On the transvisual transgressions of the transatlantic tranquilizer trajectory.

I spent all my creative energy on that title, so now all that is left is for me to pretend I really meant to and compose a short text devoid of any creativity whatsoever.

It shouldn't be too difficult.

I am, after all, trying actively on a daily basis to subdue creativity to get non-creative things done (insofar there exists such a thing as a non-creative anything). I am getting good at it. Well. Not necessarily at getting the non-creative things done, but at subdue creativity, at least! Hooray!

Now, let's not be bleak. This is a good thing.

Creativity is overrated.

Well, no it's not. I don't actually mean that. I already revealed that I at least on some level believe creativity takes a part in most anything human beings do (not that this belief necessarily demonstrates the importance of creativity, though).

And it's not even true. I don't subdue my creativity. It just feels like a natural part of the process. A process of "growing up", "having a job", "writing a PhD-thesis", "being a normal human being" (except for my belief that "normal" "human beings" actually are "creative" all the time. Except everything, really).

This text turned bleak despite my intentions not to let it. I meant to have it cheerful and happy, in order to present a joyous view on the world (of which there are too few, generally, I think), exemplified in the fact that it's spring (yay!); that I get to go abroad for a month, tomorrow (yay!); that there exist such a thing as semicolons (yay!); and that today we had a solar eclipse (though I didn't see it due to clouds and general indoorness, so yaaeii?).

I'm going to the U.S.

For a month.



I have in the past been eager to travel.

I have in the more recent past been less eager to travel.

I have this time again found that eagerness, but then also, the less eagerness lurking behind.



I get to travel but I have to travel.

I get to see lots of interesting documents but I have to see all these documents.

I get to be all by myself but I have to be alone.



But there are more redeeming factors this time around. I get to hang out with an old friend. I get to visit a new part of the U.S. that I have been eager to see. I get a preview of summer before returning home to full spring. And when I return home I get to stay home. I can travel more, but I don't have to.




Away, away, o'hoi and away!

On jolly July, aberrant August

It's been a weird summer in Norway. Weird, because it's been awesome. Weather-wise we are talking about the July of the century, or some such cliché. Sun has been had. Pale Norwegians soaked up vitamin D's to last us into the next decade, and for once I actually have tan lines on my back. We're normally used to summers where any outdoors plan always need an indoors alternative, but this time no such modification was called for.

July was spectacular.

August is looking for payback.

Frequently, August has been the warm and sunny month here. Just in time for school to start, summer kicked in, like a wonderful irony of life. This year, however, since July took August's job, August, apparently, decided to take September's. Ever since the start of the month we've had rain, wind, the occasional bout of sunshine, but then with the obvious promise of "plan B kind of day - expect to have to go indoors any moment". The cloudless days of July are long gone.


In a way I appreciate it. There is no doubt that it's really fall, summer is over, vacation time done, work takes the front seat. The transition is made somewhat easier by nature's clear message.

But then again - a few more weeks of sunshine, with the possibility of enjoying after-work-afternoons in a park instead of having to tote an umbrella everywhere - sounds nicer. August isn't playing nice this year.

There is, of course, absolutely nothing I can do about this. I can recall the lovely July, and I can curse the erratic August. In reality it makes no difference what I do. Winter is coming.

On cloudiness

Today, this picture haunts me:

It's from artist Berndnaut Smilde's clever use of a fog machine and just the right amount of humidity, temperature (and light) to create a real (as opposed to photoshopped) indoors cloud.

Also, I feel cloudy.

No, there is no actual indoor cloud hanging over me, though occasionally it seems that way. I'm not trying to overestimate my own problems here, and I realize that the image of a personal cloud is a worn one. But bear with me. Think of it as a real cloud - in reality, clouds come in many shapes and densities, and mine, at the moment, isn't a dark thundery cloud. It is also not a light, summery whips of coolness in an otherwise perfect blue sky. It's somewhere in between. The cloud thickens some days, and other days I can see the rays of sun behind it. Sometimes a cloud comes in handy - it lends shade when the light is too bright. Other days you wish you could escape it.

