This Town's Kinda Pretty!

The weather's getting colder and this weekend I got smacked in the face with the sore throat and sniffles that seems to be going around. I've been pretty much sleeping and lazing around on my sofa yesterday and today, but I did go on a nice long walk yesterday evening, and snapped some photos of the city with my iPhone. (See gallery below.)

Between naps and about 60 cups of tea today, I also wandered down to the river's edge near my apartment and saw people kayaking. I really want to do that, but I haven't yet figured out where the rental place is. But I did come up with a funny plan: My friend Rebecca is coming to visit in a few weeks, and I think while she's here we've gotta do the city tour by Segway. The advertisements feature a pretty, well-dressed chick with a Louis Vuitton bag cruising through Norrmalm on a human transporter... but somehow I don't think the real thing will be quite so glamorous.

Speaking of comparing myself with attractive women: it's a good thing I'm already married, because if I had come here with the intention of meeting Swedish guys, I'd be totally striking out. I basically came to a place where, at best, I'd just look like all the other girls, except now my look currently includes funky glasses and a quirky haircut, which is the look older ladies in Stockholm start rocking once they realize they can't hang with the pretty young things anymore. Oh well--I guess this makes it that much easier to stay out of trouble! But I'm growing the hair back out and getting Lasik surgery as soon as I get back to the States.

A Walk Through Stockholm 8/31/08 7:16 PM

What Am I To You?

In my first two weeks here, I’ve unfortunately managed to learn almost no Swedish, but I’ve had many conversations with my Swedish colleagues (in English) about the lack of English cognates for some extremely specific Swedish words. I’ve been thinking about this a lot for the past couple days, so I’m going to offer a theory that I’m totally linguistically unqualified to support: The Swedish language seems very exact and straightforward—technical, but pared down to include specific words for everything. Whereas, English is squishy, poetic and expansive. There are hundreds of ways to say things, but often you need a phrase rather than one exact word. Compared to a Swede, an English speaker talks circles around his meaning. Which is why I think I’m just going to start making up new words, or maybe throwing in the Swedish ones where our language doesn’t do the trick.

Here’s an example of what I mean: Last week, a Swedish technology news site interviewed one of Bonnier’s executives about a Web project we’re working on. I got a little nod in the article, which described me as “an American girl set alight by open source.” (Let’s ignore the phrase “set alight by”—it’s a hilariously bad translation of a Swedish idiom for “with a passion for.”) I sent the clip to my once and future boss in New York, who wondered whether they couldn’t have chosen a better word than “girl.” Wouldn’t “woman” be more professional and less condescending? So, I looked up the exact word used in the article—tjej—in a Swedish-English dictionary, and laughed out loud at the suggested English equivalents: chick, doll, dame and broad. Now, I know for sure that tjej is a Swedish word for “young woman,” with no tawdry connotations. But we don’t really have a similar word in English—for some reason, anything other than “girl” or “woman,” sounds like an insult, which I think says something interesting about our culture. Why do we have so many derogatory words for females, while we’re lacking a feminine version of the word “guy?” And don’t suggest “gal,” please. Nobody uses that word unless they’ve been watching a lot of ‘50s sitcom reruns or something.

The Swedes also have a clever and very specific system for naming relatives. Your grandma on your mother’s side would be Mor Mor—mother’s mother, while your grandma on your father’s would be Far Mor (father’s mother). And so on with grandfathers and I think aunts and uncles, too. Niklas told me the other day that he sees our generic use of the word “grandmother” as a deficiency of the language. How does the person you’re talking to know which grandma you’re discussing? I thought this was kind of funny, because there are few times when I would discuss my grandmother with someone who doesn’t know her, but I guess if it happened, at some point the other person would ask which grandma she is and we'd have to use 25 extra words that would be unnecessary in Swedish.

There’s a language teacher who comes to the Bonnier offices each week to teach English lessons to anyone who wants them, and he tells me that he sometimes hits a communication wall with his students, who don’t understand the necessity of expanding their vocabulary to include synonyms for words they already know. “What’s the point of saying ‘chagrin’ when I could just say ‘disappointment?’” one student asked yesterday. And he was sort of stumped for an answer. Um… because it’s more colorful? And it has a subtly different meaning? But the class didn’t really buy it. Why put rococo flourishes on a piece of furniture when spare, Scandinavian lines do the trick just fine?

Crayfish and Drinking Songs

When I see crayfish, I want to party. Don't you? No? Well, in Sweden, there's a special ritual for eating the little lobster-like critters. First, you have to wear a pointy hat. Then, you have to drink a whole lot of caraway-flavored schnapps (spelled snaps here). And most importantly, you have to sing. I came across a huge party of otherwise sensible-looking elderly people doing this while I was out with Jenny and Alexis last week, and I thought for sure it someone's 80th birthday party.

Apparently, every time someone starts singing, you have to drink. In fact, from my experience so far, it seems like Swedes don't really drink hard liquor without singing. So I was at a pretty nice restaurant called Riche the other night with some American friends here for the GRID conference and the waitress brought us some snaps to drink with our herring appetizers. But none of us knew any songs! So I did my best charming foreigner impression and leaned over to a smartly dressed older gentleman (who turned out to be the Swedish ambassador to Cyprus) at the table next to me and said, "Excuse me, sir. Do you speak English?" And he said, "Why certainly." So I asked him if he would please teach me a drinking song. To my table's general delight, he and his dinner companions broke out into an unlearnable traditional song, in four-part harmony.

