When I first visited Norway, I noticed that the overwhelming majority of women have long hair. I don't mean chin-length "long" hair; I mean past the shoulders, cascading layers of long hair long. After living here for a while, I realized that the reason for all of this long, long hair was in part due to cost of getting your hair cut. Your basic trim begins at kr450 ($72) and even at that, people ask you where you found such a good price. Once, and only once, did I pay a mere kr240 ($38.50) for a haircut. In addition to the haircut, I paid kr160 for the train tickets and spent close to two hours in transit. So for economic reasons, I let my hair grow long.
There are tricks to this, of course. Again, the majority of Norwegian ladies have thin hair, with a touch of curl. One or two layers, a li'l dab of mousse and voila! a bouncy, manageable hair style is born. My hair, however, is poker straight and thick. The hairstylists here had to add layer upon layer and then go back and thin out each layer to achieve a resemblance of said magic. Of course, there has been a bit of playing around with the combination of layers and thinning out and some visits to the hairdressers were better than others.
About a month ago, I went to the salon and described what I wanted. (layers, thinning, etc) What I got was a very feminine mullet. The top layer was about 3 inches long and the rest of my hair was about 10 inches long. I'd wake up every morning with a puffy bowl crowning the top of my head and no matter how I plastered it down, it would slowly puff up again during the day. The worst of it all was that the wreck of a hairstylist thinned out rest of my hair so that all of my hair could fit into ponytail holder no thicker than my forefinger. I was horrified since my hair is usually 3 times that thick.
I decided it was time to start over. Too many layers, too many attacks from the thinning shears and my hair was the worse for it. I took my Christmas money (thank you, Jorunn!) and got my hair chopped. It's short and it feels great! My hair is also uncharacteristically poofy at the moment. There's nothing to weigh it down and it's proudly defying gravity. Wax and heavy styling products help to control it, but artistically so. Ahhhh, freedom. The long hair experiment was fun, but this was long overdue.
To date, people's reactions have been fairly uniform: "Wow, that looks nice and how are you going to afford to keep your hair short?" Lord knows, but I'll figure all of that out later, yo.
Streetplayaz: Kill Your Accordion
Street musicians are in every city in the world, though some more than others. In Philly, I always liked the saxophonist out on Chestnut St. who usually played on Saturdays when foot traffic was at its peak. If I remember correctly, the guy choose to play around either 12th and Chestnut or at 16th & Chestnut, where the acoustics of the tall buildings channeled his songs better. It sounded good. I also liked the occasional Step troops that would come down from their neighborhoods and perform outside the Gallery at 9th and Market. I suppose you could get sick of it if you saw them every blessed weekend, but for the few times I saw the girls steppin' and the boys drummin', I thoroughly enjoyed the show. Our local cults of personality included a blind woman who played the penny whistle in Old City and another guy dressed in bow-tie and a suit who played the "God Bless America" on the flute. Seriously, that was the only song the guy played, all day and every day he was out. I don't think the street musicians in Philly ever evolved to the level of those in NYC or even NJ, where a guy dressed like Elvis would sing into a hairbrush along side the major highway to Cherry Hill.
And then there's Oslo.
Oh, so rarely do you see a group of young kids from the music conservatory out on the street for shits and giggles. The best entertainment we get are Eastern European accordion players. My first impulse when I see an accordion is to destroy it - violently. I spent all of Summer 2005 shooing strolling accordion players from the outdoor cafe where I worked. One guy didn't speak a word of Norwegian and placed a curse on me and future generations in Romanian after I asked him to leave. (I'm guessing here, but some things transcend language barriers.) As long as they stood outside the café, they could play to their heart's delight and the customer's distaste. To make matters worse, these players pop up in the strangest of places, miles away from tourist areas: outside neighborhood grocery stores, on the empty streets leading up the university, behind office buildings in near-empty parking lots, etc. In short, you can't escape and it blows chunks.
As a postscript, I would like to offer two exceptions to my violent dislike of the accordion. The first was Ms. Murghatroid (Transmissions Festival ca. 1999) who hooked up her accordion to a distortion pedal or something. It sounded surprisingly good since it didn't sound like an accordion at all. And then there is one guy in Oslo who learned some French café tunes, similar to those on the Amelie soundtrack. Even though it still sounds like an accordion, it's pleasant.
I really wouldn't mind hearing some jazz on these street corners, but that's not likely. For now it will be accordion players, the rare classical music types and the occasional pan-pipe players. But be forewarned: if I hear any "jazz accordion" I will beat the guy senseless.
And then there's Oslo.
Oh, so rarely do you see a group of young kids from the music conservatory out on the street for shits and giggles. The best entertainment we get are Eastern European accordion players. My first impulse when I see an accordion is to destroy it - violently. I spent all of Summer 2005 shooing strolling accordion players from the outdoor cafe where I worked. One guy didn't speak a word of Norwegian and placed a curse on me and future generations in Romanian after I asked him to leave. (I'm guessing here, but some things transcend language barriers.) As long as they stood outside the café, they could play to their heart's delight and the customer's distaste. To make matters worse, these players pop up in the strangest of places, miles away from tourist areas: outside neighborhood grocery stores, on the empty streets leading up the university, behind office buildings in near-empty parking lots, etc. In short, you can't escape and it blows chunks.As a postscript, I would like to offer two exceptions to my violent dislike of the accordion. The first was Ms. Murghatroid (Transmissions Festival ca. 1999) who hooked up her accordion to a distortion pedal or something. It sounded surprisingly good since it didn't sound like an accordion at all. And then there is one guy in Oslo who learned some French café tunes, similar to those on the Amelie soundtrack. Even though it still sounds like an accordion, it's pleasant.
I really wouldn't mind hearing some jazz on these street corners, but that's not likely. For now it will be accordion players, the rare classical music types and the occasional pan-pipe players. But be forewarned: if I hear any "jazz accordion" I will beat the guy senseless.
A Charlie Brown Christmas Obsession
Being overseas for the holidays is essentially a depressing affair. There is no way to describe the cultural "-isms" that go into holiday traditions until they're gone. For example, more than one American holiday, such as the 4th of July, whizzed by unnoticed because there were no sale ads on TV to remind me. Sad, but true.
