathrooms on campus. University facilities management is obviously aware of the fact, and so in addition to the soap dispenser, paper towel dispenser and toilet paper dispenser, there is also a paper cup dispenser!

There is always an ecological and/or vegan and/or lactose/gluten/soy free version of evertyhing. Equality is staunchly defended - especially gender equality and equality for people with disabilities. Our neighbour in the apartment is in a wheelchair, and when she moved in the company that owns the apartment redid the entire kitchen so she could reach, at their own expense. There is an ethics council that monitors advertisements and lays charges against ones that involve bikini-clad women.

And yet, I am beginning to realise what it is like to be an immigrant. The word seems a weird fit - "immigrants" are people with different skin colours and different religions and different ways of preparing food. In that sense I am lucky, I don't suffer any social prejudice because I am of Western European descent and I pass very well as a "Swede" until I open my mouth (again, a strange idea given that there are many people born in Sweden that cannot shake the immigrant image due to the colour of their skin). But I do now realise how hard it is to start a life in a new country, just from a legal point of view. Aside from the hassles in getting a personal identity number, a bank account, a doctor, enrolling in university and getting my New Zealand degree accepted, I am finding it very difficult to make a living.

The language situation is serious. Almost everyone speaks English, and most people enjoy a chance to practice, so socially it isn't a problem. But I'm beginning to dread that little eye flicker that happens when someone in a shop or on the street says something to me in Swedish, and I have to explain that I don't understand, and you can see their face change as they adjust to English. And it is practically impossible to get a job without knowing Swedish, especially seeing as anyone that wants to employ someone who speaks English can take their pick of hundreds of Swedes who speak both. I went to a job fair the other day, and went up to every table asking "do you require people who speak English?" to no avail. But I will begin SFI (Swedish for Immigrants) classes on Monday, so hopefully I will learn quickly. The Swedes, like Maori, pronounce the letter "i" as we would pronounce the letter "e". So when I was looking to sign up for SFI classes I typed "sfe" into google, which kept trying to direct me to medical pages about "supercritical fluid extraction".

My other ray of hope for procuring money was the student allowance and loan from an organisation called CSN. I had been told by the migration board and by the Swedish Consulate that my residency permit gave me pretty much all the rights of a Swedish citizen, including the student allowance, but irritatingly CSN have decided that I can't get anything until I become a permanent resident (which will take two years). So much for getting paid to do my Masters (though at least I do still get to do it free). What really makes me angry is that they are willing to waive this rule if I have a baby with Axel, or if Axel was from another EU country. Basically, if I was cohabiting with someone from the EU, but not Sweden, then they will pay me to study here, but if I'm living with a Swede then no dice (unless I give birth). I hate them! I honestly don't know why they're so suspicious of people pretending to be in a relationship with a Swede just so they can move to Sweden for a better life - it would be better to move here with your Estonian husband!

But I suppose it is just because we are lucky in New Zealand too with good living standards. Sometimes I think about what I gave up to live here - scholarships (I have to pay back $6000 dollars because I left New Zealand), a job, a home, family, friends, my language, and a sense of belonging and entitlement: a citizenship. But I guess I have to look at what I gained too - first and foremost, I can live with the person I love, and it means everything to feel his back against mine in the night, and his smile over lunch. And I gain Europe, if I can ever afford to see it, and free education, and opportunities to expand my horizons and myself. But sometimes I just want to belong again.