Unfortunately, I may not actually get a chance to join a crayfish party while I'm here, because they're always held in the month of August. Apparently my next opportunity to eat weird food and get drunk comes in October, during the fermented herring festival.

Take Home a New Idea

I just posted a mammoth treatise on, well, me... so I'm going to keep this one short, and about someone else. On Monday and Tuesday of this week, Bonnier Media University hosted 300 of the brightest and best Bonnier employees from around the world for a special conference called GRID, which I mentioned a couple times in passing in my first few posts. The meeting was inspired by the famous TED conferences held in the U.S. each year, in which luminaries from all different disciplines and schools of thought get together to share ideas. Well, we had some pretty fantastic speakers at our conference, one of whom really stood out for me. Hans Rosling is a Swedish professor of public health, who specializes in gathering statistics about world populations and comparing them. Sounds boring, right? WRONG. For your education and entertainment, I'm embedding a video of the presentation he gave this year at both TED and GRID. Please try to find the 20 minutes to watch it: you'll be glad you did.

Self-Improvement

That there is my navel. Please join me in gazing at it for the next 1,800 words or so...

A few days before I left for Sweden, I met with my therapist Rebecca for a sort of a send-off discussion about what my expectations were for myself and my relationship with John during these six months abroad. Backing up just a bit, any Swedes reading this may be shocked to hear that I go to a therapist, but it’s not because I’m mentally ill. I’m not sure what the cultural mores here are, but in the U.S., particularly in more progressive cities, it’s quite common for people to go to a therapist at some point in their lives to work out a situational problem, and then to keep going back periodically as part of an overall maintenance of health—health of the spirit, perhaps. I don’t agree with Freud’s assertion that the unexamined life is not worth living, but I do believe that those of us with the means and leisure (and, I suppose, confidence—there’s still a bit of stigma around going to a shrink) to examine our lives should do so. It’s a way of questioning and refining your own ideas and behavior, and really, any of us could stand to behave better and become a little more open minded.

So, what I was saying is that I visited Rebecca, and we talked about this journey I was about to go on. I told her I hoped that these six months abroad, away from my husband, would be a time when I’d have to check myself not just against myself and my regular circle of contacts, but against a whole new culture, and that that might help me to grow as a person. And I also told her that while I was in this place where I didn’t know anyone, I might work on other self-improvement issues like healing some physical problems I've been having, and improving my diet and exercise routine.

I didn’t exactly have a plan for how this was going to transpire once I got here—I’m not exactly the queen of discipline—but I figured I’d be open to whatever the universe throws my way and see how I can use those experiences to positively change myself. Well, “the universe” didn’t waste any time. I’ve been here just a little more than a week and I’ve already been confronted with new ideas about how to improve my physical self (I talked about naprapathy a few posts back, and I’ll add to that in a second). Meanwhile, my mental self has been thrown into the pressure cooker of a new culture: There’s no way a person can be lifted out of her daily routine and thrust into a new country for any length of time without coming out changed.

This morning we had one of our monthly staff meetings—the first one I’ve attended so far—and all 50 or so employees in our office gathered for breakfast and a chance to hear what the big boss had to say about the state of the union. Well, he started off the meeting in Swedish, and then Niklas cleared his throat loudly and pointed to me. Jonas said “Oh, Megan! I’m so sorry. We’ll switch to English now.” And I was at once grateful, touched, and a bit ashamed. An entire staff was listening to the CEO speak in their second language—one not everyone is entirely comfortable with—entirely for my sake. But a funny thing happened. As the meeting went on, he sort of lapsed back into Swedish and kept going that way. It wasn’t as if he had anything to say that I shouldn’t hear, but it was easier for the group as a whole to understand these important issues in their native tongue, and if one person didn’t get it, well, that was probably ok. So, after that meeting, I immediately went and asked whether I could take Swedish lessons. I was planning to study Swedish anyway, but so far I haven’t really found the time or the discipline to sit down in the evenings by myself and try to muddle through textbooks or language software. So Bonnier Media University, the group that put on this week’s GRID conference, arranged to have a Swedish teacher come to the office and spend a couple hours each week tutoring me one-on-one. Isn’t that great? Learning Swedish will be step one of my self-improvement program.

I’ve also made some progress on the physical front that I think is pretty profound. (By the way, not to sound too hippy-dippy, but I can’t tell you how fascinated I am that these things have “coincidentally” come together so quickly—I really think that if you let yourself be totally open and listen to the world around you, your questions usually get answered. Most of us just tend to buzz around too busily to pay attention.)