When I was living in Philly, I don't think I gave the Charlie Brown cartoon special more than a passing "awwww, isn't that cute". It certainly didn't drudge up the loads of nostalgia I now feel hearing the music or watching the program. Now, the whole of my Christmas season gets channeled into "A Charlie Brown Christmas". It all started with the soundtrack, which I bought when I first got hooked on jazz in college. I dig Vince Guaraldi's takes on the holiday standards and there are few holiday albums I enjoy more. This soundtrack goes wherever I go – Philly, Cairo, Oslo. Most unfortunately, the CD disappeared in one the many airport raids on my suitcase sometime last year.
My attempts to purchase the soundtrack in Oslo have utterly failed. My queries are met with blank looks and indifference. Granted, such a query prolly wouldn't be met with enthusiasm either in the US, but at least I know the salesperson and I share a solidarity of experience. We know the story, we know how pathetic Charlie Brown is and we know that Snoopy always steals the show. In the days before video and DVD, what kid didn't look forward to seeing the Christmas special that came only once a year? The anticipation was huge. This and "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" practically launched the Christmas season.
In a lot of ways, it was easier to be in Cairo for Christmas than it is to be Oslo. Christmas didn't really exist in Cairo and the holiday was what we ex-pats made it. Here, there is real Christmas, but it's not my Christmas. All of the things the Norwegians do to celebrate the holiday remind me constantly that something is missing, that something is not quite right. While it's been fun to introduce Charlie Brown and the Grinch to my friends, it doesn't even come close to filling the void the holiday season creates. All of the small details that make up the bigger picture of the holiday season are gone: people complaining that Christmas advertising starts too early, people complaining that it's too commercial, the latest economic indicators based on Black Friday, the Hanukah greetings, the Kwanzaa greetings, the non-committal non-religious Holiday Greetings, the food, the tasty holiday cookies, the nasty holiday cookies, the traffic, the dopey Santa Clauses that turn up in every mall, the food bank drives, the call for volunteers and money, the annual reports on how not to get buried under holiday credit card bills, the new TV Christmas specials, the old TV Christmas specials, the irritating radio ads, WPRB's holiday broadcast, the decorations, et al.
This year, Amazon will deliver the little bit of Guaraldi magic I'm missing. This year, I'll come one step closer to making Norwegian Christmas my own with Anders' family. And this year, I'll miss my family so much it hurts, just as it does every year I'm not with them for the holidays.
When I was living in Philly, I don't think I gave the Charlie Brown cartoon special more than a passing "awwww, isn't that cute". It certainly didn't drudge up the loads of nostalgia I now feel hearing the music or watching the program. Now, the whole of my Christmas season gets channeled into "A Charlie Brown Christmas". It all started with the soundtrack, which I bought when I first got hooked on jazz in college. I dig Vince Guaraldi's takes on the holiday standards and there are few holiday albums I enjoy more. This soundtrack goes wherever I go – Philly, Cairo, Oslo. Most unfortunately, the CD disappeared in one the many airport raids on my suitcase sometime last year.My attempts to purchase the soundtrack in Oslo have utterly failed. My queries are met with blank looks and indifference. Granted, such a query prolly wouldn't be met with enthusiasm either in the US, but at least I know the salesperson and I share a solidarity of experience. We know the story, we know how pathetic Charlie Brown is and we know that Snoopy always steals the show. In the days before video and DVD, what kid didn't look forward to seeing the Christmas special that came only once a year? The anticipation was huge. This and "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" practically launched the Christmas season.
In a lot of ways, it was easier to be in Cairo for Christmas than it is to be Oslo. Christmas didn't really exist in Cairo and the holiday was what we ex-pats made it. Here, there is real Christmas, but it's not my Christmas. All of the things the Norwegians do to celebrate the holiday remind me constantly that something is missing, that something is not quite right. While it's been fun to introduce Charlie Brown and the Grinch to my friends, it doesn't even come close to filling the void the holiday season creates. All of the small details that make up the bigger picture of the holiday season are gone: people complaining that Christmas advertising starts too early, people complaining that it's too commercial, the latest economic indicators based on Black Friday, the Hanukah greetings, the Kwanzaa greetings, the non-committal non-religious Holiday Greetings, the food, the tasty holiday cookies, the nasty holiday cookies, the traffic, the dopey Santa Clauses that turn up in every mall, the food bank drives, the call for volunteers and money, the annual reports on how not to get buried under holiday credit card bills, the new TV Christmas specials, the old TV Christmas specials, the irritating radio ads, WPRB's holiday broadcast, the decorations, et al.This year, Amazon will deliver the little bit of Guaraldi magic I'm missing. This year, I'll come one step closer to making Norwegian Christmas my own with Anders' family. And this year, I'll miss my family so much it hurts, just as it does every year I'm not with them for the holidays.
Justice
I saw a documentary on TV the other night that showed how modern technology and ancient traditions have warped the male-female demographics in places such as India, Pakistan and China. Ultra-sound lets expectant couples know the gender of the fetus and a number of couples elect to abort the female fetuses. None of this is particularly new, per se, but the consequences of messing with the gender balance struck me.
The cause of the uneven boy-girl ratio is directly linked to the medical safety of modern abortion practices. It is far easier to abort a fetus you've never met than to kill a baby that's already born. The number abortions has dropped the female population in some areas by 30%. While female infanticide is nothing new, this gaping imbalance suggests that abortions have made the decision easier. It was heart wrenching for as a viewer to watch orphanages collect the unwanted baby girls that had been abandoned. The younger babies had it easier since the older babies were often abused and malnourished, all the while crying for their parents. The report made it clear that these new abortion practices are happening in all classes and strata of society. This phenomenon is not restricted to only the poor or uneducated.
The first generation with these reduced numbers is now old enough to marry. So many of the eligible men cannot find wives simply because there are not enough women. Women, as a commodity, are becoming rare. The men who realize they have no hope of finding a wife tend to become depressed or become addicted to drugs or alcohol or turn to crime to increase their financial standing. Ironically, if or when these men do finally marry, they still prefer boys, thereby perpetuating the system that has made their lives hell. The dowry continues to make women a liability in the societies that ask for a dowry. Fathers wouldn’t dream of, say, asking for money for their daughters because of the long standing attitudes on the worthlessness of women.