My current cloud has a pink shear to it - I see good things for me, both in my present and future. Though my cloud also has some darker areas, as if it's about to rain (or more likely, since it's Norway and January, snow).

I can't do anything about the weather. I can't stop my cloud from erupting into rain, snow or even full storm. But I can try to prepare myself for whatever may come. Wear a coat. Bring an umbrella. Try not to take it personally if the sky falls in my head.

And in the meantime I am fortunate enough to be one of those people who enjoy watching cloud formations.

On rainiscence

This rain - sideways - reminds me of last summer.

Those weeks of the rainy season in Tokyo, where my shoes never completely dried, where the aircon stopped working due to excess humidity, and where the sound of raindrops hitting the roof became the lullaby you were forced to get used to in order to get any sleep at all. I remember my see-through umbrella from under which I took eerie, silly, wet photographs of raindrops, without ever quite managing to capture their ephemeral beauty. I remember catching a taxi five minutes worth of walk away from home and somehow still managing to emerge at my front door completely drenched. I remember how odd it was that the rain made me cold even though the drops themselves were warm. I remember the smell of wet clothes, wet towels, wet hair, wet everything. I remember splashing ponds, lakes, oceans. I remember hiding from the water under trees, under a bridge, under the open sky. I remember thunder, so much thunder, with lightning bolts sure to hit one tall building or another. I remember smiling in the rain. Not crying; dancing, kissing. 


I remember rain. It seems the rain remembers me too. 

On stream of unconsciousness

"Not to be confused with stream of consciousness." Though it is rather confusing. I am confusing. And confused. Now the music stopped. Now I started it again. But one of my ear plugs are broken. The set is broken. It's mono. That is not related to the music stopping (again!), because my speakers are stereo or no-o-at-all, alternatively. I got an invitation yesterday. I already rsvp-ed.

I think it's lunch time but I feel like having breakfast. Second breakfast. I already had one. But I think I was asleep. I think I still am.

I really do have ice cream in the freezer. Having it anywhere else would be strange.

It's like this: I could have coffee. But I already did. Besides, quote from a fridge magnet in the coffee place I visited today (the guy working there is real nice, by the way, but you can't go there too often, because then he'll start making you "the regular", and then you feel obliged to always have that and always come there. I can't be tied down like that) - quote (with picture - piquote?)

Except I have no energy. Maybe this is a dream? In which case I'd like to not wake up. I probably need the sleep. Besides I'm not doing stupid things. Yes. That. I'm not doing them. That's stupid. Blinds. The blinds are stupid. And automatic. Like the blinds in front of my eyes. I should eat. Lunchfast. Breakunch. Brunch. Second breakfast. I'm not that found of LOTR, actually. But I do like a good second breakfast. Don't tell my friends I said that. The first thing. About the rings. I like rings. But it's difficult for me to wear them, because my fingers vary greatly in size according to my general body temperature, which also varies, apparently.

Paragraph.

One more.

Interesteling playlist. I didn't make it. I borrowed it from an old coworker. It's very nice, but I am very sleepy. I don't normally talk in my sleep. As far as I know, I don't have any parasomnias. Unless you count that I turn into a blabbering maniac when in lack of sleep. But you shouldn't. Count it. It doesn't fall under the right definition- I forgot full stop- Paragraph-

Foods and animals are really random.

And shampoo.

Whenever someone says "think of something random!" I think of shampoo. Which of course makes it not random at all. Random very rarely is random. Panda. Not random at all. You might think it is. But you would be wrong. Do pandas drink coffee? Probably not. Probably because they are so busy with eating bamboo and not procreate. I sometimes mix up the words procreate and procrastinate.

The curtains here are ugly. They are meant to be decorative, since the blinds take care of light regulation. But the curtains don't decorate. They undecorate. Dedecorate. Disdecorate. "Go, won't you?" I said that. And I meant it. But for entirely different reasons. ...it would be the first time.