So, first a little background: Since about January, I’ve been a physical disaster. I tend to put all sorts of strain on my systems, in the form of psychological stress (overloading my life with too much work, too much sociality, too much travel), nutritional stress, and exercise stress (on top of everything else, I like to train for endurance sports, and I get hurt a lot). Around the holidays last year, I finally came to terms with the fact that my then-fiance John wasn’t going to move to New York, and my bosses at Popular Science for some amazing reason decided to let me telecommute from his home in Santa Fe. But then I had to leave New York, which caused me to go into mourning and embark on a couple-month-long binge of “last suppers”: “Oh, I might not have Korean food for a long time! I’m really gonna miss Beard Papa’s cream puffs! When’s the next time I’ll have a cheese tasting at Artisanal? Let’s have going away cocktails!” On and on and on, until my jeans were uncomfortably tight. And then, in quick succession, came the stressors of moving, planning a wedding, a bunch of work trips back to New York, a cycling accident, and a week later, a freak accident wherein I passed out at the chiropractor’s office and smashed a plexiglass magazine rack to bits with my face. (Yeah.) And THEN came the actual wedding, some more trips to New York, shoulder surgery to try to repair the damage from the bike accident, auditioning and costarring on a TV show, and leaving my new husband to go to Sweden. It was a wild half-year, and in short, it left me chubby, neurotic, and physically ailing.

I started having pains in my upper body that started below my skull, around the atlas vertebra (I’ve learned quite a lot about anatomy from the myriad chiropractors, orthopedists, physiatrists, and physical therapists I’ve seen this year), down the left side of my neck to the shoulder, and then from the shoulder through the biceps tendon, into my wrists and even sometimes down to my fingertips. My lower back was achy, my hip-flexors were insanely tight, and the IT bands running down both legs were tight and inflamed, which pulled on the ligaments in my knees, causing stabbing sensations. Disaster, right?

So I tried all sorts of healing strategies: everything from stretching, exercise and massage to pain killers, anti-inflammatories and antidepressants (one doctor suspected I have fibromyalgia, which can be treated with SSRIs), with varying degrees of success. And I made a couple of feeble attempts to start a diet to lose the farewell-New-York flab, but was stymied alternately by indignance and self pity. (“What the hell, I’m not fat. I’m not eating another f-ing salad. Waiter, bring me a margarita.” / “I’m eating steamed broccoli and a chicken breast. The culinary horror! It’s just so… sad…”)

And then, last weekend in Torekov, I met Farmor (means grandma in Swedish) Schneider, a multidisciplinary therapist who works to help correct developmental issues that hinder children from succeeding at school. This woman has a passion for nutrition, and she told me the stories of two kids she’s seen recently who suffered from yeast sensitivities. According to Farmor, this condition caused the intestinal flora in their guts to begin producing alcohol-like toxins that contributed to problems including depression, lack of coordination, muscle and joint pain and digestive issues. After going on a special diet that eliminated all foods that contained yeast or fed intestinal yeast (sugars, namely), these kids made massive physical improvements.

I was intrigued, so after meeting her I spent some time researching this idea online. Turns out the “yeast connection” is a well-known and somewhat controversial topic in alternative medicine (some medical docs think it’s hooey), but there have been some interesting studies that link an excess of intestinal candida with depression and… fibromyalgia. When I read that, I felt a light click on in my head. I’m not sure this is my problem, of course, but I hardly think it’s worth going through the tests to see whether I’ve got yeast sensitivity, when the remedy for the problem is as simple as switching to a healthy (albeit boring and extremely restrictive) diet for a few months.

The anti-candida diet allows you to eat only vegetables, nuts, legumes, meats and unsweetened yogurt. No fruit, grains, unfermented dairy products, sweeteners or alcohol of any kind. You’re supposed to do this for two months and then slowly add back whole grains, fruit and fermented beverages (yes!). As with most diets, white flour and refined sugars remain no-nos. Sounds super strict, but I’m going to try it. I think a diet undertaken in the name of improving my health rather than losing weight is a lot more emotionally palatable (but if I lean out a little in the bargain, that’s A-ok). I actually started the diet today, and I think the worst part is going to be the social aspect. There’s not a lot I’ll be able to eat at restaurants, and already today I had to tell a white lie and explain away my refusal to eat bread as a “yeast allergy.” I’ll be sure to let you know in a future post sometime whether this diet is sustainable for me and whether I see any improvements in my health after following it for a while.

So, to circle this off-course blog post back around to the starting topic of self-improvement and my talk with the therapist… Rebecca, I have no idea if you’re reading this, but here’s what’s up:

So far, I feel good about Sweden. I’m keeping myself busy with new friends and cultural immersion, and it’s only in tiny spurts that I feel lonely. I miss my husband, and we both think that’s a good thing. It’s important to know what longing and lack feel like, so we don’t take each other for granted later. And so far, I’m really engaging with my idea that these six months will be a time to grow and become a better person, and I feel good about that, too.

Yogurt Connoisseurship

I really like yogurt, and I usually buy the Greek kind, since it's strained and therefore extra rich and creamy. But in Sweden, there's a staggering variety of yogurts in even the tiniest grocery stores. Yogurts are classified not only by their flavor, thickness and country of origin, but even by the specific bacterial cultures used to make them. Besides Greek, there's fil mjolk, viili, matsoni, kefir, cultured buttermilk, Turkish yogurt, Bulgarian yogurt, and probably about 20 other kinds that I don't even know about. My Swedish friend Kai claims to be able to tell the cultures apart, but I haven't reached his level of expertise yet. The photo at left was taken at a podunk grocery store in Southern Sweden—a proper supermarket would have at least two refrigerated cases completely dedicated to yogurts.

I don't have a ton of time for posting today (it's 1 am and I've been working at the GRID conference all day), but here's a gallery of images from my weekend in southern Sweden. I'll catch up tomorrow.