The documentary ended with the typical doomsday “something must be done or else” message. For the first time in a long time, I disagree. Something must not be done. This is justice for the men who feel that their daughters “are not worth the rice they feed them”. This is justice for not giving women rights or respect. This is justice for the pain the wives have felt in aborting the babies that they wanted to keep. So I say let the men continue to press their wives to have only boys. Let these men drown in their worthiness and live in society without women.
The cause of the uneven boy-girl ratio is directly linked to the medical safety of modern abortion practices. It is far easier to abort a fetus you've never met than to kill a baby that's already born. The number abortions has dropped the female population in some areas by 30%. While female infanticide is nothing new, this gaping imbalance suggests that abortions have made the decision easier. It was heart wrenching for as a viewer to watch orphanages collect the unwanted baby girls that had been abandoned. The younger babies had it easier since the older babies were often abused and malnourished, all the while crying for their parents. The report made it clear that these new abortion practices are happening in all classes and strata of society. This phenomenon is not restricted to only the poor or uneducated.
The first generation with these reduced numbers is now old enough to marry. So many of the eligible men cannot find wives simply because there are not enough women. Women, as a commodity, are becoming rare. The men who realize they have no hope of finding a wife tend to become depressed or become addicted to drugs or alcohol or turn to crime to increase their financial standing. Ironically, if or when these men do finally marry, they still prefer boys, thereby perpetuating the system that has made their lives hell. The dowry continues to make women a liability in the societies that ask for a dowry. Fathers wouldn’t dream of, say, asking for money for their daughters because of the long standing attitudes on the worthlessness of women.
The documentary ended with the typical doomsday “something must be done or else” message. For the first time in a long time, I disagree. Something must not be done. This is justice for the men who feel that their daughters “are not worth the rice they feed them”. This is justice for not giving women rights or respect. This is justice for the pain the wives have felt in aborting the babies that they wanted to keep. So I say let the men continue to press their wives to have only boys. Let these men drown in their worthiness and live in society without women.
Do Muppets Rap?
The answer is yes. I'm not talking about Jim Henson's creations, though. I'm talking about Scandanavian hip-hop. It's only natural that hip-hop is found here, since it's found in just about every corner of the globe. What's weird is how certain Scandie pop-artists do not adapt hip-hop to their own culture or language. Many rappers choose English over the various Scandie languages for reasons ranging from it sounds better to reaching a wider audience to sounding more "real". The Norwegian flash-in-the-pan phenom, Whimsical, is a brilliant case in point.
The boy bought American glitter-ghetto wholesale from a one-stop shop. His songs are lifted from XYZ West Coast gansta from da' burbs and placed directly on top of Oslo. This is why I broke out in hysterical laughter the first time I heard his song. There are no bitches and ho's in Oslo, the city isn't dirty, the ghetto is a place where I take my parents, the streets are clean and the people are nice and play by the rules. (Crossing the street on a red light elicits admonishments from passers-by in the ghetto: "What kind of example do you think you're setting for our children?")
That Whimsical and other Scandie hip-hoppers try to act like they come from an inner-city culture they can't even begin to fathom drives me to ridicule them openly and loudly. They imitate a culture that is not their own, in language that is not their own and they rightly look like the fucking hey-ho hip-hop clowns they are.
To the credit of several Scandie rappers, there exists a minority of characters who will rap in their own Norwegian/Swedish/ Danish dialects. This music is their own, and while it's not as glam as DJ Kid Wannabe, it's worth mentioning. The first is Gatas Parliament, i.e., The Street's Parliament. They are not very good rappers, but their lyrics at least reflect the real problems of Oslo such as immigrant rights, mafias, shady business deals, Norway's involvement in Iraq and Afghanistan, et. al. As activists, they only pop up when they got something to protest.
The second group is Ravi and DJ Løv. In short, they make pop songs that are heavily laced with word play that starts with their name: Ravi is Ivar spelled backwards and Løv is pronounced "love", but as "Lov" it means "Law" in Norwegian. When not in the studio, DJ Løv studied law and recently passed the bar. These guys have a great sense of humor, laugh at themselves (and others) and have a great command of dialect, slang and drop tons of references to things that only Norwegians would know. I've learned a lot about Norwegian pop-culture by pestering Anders with lots of "what does this mean" and "what are they talking about". Lastly, I give Ravi credit for acknowledging that he looks like a garden gnome. If it wasn't for the humor, none of this work at all. You can check out some of their videos at Nok Records. “E-ore” (“The L-Word”) has probably been their biggest song to date.
Of the Swedish rappers, I dig Timbuktu and Snook. Timbuktu is prolly the best thing going in Scandie hip-hop. He's energetic, smart, writes a good (Swedish) flow and doesn't try to be anything other than Swedish. He does, however, adopt some nice african beats or guitar, like in this song, "Alla vill till himmelen" (Everyone Wants to Go to Heaven) or get a bit funky in "Det Löser Sig" (It'll Work Out). If you click through to "Alla vill till himmelen", hang in there until at least 1:25 - the first bit is just an intro to the song. I've heard that his live shows are amazing, though I can't tell you personally since they sell out in all of about 20 minutes. hmph.
This year, the Swedish rap sensation was Snook with their hit "Svett och Tårar" (Sweat & Tears). I can't understand half of what they're saying because they go soooo fast, but that's OK. From the bits I can gather they talk about themselves, other rappers and I suspect blood, sweat and tears. (Wild guess, yo) Of the song, I dig the horn section and it's got a freakin' great hook. The video, however, is damn cute and I love the penguins...
There you have it, folks. This is my all too brief survey of Scandie hip-hop. It's brief only because I limited myself to ridiculing just one of the many artists like Whimsical. I could go on, but I think I've made my point. It took me a long, long time to stop laughing at the Muppet Language as a hip-hop medium and appreciate those to dared to rap in the language they know best. Learning the language helped me to stop laughing long enough to listen, though you might not ever stop chuckling. God help ya.
The boy bought American glitter-ghetto wholesale from a one-stop shop. His songs are lifted from XYZ West Coast gansta from da' burbs and placed directly on top of Oslo. This is why I broke out in hysterical laughter the first time I heard his song. There are no bitches and ho's in Oslo, the city isn't dirty, the ghetto is a place where I take my parents, the streets are clean and the people are nice and play by the rules. (Crossing the street on a red light elicits admonishments from passers-by in the ghetto: "What kind of example do you think you're setting for our children?")