Airplane. Swallowed by a cloud. Chewed and spit out again on the other side. The cloud didn't like the taste of metal. The passengers never knew what almost hit (or, rather, digested) them.

It's not really so that random is funny because it is random.

Fridge.

Not random.

Not funny.

But still possible to laugh at, if in the right state of mind. "Arms racing is a state of mind" vs "Arms racing is intense military competition" vs "Arms racing inevitably leads to war". The latter is wrong. Cold War case in point. Besides/ monocausal explanations to excuse personal blame for what later was to be known as the First World War (they didn't know that in the beginning, though, which is a more valid excuse)/

</fedora>

Teh food. I nneedd to go downstairs. Knife. Not of the slaughtering kind. But to eat. With. By. For. Over. Under. Around. Of. There are more. It's not important.

I'll be right back.

It took three minutes. I brought my key but forgot to lock the door.

Jack Malone is actually not the same man,
as,
he,
once was.

His wife left, or so he told everyone. In reality? He knows exactly where to find her. Six feet under a pile of dung. He planted a rosebush on top of it, to cover the smell. The rosebush has thorns.

Jack Malone is not the kind of man,
you,
want,
to get too close to.
As a narrator, then, you assign him a name, to create some distance. To keep yourself out of his head.
But Jack's name isn't Jack. And as you admit that, you feel him creeping into your head after all, speading his darkness through your veins and arteries, like a bottle of ink streaming (unconsciously) into every crease in a wooden floor, after having broken upon impact. From a desk. You are the desk. You are the floor. You are the ink. You. You are the narrator.

You thought it was me. You thought I was the one facing the problem. But you were wrong. Jack infuses you, now,


It's all very obvious. The cards are dealt. The chess board set. With the instructions in a foreign language. Someone draws a gun. Then colours it pink with half-broken crayons.

I have to go. I'm awake now. Asleep. Almost. Always. After all.

On this

This is irony. I overheard a conversation last night. In a restaurant, in Norway. The party having the conversation was a 50/50 mix of Norwegians and non-Norwegians, so the language employed was English. They were talking, eagerly, about many topics not appropriate for this blog (for instance, let me non-appropriately mention that I now know that these ladies thought it should be called "IT engineer's crack" rather than plumber's crack). What feels more appropriate, though, is to refer to the part of the conversation I meant to address in this paragraph:

(only now it's not in  that paragraph anymore)

(or this one. Also - this part of the conversation was not in English, for reasons that shall be revealed)

"Hva heter ordforråd på engelsk?"

This is irony.

Let me translate.

"What's vocabulary in English?"

This is irony.

This is not:

I'm having a Facebook detox experience. Meaning I'm off the drug, cold turkey. This week only - I wouldn't dream of quitting altogether - but still. I needed to prove to myself that I could. And I needed to break the destructive pattern I've been stuck in there for a while. If you logged off two minutes ago, chances are not much new will have happened when you compulsively opens the window again for the 19th time that day.

Interestingly enough, the thing that finally made me realize it was a bad habit I could break was the introduction of Facebook's new timeline. I love it. And I don't see the issues so many people seem to have with it. Okay, so the timeline makes it a lot easier to see what you were up to on Facebook three years ago. So what? You posted that three years ago, knowing well that you yourself was responsible for the content. If you can't handle it today, chances are you shouldn't have posted it back then.

Personally, though, I look back and remember happier times. Sadder times. Different times. I find it interesting to see my own (less destructive?) patterns - how I for weeks would post nothing but rants about my thesis (not unlike what I did on this blog), or the weather, or - believe it or not - what I actually was doing. "CC is at work" or "CC is about to go for a walk". (Did you remember the "is"? I'd almost forgotten) I was more boring in the past. My current updates are more amusing (but also an aqcuired taste. I like to think that those who haven't gotten used to it unsubscribed from me ages ago).

What perhaps surprised me the most, though, was how little I posted in the past. It seemed as though, perhaps, I didn't visit the site more than once or twice a day. Huh. How did that work?