Swedish Life, In Six Parts

I missed a day of blogging because I was en route to Torekov to visit my friends Kai and Rhonda (more about that in the next post), and Thursday's account of my coffee disaster was a bit of a cop out, so I suppose I'm making up for lost time with this behemoth post. Hope you like to read! Just in case you don't, I've given each section a handy subtitle, for your skimming pleasure. That photo to the left is of Alexis and Jenny, an American friend and a new Swedish friend, with whom I spent Thursday evening.

Speaking Scandinavian: The languages of Sweden, Denmark and Norway all share the same linguistic root, which means people from these countries can fully communicate with each other if they just know how to fudge through a hundred or so instances where the vocabulary differs. Niklas calls this “speaking Scandinavian.” Sounds tricky, since some of the changes involve verb conjugations, but just as an exercise think of how many words differ from the U.K. to the U.S.: elevator/lift, sweater/jumper, cigarette/fag, cookie/biscuit, apartment/flat, etc. I bet I could come up with 100 if I really tried. Then again, my dog Liza knows about 100 words (I counted once), so I guess it’s not all that impressive.

Blonder than blond: When I was a little kid, my hair was towhead white, and I maintained a nice champagne hue until I was about a senior in high school. John’s hair is even lighter: in college photos, he’s sporting locks that look like mine in the ninth grade, and consequently, he appears to be about 14. (“Only a problem when I didn’t feel like cruising middle schools for chicks,” he quips.) But people in Sweden are crazy-blond well into their 30s. Like, albino blond. I know a lot of the girls dye their hair, but there are many, many who are naturally that fair. I’ve never seen grown humans who look like this—they’re like angels. I always thought long, platinum hair was an incredibly cheesy, Playboy bunny look. But Swedes really pull it off. I think the key to looking Swedish is to keep the makeup and products to a minimum, and wear either really chic or really bohemian clothes with your bottle-blond hair. Oh yeah, and keep track of those roots.

Swedish lunch: Every day, at the stroke of noon, everyone at Bonnier AB vanishes. There is literally a “lunch hour,” and it’s practically nationally mandated. Lots of restaurants have two meal prices: one for “lunch” and one for “efter lunch.” I generally have no problem with grabbing a sandwich as late as 2 pm and just bringing it back to my desk, but this is insane behavior by Swedish standards. First of all, you eat sandwiches for breakfast, not for lunch. Second of all, you don’t eat at your desk. Danes do that. (Whatever that means.) You must spend a full hour out of the office. This is important because for about half the year, midday is your only chance to see the sun, so don’t blow it. Oh yeah, and choose a nice restaurant and have a sit-down meal. Someplace with a white tablecloth would be good. You can have yogurt for dinner if it’s too expensive.

Naprapathy: Among the many benefits to working at Bonnier in Sweden (did I mention our company phones are iPhones?), our office has an in-house masseuse. Everyone is entitled to at least one free half-hour bodywork session per month—more if there are open slots. (!!!!!) Let’s pretend this is normal and discuss the bodywork method the guy uses: it’s something I’d never heard of, called naprapathy, but I think I might become a devotee. I had my session today, and as anyone who knows me is aware, I’ve got a bunch of back and neck problems, partly from stress, partly from a bicycle accident I had this past spring. This dude applied his magical naprapathic healing forces, which consist of something like a mixture of chiropractics, massage, cranio-sacral work and Feldenkrais, and within about 10 minutes, all the knots and pain in my neck, shoulder and upper back were gone. That is saying a LOT. He took my head in his hands and applied pressure to certain points in my neck while gently stretching and rocking my head back and forth in a way that supposedly gets the nerves twitchin' and sends signals to the brain saying that everything is moving properly and there’s therefore no reason to fire off pain signals. I’m very into this whole brain-pain connection thing. Thinking a few more sessions like this could really help me out.

Fresh and Sweaty: I joined a gym in Stockholm. It’s one of a large citywide chain, like New York Sports Club. Only, it’s called Friskis & Swetis—literally “Fresh and Sweaty.” This is right out there on the bad business-name spectrum with Hot and Crusty and Pocari Sweat. I’ve got to assume that something’s lost in translation. It’s just too awesome, in an R Kelly sort of way. In homage to Mr. Kelly, John and I have nicknamed my gym “Booty Sweat.”

Friends! My pal Alexis was in town last night on his way from Riga to ummm, some other European city (sorry, Alexis, too many cocktails) on tour with his band Girls Against Boys. They had a big hit song in the 90s, and have been kinda famous (especially in Eastern Europe, apparently) ever since. He introduced me to his friend Jenny, who lives in Stockholm and works for Chic magazine, a new women’s launch published by Bonnier’s biggest European competitor. I challenged her to a bout of arm wrestling, but she declined.

Effing Up Again and Again and Again

I counted 47 scarves on the walk to work today. See, I told you the number would be high. However, perhaps before embarking on an exercise that requires you to look at the people all around instead of the road, one should have a really good idea of where one is going. Ahem. I was already running a bit late when I headed out the door, and somehow around number 30, I looked around me and realized I didn't know where I was. I guess I missed my turn. So I pulled out a map, redirected and hustled into work 20 minutes late, all hot and sweaty and embarrassed.