That Whimsical and other Scandie hip-hoppers try to act like they come from an inner-city culture they can't even begin to fathom drives me to ridicule them openly and loudly. They imitate a culture that is not their own, in language that is not their own and they rightly look like the fucking hey-ho hip-hop clowns they are.
To the credit of several Scandie rappers, there exists a minority of characters who will rap in their own Norwegian/Swedish/ Danish dialects. This music is their own, and while it's not as glam as DJ Kid Wannabe, it's worth mentioning. The first is Gatas Parliament, i.e., The Street's Parliament. They are not very good rappers, but their lyrics at least reflect the real problems of Oslo such as immigrant rights, mafias, shady business deals, Norway's involvement in Iraq and Afghanistan, et. al. As activists, they only pop up when they got something to protest.
The second group is Ravi and DJ Løv. In short, they make pop songs that are heavily laced with word play that starts with their name: Ravi is Ivar spelled backwards and Løv is pronounced "love", but as "Lov" it means "Law" in Norwegian. When not in the studio, DJ Løv studied law and recently passed the bar. These guys have a great sense of humor, laugh at themselves (and others) and have a great command of dialect, slang and drop tons of references to things that only Norwegians would know. I've learned a lot about Norwegian pop-culture by pestering Anders with lots of "what does this mean" and "what are they talking about". Lastly, I give Ravi credit for acknowledging that he looks like a garden gnome. If it wasn't for the humor, none of this work at all. You can check out some of their videos at Nok Records. “E-ore” (“The L-Word”) has probably been their biggest song to date.
Of the Swedish rappers, I dig Timbuktu and Snook. Timbuktu is prolly the best thing going in Scandie hip-hop. He's energetic, smart, writes a good (Swedish) flow and doesn't try to be anything other than Swedish. He does, however, adopt some nice african beats or guitar, like in this song, "Alla vill till himmelen" (Everyone Wants to Go to Heaven) or get a bit funky in "Det Löser Sig" (It'll Work Out). If you click through to "Alla vill till himmelen", hang in there until at least 1:25 - the first bit is just an intro to the song. I've heard that his live shows are amazing, though I can't tell you personally since they sell out in all of about 20 minutes. hmph.
This year, the Swedish rap sensation was Snook with their hit "Svett och Tårar" (Sweat & Tears). I can't understand half of what they're saying because they go soooo fast, but that's OK. From the bits I can gather they talk about themselves, other rappers and I suspect blood, sweat and tears. (Wild guess, yo) Of the song, I dig the horn section and it's got a freakin' great hook. The video, however, is damn cute and I love the penguins...
There you have it, folks. This is my all too brief survey of Scandie hip-hop. It's brief only because I limited myself to ridiculing just one of the many artists like Whimsical. I could go on, but I think I've made my point. It took me a long, long time to stop laughing at the Muppet Language as a hip-hop medium and appreciate those to dared to rap in the language they know best. Learning the language helped me to stop laughing long enough to listen, though you might not ever stop chuckling. God help ya.
Pucker-up, Sweet tits
There are benchmarks in every relationship and Anders & I have just passed a big one. We can now officially say that the spark has gone out of our relationship. We are like a pair of tired and shabby pajamas: comfy and well loved. How do I know? I’ll relate this little story...
This past Saturday, we hunkered down on the couch and readied ourselves for a marathon of Saturday night movies on the TV. The weather was crap, so we lit a fire in the fireplace. We had blankets, snacks, drinks and all was copasetic. As the credits of the third film were rolling, we leaned in for a kiss and missed. I opened my eyes to see what was going on and I saw only the gaping cavern of his mouth. Prince Charming decided in mid-pucker to yawn.
Anders is, of course, absolutely mortified. There was bit of backpedaling on his part and a bit of indignation on my part, with a touch merciless ribbing and laughter. (As I type this blog, he is hanging over my shoulder muttering “du er’ække snill” or “you’re mean”.) Honestly tho’, romantic moments such as these really ought to be commemorated, nay, immortalized for prosperity.
In other words, he’s never gonna live this down and he knows it.
This past Saturday, we hunkered down on the couch and readied ourselves for a marathon of Saturday night movies on the TV. The weather was crap, so we lit a fire in the fireplace. We had blankets, snacks, drinks and all was copasetic. As the credits of the third film were rolling, we leaned in for a kiss and missed. I opened my eyes to see what was going on and I saw only the gaping cavern of his mouth. Prince Charming decided in mid-pucker to yawn.
Anders is, of course, absolutely mortified. There was bit of backpedaling on his part and a bit of indignation on my part, with a touch merciless ribbing and laughter. (As I type this blog, he is hanging over my shoulder muttering “du er’ække snill” or “you’re mean”.) Honestly tho’, romantic moments such as these really ought to be commemorated, nay, immortalized for prosperity.
In other words, he’s never gonna live this down and he knows it.
Redeeming Las Vegas
I just attended at seminar in Nevada’s sparkling jewel, Las Vegas. For a lot of reasons, I was really nervous about going there. For all the crazy-fool things I’ve done, going to Las Vegas shouldn't've been a big deal. I suppose I was nervous about presenting my thesis to people who actually know something about science and technology and I suppose I was nervous about going to Vegas itself.
Vegas isn’t a place I’d ever had on my “must see” list”. From its reputation alone, I thought Vegas embodied all of the things I thought were negative about the US, such as rampant and vapid consumerism. All of that is still true, but there were a few pleasant surprises.
The first happened on the shuttle bus to the hotel. I got talking with a guy who was in town for another convention. We had a short, pleasant exchange before we went our separate ways. Then the next day, I headed to the hotel restaurant for breakfast. People took pity on me since I showed up alone and with a book. It was palpable how pathetic they thought I was for coming to breakfast, let alone Vegas, solo. The staff piled extra hash on my plate and gave me healthy doses of “More coffee, kid?” and “Everything OK, hon?” It was a small mercy, but I appreciated it more than I can explain. I know the Germans in particular think that our small talk is fake and superficial. They loathe the question “How ya doin’ today?” and they scoff at “You have a nice day, now”. Silly Germans. They ought to check their nihilism at the border so that they, too, can "take 'em easy".