Like with the missing status update "is", I had forgotten that my Facebook life once consisted of different patterns than it does now. I once knew how to limit my own use.

Thus, the discovery of a younger, naïver, funny-but-not-quite-as-clever self, through the help of the Facebook timeline, helped me realize I could just quit. For a while. This is irony, I suppose.

And yes. This. Irony. Charles Dickens (happy birthday yesterday, old man!) had it right. "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times". In a way I am happier with my life at the moment than I've been for as long as I can remember. In a way I am not at all. I compartmentalize. Try to accept that I don't have to know everything, professionally and personally. I enjoy a great many things, hate a great many others. It's the hardest time of year for me - when winter is loosening its grip but spring still is aeons away. I long for spring. Or for getting away. At the same time as there is nowhere I'd rather be, than right here, right now. I went ice skating this weekend. And I watched an incredulous amount of "Sex and the City". I'm in Carrie-overload, the greatest philosopher of our time. I listen to Eels and Wilco, trying to catch the lyrics. But I only hear voices and instruments. I miss writing. Yesterday reminded me. I'm rusty and my writer's confidence is at an all time low, but I miss it. I wish I had the strenght to tell myself to take it up again, the way I managed to tell myself to quit Facebook. Once I decided, it was so much easier than I'd thought.

Is it irony that we all know the first part of that Dickens quote, but most of us have no idea what comes next? It's not his most famous work, after all, even if it probably is the most famous quote:

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities.

Indeed. 'Tis a good quote (even if I generally despise quotes).

On "The Secret Garden"

One of the things I do appreciate about being back in Norway is spring. In Tokyo, it was already spring by my standards when I arrived. During the two months I spent there we had both cool and warm weather - even snow - but nothing even close to the dramatic process that is Norwegian spring. Without the melting snow, the "ad hoc" creeks in the middle of the road, the return of migrant birds and sunshine after what feels like an incredibly long absence - Tokyo spring just didn't feel like spring. 

Because of my lack of spring mood, I also didn't indulge in one of my annual spring activities - reading The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. It was my favourite book as a child, and I've continued reading it every spring. The timing is essential. It cannot be too early, since a return to winter after I've started reading it will always put me in a terrible mood. At the same time, I cannot read it too late, as the turn of spring into summer completely ruins the experience. I want the world around me to wake up to spring along with the garden in the book. 

Now I've been given a new opportunity to perform my ritual this year. When I returned to Norway it was winter. In just little over a week, it is definitely spring. The snow is melting faster than I've ever seen. The sun is warming, and my nose is as freckled as it only gets this time of year. I feel the urge to take off my winter coat and boots again, and it won't be long till it's time to look for the first brave flowers. 

This is the perfect timing for reading The Secret Garden. 

" 'I like you! I like you!' she cried out, pattering down the walk; and she chirped and tried to whistle, which last she did not know how to do in the least. But the robin seemed to be quite satisfied and chirped and whistled back at her. At last he spread his wings and made a darting flight to the top of a tree, where he perched and sang loudly."

"Mistress Mary, quite contrary,

How does your garden grow?

With silver bells, and cockle shells,

And marigolds all in a row."

"In the course of her digging with her pointed stick Mistress Mary had found herself digging up a sort of white root rather like an onion. She had put it back in its place and patted the earth carefully down on it and just now she wondered if Martha could tell her what it was.

'Martha,' she said, 'what are those white roots that look like onions?'

'They're bulbs,' answered Martha. 'Lots o' spring flowers grow from 'em. Th' very little ones are snowdrops an' crocuses an' th' big ones are narcissuses an' jonquils and daffydowndillys. Th' biggest of all is lilies an' purple flags. Eh! they are nice. Dickon's got a whole lot of 'em planted in our bit o'garden.'"