I slipped past the meeting rooms (all have glass walls, so I wasn't inconspicuous), put my stuff on my desk and went the other direction to the kitchen, to get the all-important morning cup of coffee. A new receptionist who started the day after me was filling salt shakers in the kitchen and saying hello to me as I reached into the fridge and pulled out one of five cartons on the shelf. I began to pour the contents of the carton into my coffee, and she said "Nej!" It was yogurt. Now, why would you put cartons of yogurt next to cartons of milk? Why would you put yogurt in pourable cartons at all? I guess people who can read the language don't have a problem with this.

So, I laughed aloud at myself ("Ha ha, silly me. Sorry you saw me do that!"), washed out the coffee mug, poured a new one and headed out past the conference rooms toward my desk. I was just passing in front of a room where Casten and Sara (respectively, the head of the Bonnier business titles and the head of R&D) were meeting, when somehow-I have no idea how-the cup flew out of my hand. I fumbled for it and caught it, but spilled coffee all over the floor right in front of the bosses. I was still hot from the walk/run to the office, and now I was also flushed from head to toe with embarrassment. I ran to find some paper towels, but they're really thin here, so it took like a million of them, which freaked me out because I was being very American and wasteful, and I found I couldn't just clean up the coffee with my foot, because it was everywhere, so I had to fully squat down and mop up the spill. And then the conference room door next to Casten and Sara opens and out walks a pregnant lady, who is surely going to slip in the coffee and fall and have a miscarriage right there in front of me. But she just stops and stares and says "I see you're cleaning the floor." So I have to do that laughing at myself thing again ("Ha ha, yes, it seemed a little dirty, but it's much better now!"). Dear lord.

So finally I get to my desk and there's a copy of Mama, the Swedish magazine for hip young moms. I flip the magazine open to a random page and there's an illustration of a mother holding a baby who is flipping the bird, with a caption that says, in English "f*ck you." Wow. Really? Maybe that phrase doesn't carry the same weight for the Swedish audience as it would in the U.S., but still-in a parenting magazine? At least I wasn't the one who effed that one up.

Stockholm Fashion Report: Attack of the Scarves!

I had a good laugh a couple weeks ago when Times fuddyduddy Bill Cunningham belatedly reported on the ridiculous scarf trend that's been plaguing New York and--I've come to find out--Stockholm, this summer. Yup, Bill, you're absolutely right: droves of fashion victims are wearing scarves, and they look cool, but they're actually sweltering, because it's 100 degrees out.

The scarf thing has been going on for at least two years now, starting with the kaffiyeh trend--those Palistinian check scarves that seem to say "I'm a Fatah sympathizer," but usually just mean "I'm a hipster douchebag." But it hit a fever pitch in 2008. The anthropologist in me wonders whether this is an unconscious adoption of Middle Eastern culture, what with so many images of the Arab world hitting Western media for the past half-decade. In Stockholm, the trend at least makes sense, since it's rarely above 70 degrees here, and the best looking scarves are sort of a gossamer cotton material. I'm personally really torn about this style now that there's a bona fide bandwagon, because I enjoy the cozy feeling of a scarf wrapped around my neck and I love how the ends of it can cover pretty much my whole body on days when I feel like hiding. Although I don't usually feel like hiding as much as this chick, featured prominently in an ad for Indiska, a cool Scandinavian chain store that sells responsibly-made Indian stuff. What the hell was this stylist thinking?
Exhibit A:


Tomorrow I'm going to count how many scarves I see on the walk to work and report back. I guarantee you'll be shocked.

Next, let's talk about how it's 1989 in Stockholm today. Here's what the coolest kids on the street are wearing: baggy jeans that taper at the ankle, folded in at the seams and rolled up (Hello, sixth grade!), with gigantic, plaid button-up shirts over wife beaters (Hello, seventh grade!) and... wait for it... scarves. I wouldn't put this whole ensemble together myself (um, anymore), but the right pair of loose, tapered jeans could look quite grown up with a tank top, a handful of long necklaces and a pair of delicate heels.

For better or worse, leggings and long sweaters are also in full effect here, marking another eighties style that saw a resurgence in 2006, but is going nuts right now. Last winter, the New York version consisted of wool or cashmere dresses worn with chunky boots... but in Stockholm we're talking hideous colorblock sweaters (like the one below, from the "must have" collection at BikBok) that look like they got filched from the set of The Cosby Show.

Exhibit B:


I predict that Z. Cavaricci is going to come back with a vengeance soon. Maybe Fall 09? Wait, make that vintage Z. Cavaricci. (Click on the previous link to see why I make the distinction.)

Exhibit C:



What do you think, is it Hammer time?