The scale of Vegas is off the hook. I was totally unprepared for the sheer size of the hotels on the Strip. Hotels like the Mandalay, Paris and Wynn play tricks with perspective and they never seem that far away because they don't ever look small or distant. We must've walked miles up and down the Strip, in and out of the hotel casinos and shops. The company of a narcissistic Swede, a functioning autistic and several academics-in-training certainly made the journey up and down the Strip more hilarious. All the same, anything goes in Vegas, so a wandering group of nerds didn't raise any eyebrows.
And finally, I got lot of positive feedback about my paper and my research. After two years of battling ignorance, politics and prejudice regarding Islamic history and cultures, it was FANTASTIC that the scholars welcomed my research without questioning the validity of it. The negativity regarding all things ‘Islam’ in Norway permeates every strata of society, as I found out on my flight from Oslo to Newark. (I severely aggravated a prominent lawyer and the leader of the UN KFOR Veteran’s Association while discussing the status of non-Western immigrants in Norway.) I had to travel to Nevada to meet potential and welcoming colleagues in Trondheim and Oslo. Ironic to be sure, though it was worth every penny.
Vegas isn’t a place I’d ever had on my “must see” list”. From its reputation alone, I thought Vegas embodied all of the things I thought were negative about the US, such as rampant and vapid consumerism. All of that is still true, but there were a few pleasant surprises.The first happened on the shuttle bus to the hotel. I got talking with a guy who was in town for another convention. We had a short, pleasant exchange before we went our separate ways. Then the next day, I headed to the hotel restaurant for breakfast. People took pity on me since I showed up alone and with a book. It was palpable how pathetic they thought I was for coming to breakfast, let alone Vegas, solo. The staff piled extra hash on my plate and gave me healthy doses of “More coffee, kid?” and “Everything OK, hon?” It was a small mercy, but I appreciated it more than I can explain. I know the Germans in particular think that our small talk is fake and superficial. They loathe the question “How ya doin’ today?” and they scoff at “You have a nice day, now”. Silly Germans. They ought to check their nihilism at the border so that they, too, can "take 'em easy".
The scale of Vegas is off the hook. I was totally unprepared for the sheer size of the hotels on the Strip. Hotels like the Mandalay, Paris and Wynn play tricks with perspective and they never seem that far away because they don't ever look small or distant. We must've walked miles up and down the Strip, in and out of the hotel casinos and shops. The company of a narcissistic Swede, a functioning autistic and several academics-in-training certainly made the journey up and down the Strip more hilarious. All the same, anything goes in Vegas, so a wandering group of nerds didn't raise any eyebrows.
And finally, I got lot of positive feedback about my paper and my research. After two years of battling ignorance, politics and prejudice regarding Islamic history and cultures, it was FANTASTIC that the scholars welcomed my research without questioning the validity of it. The negativity regarding all things ‘Islam’ in Norway permeates every strata of society, as I found out on my flight from Oslo to Newark. (I severely aggravated a prominent lawyer and the leader of the UN KFOR Veteran’s Association while discussing the status of non-Western immigrants in Norway.) I had to travel to Nevada to meet potential and welcoming colleagues in Trondheim and Oslo. Ironic to be sure, though it was worth every penny.
And the Quote of the Week Goes to...
The music program Lydverket aired a clip from next week's show which is about gettin' funky. And oh my god - the ol' Atomic Dawg hisself sat in a boat in the middle of Sognefjorden and said, "Fishing is as funky as it gets."Really, there is nothing left to say.
Who Talks Like That?
Try this trick next time you pick up a cup o' joe at your corner coffee joint and place your order - without irony- like this:
I realize now that this how I sounded to the Egyptians while I was speaking the Modern Standard Arabic and not the local dialect they speak. I was slightly misled by well meaning Egypt-expats in the US who said that people would understand me if I used Modern Standard Arabic. Once in Cairo, my Egyptian friends warned me that I sounded, well, a bit formal. No one told me that I sounded like an absolute jack-ass. Yes, people understood me, yes shopkeepers gave me what I asked for and yes, they never once dropped the "wtf" look of puzzlement from their faces. It was easier to speak English in Cairo rather than Modern Standard. Eventually, I managed to learn enough of the Egyptian Arabic to get through the day.
These revelations come a bit late, but they came at all because I've started studying the Modern Standard again. There are a lot of similarities between the Modern Standard and the Egyptian Arabic, which helps. So far, I'm ahead of the curve with vocabulary and waaaaaaaay behind everyone else in grammar. My brain is starting to get the hang of it, but every cell in my body screams "Who talks like that?"
To my lovely friends in Egypt, all I can say is that al-hamdu li'llah I finally, finally get what you were trying to tell me.
“I greet thee, Mistress. Is the day not fine? Hast thou a cup of your finest caffeinated brew that I might partake of whilst en route?”
I realize now that this how I sounded to the Egyptians while I was speaking the Modern Standard Arabic and not the local dialect they speak. I was slightly misled by well meaning Egypt-expats in the US who said that people would understand me if I used Modern Standard Arabic. Once in Cairo, my Egyptian friends warned me that I sounded, well, a bit formal. No one told me that I sounded like an absolute jack-ass. Yes, people understood me, yes shopkeepers gave me what I asked for and yes, they never once dropped the "wtf" look of puzzlement from their faces. It was easier to speak English in Cairo rather than Modern Standard. Eventually, I managed to learn enough of the Egyptian Arabic to get through the day.These revelations come a bit late, but they came at all because I've started studying the Modern Standard again. There are a lot of similarities between the Modern Standard and the Egyptian Arabic, which helps. So far, I'm ahead of the curve with vocabulary and waaaaaaaay behind everyone else in grammar. My brain is starting to get the hang of it, but every cell in my body screams "Who talks like that?"
To my lovely friends in Egypt, all I can say is that al-hamdu li'llah I finally, finally get what you were trying to tell me.
On this day
September 11th has become our generation's "Where were you when Kennedy was shot?" Everyone remembers where they were when the planes hit New York City, Washington DC and southern Pennsylvania.