"It was the sweetest, most mysterious-looking place any one could imagine. The high walls which shut it in were covered with the leafless stems of climbing roses which were so thick that they were matted together. Mary Lennox knew they were roses because she had seen a great many roses in India. All the ground was covered with grass of a wintry brown and out of it grew clumps of bushes which were surely rosebushes if they were alive. There were numbers of standard roses which had so spread their branches that they were like little trees. There were other trees in the garden, and one of the things which made the place look strangest and loveliest was that climbing roses had run all over them and swung down long tendrils which made light swaying curtains, and here and there they had caught at each other or at a far-reaching branch and had crept  from one tree to another and made lovely bridges of themselves."

"There was a laurel-hedged walk which curved round the secret garden and ended at a gate which opened into a wood, in the park. She thought she would slip round this walk and look into the wood and see if there were any rabbits hopping about."

"When she had reached the place where the door hid itself under the ivy, she was startled by a curious loud sound. It was the caw-caw of a crow and it came from the top of the wall, and when she looked up, there sat a big, glossy-plumaged blue-black bird, looking down at her very wisely indeed." 

" 'This here one he's called Nut an' this here other one's called Shell.' 
When he said  'Nut' one squirrel leaped onto his right shoulder and when he said 'Shell' the other one leaped on to his left shoulder."

"And the roses - the roses! Rising out of the grass, tangled around the sun-dial, wreathing the tree trunks and hanging from their branches, climbing up the walls and spreading over them with long garlands falling in cascades - they came alive day by day, hour by hour. Fair fresh leaves, and buds - and buds - tiny at first but swelling and working Magic until they burst and uncurled into cups of scent delicately spilling themselves over their brims and filling the garden air."

All excerpts from The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett, from The Collected Works of Frances Hodgson Burnett (Kindle edition). All pictures taken by yours truly, on three continents.

On yuki

Yuki means "snow" in Japanese (or so I've been told), and it is also a pretty girl's name. I used to know a girl named Yuki. I also knew a Yuka and a Yoko (actually, I now know a new Yoko), but this post is not about anyone of them. It's not even about Yuki. It's all about the snow.

Since Japan stretches from north to south about as far as Norway does (not that this would be a point of reference for many of my readers, but whatever... Get a map!), it means that the climate in the northernmost parts of the country is quite different from that of southern Japan (and I'm not even counting Okinawa, which is a different story altogether). The northern parts of Japan get a considerable amount of snow each winter - many of them being the location for several famous ski resorts.

Not Tokyo, though. Tokyo rarely gets much snow, and thus I didn't plan for snow or cold weather when I packed my bags in frozen Norway more than a month ago (time flies!).

Silly me. Last weekend the forecast said cold weather, and while it was nowhere near Norway's 17 blue at the same time, the slushy snow falling over Tokyo and Yokohama (but the snow in Yokohama is another story. Possibly, probably over at the Burrow blog tomorrow) Friday, Saturday and Monday (Sunday was nice, though) was about as cold as anything I've ever felt.

"Oh, but you're Norwegian, you're used to it!" a French housemate told me. Like being used to it helps! It is still cold right here, right now! Besides, I'm not used to it, not now. One month in sunny Tokyo has more than convinced my body that it is spring, and it is not prepared for (or okay with) snow! And, in Norway I am accustomed to being able to wear warm clothes (again, I didn't pack too much of those), and  most importantly, to go inside in a warm house when it's too chilly outside. I can go inside in Japan too, but my current lodging is pretty freaking cold when the temperatures fall, due to the unfortunate combination of poor insulation and a space heater that malfunctions if the outside air is too cold/humid.

"Why do you think I came here?" I replied to the French(wo)man-en-tromper (oui, je sais. Mon francais n'est pas fraîche. Me poursuivre!). I certainly did not come to have more snow!

That night I heard many cars outside my window having problems staying on the road in the relatively heavy snowfall (for Tokyo; for Norway - this was more like an "October scare"). The next morning the papers reported any number of injuries, broken bones, damaged cars, as a result of the snow.

But when I left the house that day to see remnants of snow on the sidewalk and in the street, I couldn't help but smile. Somewhere inside me, there was a child wanting to throw a snowball.