Potties Illustrated, Susanna Kallur and more

I plan to write these posts as narrative accounts whenever possible, but I'm afraid today's is going to be a bit of a list again. I have a lot to say and my brain is crippled by jet lag and perhaps a slight overuse injury. Bonnier AB got their money's worth out of me today, for sure, since we're simultaneously working on the presentation materials for the GRID conference and the company's new brand strategy. It's fascinating stuff, especially at the Venn intersection of the two topics, where there lies a list of words developed in a brainstorming meeting to describe Bonnier's "core values," and the directions the branding initiative could possibly take. We'll be asking the GRID attendees to help us cull the list down to a couple of ideas to be graphically interpreted, so it's important that the sense of each word be perfect before we start. This is a very nuanced task, because as anyone who works with language knows, there are no true synonyms and every term means something just slightly different. Words may be interchangeable in certain contexts, but when they're standing alone they have to be precise. Which is why my brain hurts. And now for the listy thing:

1. Danish bathrooms: I happened to look up at the ceiling of one of the bathrooms at Bonnier AB today and was amused to discover that it was wallpapered with a gigantic cover of Illustreret Videnskab, the original Danish version of Science Illustrated. I said to Niklas, "Have you ever noticed that Science Illustrated is on the ceiling of the bathroom near Maria's office?" And he said, "No, but it's the Danish edition right? All the bathroom ceilings are Danish." Come back? Say what? Apparently, the interior designers got to the end of putting up the decor in the building and realized they hadn't represented the Danish magazines anywhere, so Jonas told them to paper the ceilings in every bathroom with a title from Denmark. I've heard there's a historic rivalry between Sweden and Denmark on a national level, which makes me wonder whether this decision was made with some good-natured mischief in mind.

2. Affirmative Gasping: I'm fascinated with the inhaling sound Scandinavians make when they're agreeing with you. It means "mmmhmmm" or "uh huh," but it's a quick intake of air that sounds exactly like the kind of gasp someone in the U.S. might make to signal alarm when they think they see something bad about to happen (a car swerving into your lane, a vase about to crash to the ground, etc). Because these are the sorts of events I associate with that sound, I jump out of my skin every time someone does it, like "My God, what's wrong?" Believe me, there was a lot of agreeable gasping in this morning's brainstorming meeting, and by the end of the two hours I was ready for a stiff drink.

3. Swedish Food: I'm really into restaurants, so there will probably be quite a few posts on food to come, but I want to start out by reporting that although everything so far has been yummy, I'm going to quickly get sick of fish and potatoes. There's some charming stuff in the markets here, though. Chanterelles are in season, and they're supercheap. I've got a bunch in the fridge that I'm going to sautee with garlic and pasta tomorrow. Also, every time I go to Europe, I'm always really irritated that they have better versions of American products than we do. My theory is that Americans as a people have retardedly simple palates, and since interesting variations on commonplace products don't do well in consumer marketing tests here, they get sent to Europe. My two favorite Swedish finds so far: vanilla-rhubarb yogurt and Special K cereal with whole, freeze-dried blueberries and blackberries.

4. Susanna Kallur: Yesterday morning the whole office raced up to the TV lounge to watch angelic Swedish hurdler Susanna Kallur try for a gold medal. Sadly, seconds after the gun went off, she caught a foot on the first obstacle and went tumbling to the ground. Rather than dwelling on the heartbreak, the Swedes immediately got pissed. At Bonnier, people just shook their heads and walked back to their desks, silently fuming. Poor Susanna wept bitterly during the brutal press interviews after her failed race, and ended up puffy-eyed and tear-stained all over this morning's tabloids. She was Sweden's last hope for 2008 Olympic gold, and because of the unlucky timing of her event, she took the fall (no pun intended) for all the other athletes who didn't quite make the podium.

Dag Ett (Day One)

First day of work today and I'm still really jetlagged. Luckily, Swedish coffee is very strong and tasty—I've been drinking a lot of it. As I've discovered before during long conferences and media events, it takes a lot of energy to stay "on" for any length of time. It sounds bad to say it's hard work to be happy and polite, but if you've ever worked in the service industry and been good at your job, you'll know what I mean. Meeting lots of new people and being bright and cheery despite a lack of sleep is exhausting, but I'm having fun.

Now might be a good time to give some initial impressions of Stockholm and the Swedes: we'll see whether I still agree with the stuff I'm about to say here six months from now. The vibe here is a bizarre combination of haute urbanism and shy provincialism. The department stores and interior design in Stockholm are insanely hip, but the people tend to be endearingly modest, sometimes to the point of unnecessary embarrassment. There's a relaxed, neighborhoody feeling to the city, with zero attitude, and everyone seems to love children. You can't throw a stone without hitting a kids' store or a stroller (nice imagery, huh?). The park in front of my apartment complex features an orange mountain made from bouncy rubber, which I'm planning to jump on later tonight when no one's looking. There's sort of a working-class, Eastern European feeling to some parts of the city, too, which reminds me of my old neighborhood in Brooklyn. If you can imagine Soho and the Upper East Side both being plopped down on top of Greenpoint, that's what Stockholm is like. Only the Poles would be Swedes. Same exaggerated tans and blond hair; fewer alcoholics.

So take everything I just said and imagine that this is the home of a major media company's world headquarters. There are no private cars idling outside, no Armani suits brushing past you in the hallway, no Andre Leon Tally in a gigantic mink giving you the stink eye because you're checking your Blackberry but he thinks you're MMSing a cell phone pic to Gawker Stalker (get over yourself, buddy). Jonas's "corner office" is actually a desk exactly like mine, only in a right-angled space between two windows, because that's how he wants it. The whole thing is wildly unpretentious, refreshing and entirely unlike the American media business.