My new friends and I were coming back from the AUC campus to the dorms via the shuttle bus. The day was typically hot for Cairo in late summer and our lips were still stained with fresh pomegranate juice. This was about 4 o'clock in the afternoon Cairo-time, so the pictures of the smoking towers were broadcasting for approximately 30 minutes. The students who were watching the news in the TV lounge were talking rapidly at us as we climbed off the bus. I can still recall the looks on people's faces as disbelief faded into sickening realization.
Well, there's a lot to be said about this day and the ensuing madness. Issues such as security, civil liberties, Muslims, oil and terrorism are debated in every shade of the political spectrum. There's really no point to bring up my point of view here; it can be found elsewhere.
There are, however, a few things I would like to say. First, I would like to know why my suitcase is so interesting to US airport security. It is absolutely ravaged every time I travel to or from the US. If the security-powers-that-be think I am a threat because I have Arabic stamps in my passport and CVS cosmetics in my baggage, I wish they'd use a little bit more of the tax payer's money to update my files. The nice folks from NSA, CIA or Homeland Security or whoever the hell is handling my case could simply ask me, "Are you planning to endanger the lives of others?" Then I could simply answer "No" and then I'd be declared no longer a threat and then they could stop harassing the poor textiles in my suitcase.
The second thing that disturbs me about this mess (and there's a lot, mind you) is the recent Senate report which reveals there was no connection between Al-Qaida and Saddam Hussein. (NPR, MSNBC) Based on this report, the US has proudly fucked up another country to get a bad guy, but we didn't get the bad guy. The person or persons responsible for the strikes on NYC, DC and PA is/are still at large.
Nice going, Dubbya. I feel secure now.
My new friends and I were coming back from the AUC campus to the dorms via the shuttle bus. The day was typically hot for Cairo in late summer and our lips were still stained with fresh pomegranate juice. This was about 4 o'clock in the afternoon Cairo-time, so the pictures of the smoking towers were broadcasting for approximately 30 minutes. The students who were watching the news in the TV lounge were talking rapidly at us as we climbed off the bus. I can still recall the looks on people's faces as disbelief faded into sickening realization.
Well, there's a lot to be said about this day and the ensuing madness. Issues such as security, civil liberties, Muslims, oil and terrorism are debated in every shade of the political spectrum. There's really no point to bring up my point of view here; it can be found elsewhere.
There are, however, a few things I would like to say. First, I would like to know why my suitcase is so interesting to US airport security. It is absolutely ravaged every time I travel to or from the US. If the security-powers-that-be think I am a threat because I have Arabic stamps in my passport and CVS cosmetics in my baggage, I wish they'd use a little bit more of the tax payer's money to update my files. The nice folks from NSA, CIA or Homeland Security or whoever the hell is handling my case could simply ask me, "Are you planning to endanger the lives of others?" Then I could simply answer "No" and then I'd be declared no longer a threat and then they could stop harassing the poor textiles in my suitcase.
The second thing that disturbs me about this mess (and there's a lot, mind you) is the recent Senate report which reveals there was no connection between Al-Qaida and Saddam Hussein. (NPR, MSNBC) Based on this report, the US has proudly fucked up another country to get a bad guy, but we didn't get the bad guy. The person or persons responsible for the strikes on NYC, DC and PA is/are still at large.
Nice going, Dubbya. I feel secure now.
Mushrooms and Berries
[soundtrack: Talking Heads, (nothing but) flowers ]
Wild mushrooms and berries are the true delight of Norwegian autumn. I've gone a bit crazy for the berries this year. I started picking cherries and gooseberries in late July, cloudberries in early August and black & redcurrants later in the month. Traditionally, the cloudberries are saved for Christmas dinner and eaten with sugar and cream, with a side of brandy and coffee. My favorite winter treat last year was raspberry soup with a touch of brandy and a dollop of sour cream. This year, the berries will supplement the dreary selection of fruits and vegetables with various berry sauces over warm rice or semolina pudding, in addition to the raspberry soup. These are the delights that are harvested now and eaten later.
Mushrooms, however, are plucked now and eaten now. Mushroom hunting is a nice excuse to get out in the woods on the last days of summer. Anders makes the best dinners with the mushrooms he finds, which makes it worthwhile to go out even in the rain for these tasty fungus treats. He cooks a bit of bacon in a frying pan and reserves the fat. He then slow cooks the mushrooms in the bacon fat, adding onions at towards the end of the cooking time. He'll then reserve the resulting sauce. The mushrooms-bacon-onion mix is heaped upon savory crepes or thick pieces of whole-grain bread. A bit of parmesan or blue cheese is added, then the sauce, and voila! a lovely autumn meal is served.
I still miss cider and the pumpkin treats that pop up in autumn Stateside. I still miss the vivid colors of the trees and the scent of fallen leaves. Just as it happened to me in Cairo, there are things I'll come to miss should we ever move from Oslo. The fresh berries and mushrooms are a few of the things I can name, and Lord knows what else.
Wild mushrooms and berries are the true delight of Norwegian autumn. I've gone a bit crazy for the berries this year. I started picking cherries and gooseberries in late July, cloudberries in early August and black & redcurrants later in the month. Traditionally, the cloudberries are saved for Christmas dinner and eaten with sugar and cream, with a side of brandy and coffee. My favorite winter treat last year was raspberry soup with a touch of brandy and a dollop of sour cream. This year, the berries will supplement the dreary selection of fruits and vegetables with various berry sauces over warm rice or semolina pudding, in addition to the raspberry soup. These are the delights that are harvested now and eaten later.
Mushrooms, however, are plucked now and eaten now. Mushroom hunting is a nice excuse to get out in the woods on the last days of summer. Anders makes the best dinners with the mushrooms he finds, which makes it worthwhile to go out even in the rain for these tasty fungus treats. He cooks a bit of bacon in a frying pan and reserves the fat. He then slow cooks the mushrooms in the bacon fat, adding onions at towards the end of the cooking time. He'll then reserve the resulting sauce. The mushrooms-bacon-onion mix is heaped upon savory crepes or thick pieces of whole-grain bread. A bit of parmesan or blue cheese is added, then the sauce, and voila! a lovely autumn meal is served.
