The alphabet goes from A to Ö ; there is no W, but after Z we get an Å (oh), an Ä (ay) and finally the Ö (the French euh). That’s in addition to A (ah), E (eh), O (ooh), I (ee), Y (eeh-ye) and U (The French uu). No wonder Swedish sounds the way it does.
There is no word in Swedish for “Please”. You have to get all passive-aggressive and say something like “Can I have that, thanks.”
Milk cartons here have public service announcements, like they do in the US. Sometimes it’s a poem. Sometimes it’s a tip for healthy living. And before the elections a few weeks ago, they sported get-out-the-vote messages. One of these said something to the effect that elections are a time for making “smart decisions”. Unfortunately, this message was nixed by the parliamentary overseers, who decided it had too much editorial content. The word “smart” had to go. So in the end, the cartons read that elections are a time for making “decisions”.
And who can blame the overseers? If people are supposed to make smart decisions when they vote, as opposed to, say, selfish decisions, or uninformed decisions, or spiteful decisions, they’d all have voted for the liberals.
I played my first game of Swedish Scrabble yesterday, with Magnus and Anna. I tied with Magnus; Anna wasn’t even close. The game started well when I managed to put down FEZ with the Z on a triple letter square. Later I got to put BRÖDA on a triple word. It’s a baking term. Or so the dictionary says that I was allowed to use.
The Swede of Tunisian origin who tried to board a plane for London last month with a loaded gun on him has been released. Never mind that he had taken flying lessons in the US for no apparent reason. There just was no evidence to suggest he was planning to hijack anything, it turns out. The only thought that comes to mind is: Does this mean we can all carry loaded weapons on board as long as we don’t intend to hijack anything? And if we get caught, we get slapped on the wrist and sent off on our merry way? Who came up with this law? If you’re gonna outlaw guns in Sweden or on planes, it would help if you do it a little more forcefully than ask nicely. But there is a silver lining: Kerim Sadok Chatty will have to hang out here locally in Stockholm for the time being. Can’t wait to run into him. Don’t know if he got his gun back, though.
I am listening to WNYC on the stereo. It’s 4 am in New York so the BBC is on. Soon, the news shows will start for the earliest of commuters. I’ve already checked the Wall Street Journal and New York TImes. In the NYT, there is a report on Bloomberg’s Mayor’s Management Report, which this year has an interactive component. I check the East Village and find, to my surprise, there was only 1 murder in the 12 months to June 2002. I would love to see a chart of that number for the past 20 years.
Later today, I will log on to my computers on Rector Street through a secure connection. I might do a spot of programming on them, or perhaps do some hedging if I need to fill in for someone. I will stay in touch with friends via the same email and instant messaging addresses as before.
So, you see, it is possible to be in more than one place at the same time. Physically, it is impossible to get a Volcano Roll at Zen One. But I’ve traded that in for yesterday’s late summer sailing trip with Joachim through the Stockholm Archipelago to Sandhamn, a beautiful and secluded island.
I’ve just finished Boo Hoo, the story of the rise and fall of boo.com, written by its CEO, the Swede Ernst Malmsten. I think he was too nice to everybody in the book, himself included. Basically, it was nobody’s fault, he says, just bad luck with the timing of the dot com collapse. He never ever questions the basic business premise–that people are eager to buy such a non-commodity as a fashion item over the internet. Gap clothes, yes, they are a commodity, and I could see myself order another 2 pairs of khakis size 34, or The Great gatsby from Amazon, especially as it is cheaper, or a ticket to Sweden. But a North Face jacket, with no discount? Never. I’d have to try it on, and I can do so down the road. Meanwhile, the entire opposite sex and Felix actually relish the tactile shopping experience.
I remember encountering boo.com through the Industry Standard articles and dismissing it then for precisely those reasons. Ernst seems not to see any difference between catalogue vendors such as L.L. Bean (online or otherwise) which peddle practical goods to rural types, and his target customer, the New Yorker who can pop around the corner to Urban Outfitters at 7pm on a Sunday.
Meanwhile, I learned yesterday that the 3rd partner, Frank, also wrote a book, alas only in Swedish, telling his side of the story, one in which Ernst is portrayed much less flatteringly. Another great reason to learn Swedish, ja?
If I had millions I don’t think I would have invested in boo.com. But then, this was way back in 1999; they hadn’t even invented blogs then. (To be fair though, sighs.com has existed since 1995, making it the world’s first blog way before the term was coined, replete with last articles at the top and all. Wouldn’t want to take anything away from the people responsible for sighs.com)
I’m always happy when surströmming articles happen. There is a new one in today’s Wall Street Journal, though I am very disappointed with its complete failure to accurately convey the true horror that eating surströmming entails. Or watching someone eat it. Or being anywhere near an open can. People have been known to spontaneously projectile vomit at the sight of one of the bloated cans squirting out its disgusting brine and stench as it is opened.
I wish I had my scanner here so I could scan proof of my own surströmming horror tale. It began innocently enough when Joachim and I were shopping for food to take on his boat a few days before his wedding in Stockholm in 2000. I expressed an interest in surströmming so Joachim said he’d buy some if I promised to try it. I said yes, stupidly, and this moment of weakness was seized upon by him and John Uppington with glee. They bought a can then and there.
Later, when we moored the boat on an uninhabited island in the Stockholm archipelago, downwind from the city, it was time to open the can. Joachim had boiled some potatoes, added some sour cream, gave me the can opener and a can that had already doubled in size from the gases that had been escaping from the fermenting dead fish inside. Then they fled. They watched from upwind as I began to open the can. Horror! It exploded as I punctured it, with milky-white goo getting on my hands and clothes. But that was nothing compared to the stench; the assault on the senses was physical, like being hit by a bus. I recoiled instinctively before I was able to force myself to confront the surströmming with the intent of eating it.
I don’t remember the rest. My mind must have blacked out the experience. But according to Joachim and John, I did eat some bits of the surströmming. I still get flashes of memory of one particular fish’s bloated translucent bladder wiggling in a Swedish late summer sunset.