In other news, I jumped right into my first project today. I hate that weird lag time when you start a new job and for a day or two you're not sure what you're supposed to be doing. But Bonnier is hosting a big international conference called GRID next Monday and Tuesday, and it's my job to make sure the event is documented and archived online with lots of great content. My immediate task is to create a home for all the photos and video. The conference organizers hired a very good videographer, but without a Web person on staff, they didn't know exactly how they'd present it online. So I've got a week to fix that. If you think of it, check out the GRID site next week to see what we came up with.

In the meantime, here's what Bonnier AB looks like on the inside. I haven't taken any photos outside at all yet because it's been rainy and dreary the past two days. As soon as the sun comes out, I'll show you the city.

Watch Me on TV!

Just a quick plug to let my friends and family know that I'll be on the Food Network show "Food Detectives" tomorrow night, August 19, at 9 pm EST. Don't miss me cooking an egg on a car's engine (and talking about it into the camera as I drive over the Brooklyn Bridge).

UPDATE: I guess either I had the wrong day or Food Network changed the schedule, but my episode will now air August 26th, same time. For those of you who tuned in, I hope you enjoyed Martha, Bjorn and Mike!

Sleeeeepy

It’s now Sunday at 7:30 pm and I’m jetlagged, but trying to stay awake and get myself on a proper Scandinavian sleep schedule. Since I’m exhausted and not able to use my whole brain at the moment, I’ll just list (in stream-of-consciousness order) some of the things that happened today and last night upon my arrival in Stockholm.

1) I took a cab marked “Uppsala” from the airport to Stockholm and possibly got ripped off on the fare. I paid the guy without complaint, though, because he hoisted all my bags in and out of the car and then probably had to drive all the way to Uppsala after he was done with me.
2) I unpacked and settled into my apartment, which is furnished with familiar, cheap Ikea stuff. In fact, I had the exact same dresser and media console in New York. Altogether now: “It’s a small world, after all…” Unfortunately, there’s no Web connection in here. By the time you read this, I’ll have posted from the Bonnier building—and I’ll probably also have begun to sweat and shake from Internet withdrawal.
3) A bottle of agave syrup I packed into one of my suitcases exploded, ruining the blue silk dress I wore to Mark and Keira’s wedding. Yes, it was in a plastic bag. And yes, I know it was retarded to bring syrup in my suitcase. But I really like agave and I figured they wouldn’t have it here.
4) My colleague, Niklas, gave me a whirlwind tour of the city today, including a walk through Vasastaden, where we both live, Norrmalm, where the Bonnier headquarters is, and Gamlastan, the part of the city that was built in the 14th century and boasts a wealth of mysterious narrow alleyways, pricey handcraft shops, and camera-toting tourists. Then we got on a boat and went out to an island in the archepelago that was dotted with charming red-painted wood shops and had lunch. The name translates to “Feather Island,” but I can’t remember how to say it in Swedish.
5) I got to know Niklas, who is really a great guy—which is good, because I have to work directly with him at Bonnier. He’s got a wife named Janet who works as a fashion stylist, and two little kids, Hedda and Elton. Niklas told me some hilarious stuff about the city and Swedish culture. I’m about to fall asleep on my keyboard, so I’ll just share one story:

As we were motoring around the Stockholm archipelago in one of the ubiquitous white tourist boats, Niklas pointed out a rather grand-looking building near the mouth of the harbor. Apparently, sometime back in the 1800s, Russia decided to take control of Stockholm, so they sent the Navy from St. Petersburg through the archipelago toward the city. As they entered the harbor, they spotted this stately building and, assuming it was the royal castle, began to shoot at it. Unfortunately for everyone involved (except the royal family), it turned out the Russians were actually bombarding a mental hospital. But the mistaken-target diversion gave the Swedes enough time to rally their defenses and fend off the attack. The story’s so good it’s probably an urban myth—If I remember I’ll research it later and let you know.

Here's what my apartment looks like. It could use some personality. Maybe I'll buy a couple colorful pillows for the sofa or something.

British Airways' Garden of Earthly Delights

So, the Swedes allowed me to fly business-class to Stockholm because I found a really well-priced ticket, and the extra baggage allowance made it possible for me to check all my worldly belongings (in four huge suitcases totalling approximately 220 pounds—no lie), therefore avoiding ungodly DHL shipping fees. I was shocked to learn that a fancy plane ticket buys you so much storage room. Normally a plebeian traveler, I'm used to paying $15 for the first bag, $50 for the second etc. But the advantage of the rising airfare costs for everyman is that the gap between regular and first-class tickets is actually narrowing. For instance, my biz-class flight from Albuquerque to New York cost $743, while a coach seat cost $643. The latter fee sounds insanely high, but it makes buying a fancy seat a no-brainer. Especially when it's an overnight flight and you've got a 9 am meeting the next morning.

Anyway, now I'm in the "Terrace Lounge" for British Airlines at JFK and it's truly ridiculous. It's this sprawling wonderland of well-lit rooms festooned with modern furniture, bars and--for the love of god--fountains. Super-polite waiters bring you any kind of booze or food you could possibly imagine, the WiFi is free, and there's even a spa! Are you kidding me?? I've flown first-class a few times domestically, and for your money all you really get is free drinks, a bit more room and a chance of sitting next to the Gotti brothers. But doing it up internationally really is the way to go. I got my ticket on Vayama, just FYI. It's a really beautiful and easy-to-use Web 2.0 site, but the prices are a bit hit-or-miss. I totally "hit."