I still miss cider and the pumpkin treats that pop up in autumn Stateside. I still miss the vivid colors of the trees and the scent of fallen leaves. Just as it happened to me in Cairo, there are things I'll come to miss should we ever move from Oslo. The fresh berries and mushrooms are a few of the things I can name, and Lord knows what else.
Found
Two years ago, thieves yanked Edward Munch's two most famous paintings, The Scream and Madonna, right off the walls of the Munch Museum in Oslo. I watched the news with interest, but what surprised me the most was the attitude of the Norwegians. With all the nonchalance in the world, they were like, "Oh yeah, I heard about the robbery." My art history self reacted with a bit more indignation, but nothing seemed to rile the partner in conversation. As if talking about a cat that went astray, the Norwegians comforted me and said that they'll be back. After all, thieves had stolen The Scream two times before.And so they were right.
Otherwise, I *like* autumn
It's that time of year again. The season of fall fashion has arrived in
I was off to a flying start. I walked into the H&M mega store, determined to find my new favorite garment. The store was literally packed to point where clothes were exploding off the stands and I couldn't look at one item without 50 falling to the floor. No matter, 'cause I wasn't gonna be defeated. I saunter into Jeans & Clothes which was way less packed than H&M and try on a few things. I dig a lavender pullover and a plaid button-down shirt. I checked the prices and I nearly choked on plaid shirt which cost 499kr, the equivalent to a fly $80. I took the purple pullover since it was on sale and put back the plaid button-down, vowing to purchase the other plaid button-down I liked at Indiska. This girl was not defeated. Oh no.
I tried on a few more things at Vero Moda, which I dig. The über-80s has taken over everyone's senses and now I'm getting frustrated. I can't quite figure out if the shirt I like makes me look like mutton dressed as a lamb. After all, this is the second time I've participated in the "Let's play Miami Vice" dress-up game. I placed a phone call to a friend and we're gonna make a day of it in the stores next week. Granted, it will be a very short day at these prices, but what the hell.
Today, however, I have to admit defeat. The Norwegian (dare I say European) sense of fly-by-day fashion has once again mystified me. Today, I saw a full-blown "Dorothy Hamill". (All of my GenX-ers will feel me on this. All ya young'uns will have to follow this link or better yet, this one.) Seriously folks, I'm at a total loss. Here's a whole new generation of people who'll slap a bowl on their heads, cut their hair and think, "This'll make me cool." At least when I had my Dorothy Hamill haircut and action figure, I looked forward to "Mork and Mindy" every Tuesday night as much as the government of
Goddammit, I hate to admit defeat, but there it is. The bowl will stay in the kitchen where it belongs, I will not use my hard earned cash for another pair of wrestling sneakers and I will never, ever tuck my pink sweat pants into my white socks. Period.
4,000 feet straight up? No problem-o.
I climbed this mountain! While it is not the highest mountain I've ever climbed, Kabbetind is probably the most visually imposing. If you look at the photo, you'll see the small patch of light green, bottom center. That's the cabin in the middle of it. The mountain dominates the western horizon behind the cabin and your field of vision is blocked by its form unless you look up, up, up. The valley is narrow where the cabin sits, so the only view from the cabin is the bare, vertical rock face. Anders told me the climb was easier once we reached the opposite side of the mountain, but that wasn't much of a comfort.Anyhoo, we climbed up an old avalanche scar and zig-zagged our way around to the backside of the mountain. It was neat to walk out of the shadow of the mountain and into the afternoon sunlight. Kabbetind usually blocks the sunlight long before the sun sets and it was a small victory to cheat the mountain and gain some extra rays before the sun actually set. This victory was small indeed as the WIND howled fiercely around us.
The next phase of climbing was surprisingly easy in comparison to the lower half. The rocks around the back of Kabbetind form a kind of huge terraced face. I felt like a two or three year-old managing a flight of stairs. Sometimes I had to heave myself over a moss and heather covered terrace and sometimes I could take an awkwardly large step up. By hook or by crook, it was worthwhile to get to the top (1338m/4390ft), as you can see from the next picture. I'm trying to smile, but the wind was trying even harder to rip my face off.Two days later, we climbed up the slope directly behind me in the photo. That was only an excruciating 1200m/3937ft up in the rain. We were joined by two friends, T and F. The rain wasn't so heavy, but it still managed to soak our "waterproof" boots. My boots were so waterlogged that they weighed twice as much at the end of the tour as they did at the beginning. Our third hike was delayed one day so that our boots could dry out completely.
The third hike was a leisurely walk to a place called Pyttbua. The over all altitude gain wasn't more than 400m/1312ft over a 2 1/2 – 3 hour trek. This hike was looooooong, though. Anders estimates we walked about 20km/12,5mi (roundtrip) that day. I didn't realize how long the trip was until I got back to the cabin and collapsed into a chair.
Even though I've been to this valley before, I'm always amazed at the variety of altitude specific plants you find at various stages of the climb. Few plants are found at all heights, while most plants thrive in very specific conditions and altitudes. For example, lichen and moss can be found everywhere, but the Norwegian Mountain Rose grows only places that resemble the surface of the moon. Above the tree line (ca. 1000m/3300ft), the crazy forms of lichen in shades of green chartreuse and rust deck the rocks.
I realize this kind of attention to the details may be a bit boring. I suppose I even bring it up because I find this landscape a bit alien yet. Even though vegetation can be found except in the highest of altitudes, this landscape is not lush. The soil is not deep and it is not terribly life-sustaining despite the infinite amounts of water. I never really thought that possible growing up on the East Coast with its raucous vegetation and plant life.
0-3, Anniversary wins
This is just plain embarrassing.
Anders and I forgot our wedding anniversary for the second year in a row. The first year, we had some friends who reminded us of the occasion before the actual day. If it hadn't been for the friendly reminder, we would've forgotten that one, too. The second year, we didn't remember until several weeks afterward when someone asked me when we got married. This year, my parents reminded us.
The only saving grace here is that both of us forget. Neither one of us can make puppy-dog eyes or act wounded and use the other's forgetfulness for bribery and bouquets.
Tonight, we'll go out for dinner and celebrate. These three years have absolutely flown by. Five years ago, towards the end of August, we met for the first time during an arranged outing to Sharm al-Shaykh. There was nothing in that casual introduction that belied the coming tale of drama, change, commitment and devotion. It is impossible for us not to think of Egypt when we celebrate our anniversary, but that is another blog for another time. ;)
Anders and I forgot our wedding anniversary for the second year in a row. The first year, we had some friends who reminded us of the occasion before the actual day. If it hadn't been for the friendly reminder, we would've forgotten that one, too. The second year, we didn't remember until several weeks afterward when someone asked me when we got married. This year, my parents reminded us.
The only saving grace here is that both of us forget. Neither one of us can make puppy-dog eyes or act wounded and use the other's forgetfulness for bribery and bouquets.
Tonight, we'll go out for dinner and celebrate. These three years have absolutely flown by. Five years ago, towards the end of August, we met for the first time during an arranged outing to Sharm al-Shaykh. There was nothing in that casual introduction that belied the coming tale of drama, change, commitment and devotion. It is impossible for us not to think of Egypt when we celebrate our anniversary, but that is another blog for another time. ;)
T W E L V E
When I picked up jogging two winters ago, it was a life-saving measure. The winters in Norway, well, suck. November and December are especially difficult since it gets darker and colder and darker and colder. The snow that’s good for cross-country skiing doesn’t arrive until January and I don’t have slalom skis. Hubby suggested that I start running to help my psychological state of mind in these early winter months.
He suggested, then cajoled and then he flat-out forced me out on the ice-covered sidewalks bundled up in thermals and fleece jackets. That night, we ran a scant 3km (1.8 mi). I pretty much thought I was going to heave my frozen lungs up on the living room floor when we got back to the flat. After more cajoling and eventually blackmail, we kept running through the winter. Our normal route was about 5km (3.1mi).
I have been running ever since. I tend to run less in the summer time, as I ride my bike almost every day. We live about 198m (650ft) over sea level and Downtown is literally DOWN. I can whiz to my job or some swank café in ca. 15 minutes and use a hefty 30-40 minutes to get back up to the top of the fjord. (heh. I said "fjord".) As a result, my running regime has held steady at 5km - 7km (4.3mi), for the past year.
All of that changed yesterday.
I can feel almost every muscle in my legs and feet, but I ran 12km (7.5mi) yesterday. For a girl who hated, and I mean loathed, to run in high school, this is a major break through. The trail we (Hubby + friend J + I) ran took us over asphalt, dirt paths and rocky and rooted terrain in the woods. Friend J is Mr Athlete and he mercifully slowed down a bit so I could keep up. He and hubby chatted amiably the whole time, while I concentrated simply on breathing. (In fact, I’m amazed they could hear one another over my labored panting.)
I don’t know when I’ll run that trail again, but it feels great to have done it at least once. I have this strange ‘sense of accomplishment’ tugging at my psyche that I'm not sure what to do with.
He suggested, then cajoled and then he flat-out forced me out on the ice-covered sidewalks bundled up in thermals and fleece jackets. That night, we ran a scant 3km (1.8 mi). I pretty much thought I was going to heave my frozen lungs up on the living room floor when we got back to the flat. After more cajoling and eventually blackmail, we kept running through the winter. Our normal route was about 5km (3.1mi).
I have been running ever since. I tend to run less in the summer time, as I ride my bike almost every day. We live about 198m (650ft) over sea level and Downtown is literally DOWN. I can whiz to my job or some swank café in ca. 15 minutes and use a hefty 30-40 minutes to get back up to the top of the fjord. (heh. I said "fjord".) As a result, my running regime has held steady at 5km - 7km (4.3mi), for the past year.
All of that changed yesterday.
I can feel almost every muscle in my legs and feet, but I ran 12km (7.5mi) yesterday. For a girl who hated, and I mean loathed, to run in high school, this is a major break through. The trail we (Hubby + friend J + I) ran took us over asphalt, dirt paths and rocky and rooted terrain in the woods. Friend J is Mr Athlete and he mercifully slowed down a bit so I could keep up. He and hubby chatted amiably the whole time, while I concentrated simply on breathing. (In fact, I’m amazed they could hear one another over my labored panting.)
I don’t know when I’ll run that trail again, but it feels great to have done it at least once. I have this strange ‘sense of accomplishment’ tugging at my psyche that I'm not sure what to do with.
I've Gathered You Here for a Reason...
Hi People.
This is it. This will be my blog. I've got too many of you on the brain and I've done too little about it. How are you to know that I've been thinking about you, yes, you who is reading this blog at this very moment?
There is something about living far away from good friends that makes it hard to write emails. I find that when I sit down to write an email, there is too much to say. As a result, I say nothing at all. Ironic, no?
My solution, then, is to just WRITE. I'm gonna put it all out there in cyberspace for you to read, and hopefully comment, at your leisure.
In case anyone was wondering, "pausefisk" refers to the old days in Norway when there was only one TV channel. After the day's broadcasting was finished, the studio turned the camera to an aquarium. So instead of sending static from 2am - 6am, you could watch fish. (I am NOT making this up.) Nowadays, most TV channels broadcast around the clock or just send static when they go off the air for the evening. "Pausefisk" (loosely translated as the "fish break") has come to mean several things:
* A not-so-funny comedy show
* A period of near-comatose activity
* A rebound lover after the break-up of a long relationship
To me personally, it means taking a break in a silly, unconstructive way. Cheers!
This is it. This will be my blog. I've got too many of you on the brain and I've done too little about it. How are you to know that I've been thinking about you, yes, you who is reading this blog at this very moment?
There is something about living far away from good friends that makes it hard to write emails. I find that when I sit down to write an email, there is too much to say. As a result, I say nothing at all. Ironic, no?
My solution, then, is to just WRITE. I'm gonna put it all out there in cyberspace for you to read, and hopefully comment, at your leisure.
In case anyone was wondering, "pausefisk" refers to the old days in Norway when there was only one TV channel. After the day's broadcasting was finished, the studio turned the camera to an aquarium. So instead of sending static from 2am - 6am, you could watch fish. (I am NOT making this up.) Nowadays, most TV channels broadcast around the clock or just send static when they go off the air for the evening. "Pausefisk" (loosely translated as the "fish break") has come to mean several things:
* A not-so-funny comedy show
* A period of near-comatose activity
* A rebound lover after the break-up of a long relationship
To me personally, it means taking a break in a silly, unconstructive way. Cheers!
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