Update: It's now 4:42 pm, CET (central European time) and I'm in yet another serene airport lounge, this time courtesy of Scandinavia Air. I'm really happy I stumbled into the rich life on this trip, because otherwise I would have been one of the hundreds of people sprawled on the floor at JFK last night when storms temporarily shut down the airport for a few hours. My 8:30 flight from New York was delayed until after midnight, and then rerouted to Oslo, which is where I'm currently sitting. I'll make it into Stockholm at about 7 tonight, which will amount to 24 hours in limbo. But hey, I'm not too upset about that. The airplane sleepy drugs just wore off a little while ago, and I'm hanging out in a joint that looks like an Ikea showroom, only you're totally allowed to drink the beers in the fridge and make yourself a latte with the $11,000 espresso machine. The lounge overlooks the airport terminal, a gorgeously designed glass-and-steel rectangle with sunny views of the Norwegian hills. All the houses have red roofs. There are probably cows wearing bells nearby. Am I boring you? I might be boring you. Later I'll post a couple photos so you can see what I'm talking about.

Bugging Out

I’m up at 6 am because I’m worried. There are myriad things I could be worried about this morning, like whether being a continent away from my husband for six months will stress our marriage, whether my money will stretch far enough in crazy-expensive Stockholm, whether I’ll be successful and well-liked in my new workplace. But no, these aren’t the topics I’m currently concerned about.

I awoke scratching furiously at a constellation of welts on my wrists and ankles, and now I’m actually crawling around my bed, scanning the sheets by the light of my dim little lamp… for bedbugs.

If you aren’t a New Yorker, you may not be aware of the widespread nature of our city’s tiny scourge. It’s really not something we like to talk about, but here’s the truth: Far from being isolated to the college dorms and tenement buildings you might expect, bed bugs are the shame of the upper middle class here, afflicting hipsters, bankers and socialites alike. From what I can glean from the whispers in my circle of contacts, the publishing industry has been hit particularly hard. Two close writer friends had to jettison the contents of their apartments last year because of the bloodsuckers, and reliable gossipers have told me that the editor-in-chief of a way-too-pretty-for-bugs women’s magazine also had them recently.

My mom used to tuck me in by saying, “Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite!” and of course in suburban Maryland that’s just good fun. What the hell is a bedbug, anyway? I don’t think anyone really knew. Well, let me tell you, mothers in New York do not joke about bedbugs. The very thought of them is nightmare-inducing, and as a city, we’re collectively already paying massive therapy bills.

I’m not just idly freaking out—the insect situation has hit pretty close to home. Last month, two apartments in my building had bedbugs, and our unscrupulous landlord decided that the best (ie. cheapest) solution would be to spray the affected apartments, but no others. Never mind that the critters typically spread through a building by crawling through baseboard cracks. Never mind that the buggy mattresses in question were propped, uncovered, against the tree that shades our lobby door—a perfect springboard for the creepy crawlies to hop onto passersby and hitchhike back inside. Slightly traumatized but unwilling to add another element of stress to my already-brimming life, I determined that the appropriate course of action would be simply to fly to New Mexico and pretend the incident never happened. But now….

What if I take bedbugs to Stockholm? If I’ve got them, they’re for sure in my luggage already. My flight is just hours away—there’s no time to steam clean the suitcases and everything in them. Maybe I could score some DEET at the bodega across the street? What if Sweden is one of those places like Hawaii that’s been blissfully scourge-free until now, and I’m the Typhoid Mary who introduces freaking bedbugs. Not only will I be a confrontational, materialistic, excessive American, I’ll be the one famous for unleashing microscopic disease carriers on Scandinavia. And it’s the Bonnier family’s apartment! Jonas Bonnier will be personally notified that I’ve had to call in a bed bug specialist. Some priceless piece of Swedish publishing memorabilia that’s been on display in the apartment for a century will likely be placed on the street in front of my building with a sign that reads “infested.” Or rather “angripande.”

But wait a minute, have you ever seen Swedish backpackers? I’ve been to Thailand. I would totally not be the first shaggy blond ever to carry beg bugs into Stockholm Arlanda Airport. The Swedes know how to deal with this. There’s probably some environmentally friendly spray in well-designed, ergonomic packaging sold specifically for this purpose. Actually, I don’t even see any black specks on the sheets. Is that a mosquito on the wall? Holy shit. I’m going back to sleep.

T-minus 24 hours

Welcome to Artificial Swedener's inaugural post. My plan is to write a little each day about the interesting people, sights, tastes and sounds I encounter during my six-month odyssey in Sweden.

A little background: For reasons inexplicable to me (I'm awesome?) I've been asked to take a six-month break from my job at New York-based Popular Science to go to Sweden and work for the corporate publishing honchos who purchased our magazine, and 17 others, a year ago.

I just got married in June, and while my new husband is supportive of my journey abroad, he won't be joining me. So this will be a blog about how I navigate a new country, an unfamiliar language and a foreign work culture—solo.

I'll post photos and leave the comments open for your advice, ribbing, bitch-slaps, etc.

Right now I'm in New York, where I'm spending a day in the PopSci office and an evening sharing goodbye drinks with friends. My trip begins in earnest tomorrow... and I have the feeling it's going to be a wild ride.