It seems I am Norwegian after all :)

On fluff, part two

Last time I wrote about snow, was in June. That was metaphorical snow. Summery snow. Candyfloss snow. Dandelion (or otherwise) seeds floating through the air like dust bunnies with parachutes.

Now it's the real thing.

I know it's only October. Not even late October (what do you mean it's late October? It's not! It's late-mid October, thankyouverymuch, and it is still AGES till my thesis deadline...). Even for Norway this is early. We generally can expect snow in October, but it never actually appears until November. And even then, it melts again, before proper winter sets in early December (or so). It's the law of first snow.

Thursday night, though, nature had forgotten about the law of first snow. October-schmoctober. It's snow time!

Early snow always causes problems. The subway was delayed. Cars that had not yet shifted to winter tires slid off the road like Disney on Ice. I was a popsicle in my tennis shoes and thin jacket.

And yet. There is nothing - nothing - as soothing as the first snow. It always fills me with a peace of mind unmatched by anything else I know. The fluff falling from the sky - quietly whirling through a dark, cold night, completely careless of the problems it may cause on ground - somehow manage to calm me down. There is nothing I can do about it. The snow will fall. It will cover everything in a layer of candyfloss that effectively dulls the sounds of the city, that softens every sharp edge, and hides the blemishes humans apply to our surroundings.

It is an inevitable sign that winter is impending. But it doesn't matter. The first snow always make me happy. However, I do hope it will be weeks before we have any more of it...

On dragonflies

This was the fall when
I learnt that dragonflies are
Into history














A haiku of sorts, though not really. It has the required three lines and 17 syllables, but then an English syllable doesn’t actually equal a Japanese “on” (or so my thorough research on Wikipedia informs me), so my haiku probably wouldn’t be accepted into the haiku society – you know, if there was such a society). Oh, well. It’s my first attempt, so bear over with me.

My stay in Japan in 2006 left many impressions on me – some good, some not so good. One of the memories I always will remember fondly is the outdoors study sessions late in the fall – sitting outside wearing t-shirts was unheard of for a Norwegian!

Towards the end of the summer the dragonflies got lazy and careless – and invasive. They settled in our hair, on our coffee cans (the majority of the coffee I consumed that fall came on cans from vending machines), and in our textbooks. Thus the above shot was made. I can’t say if it was coincidental, or if the dragonfly really was interested in Korean history.

On fluff

It’s been snowing a lot lately. I know – crazy Norwegian weather, right? Well, actually, it’s not that kind of snow. It’s some sort of cottonish seed falling from the sky; much like someone was sitting in the top of a very tall tree blowing dandelion parachutes down on us. He would need a lot of dandelions to do that, though, since these candyfloss-like specks have been dancing through the air - day and night, unstoppable except when it rains - for about a week.

The dandelion-candyfloss-snowflakes gather on the road like real snow would. They settle down in your hair, but they don’t melt. They enter my apartment through the open window, and land on the floor where they look suspiciously like albino dust bunnies. If you try to catch them they slip away, brushing their soft fur against your fingers.

This summery snow has an annoying sort of beauty to it. I just brushed one of the seeds off my nose because it made me sneeze. But I cannot stop marvel at the way the specks catch the bright sunlight, or how the larger clouds of them are slowly falling, until they are whirled around by a breath of wind. Seconds later they return to gliding lazily through the air like feathers.

I don’t know what kind of seed it is, but it is definitely not dandelion. All I know is that with the rate they are falling we should have candyfloss trees popping up everywhere next summer.

On Oslo

Washington, D.C. is more impressive. Paris is more chic. Tokyo is more modern. Berlin is more shopping friendly. But Oslo is home.

I have visited a number of great cities around the world, and many of them have left lasting impressions on me. But as far as I know Oslo is the only one of these cities where you can hop on the metro or a bus from anywhere in the vibrant city centre and within half an hour be deep in the forest or out on the fjord.

Oslo is a small city by international standards, but it is Norway’s only proper metropolis. It doesn’t have enough people to make it crowded, but there is enough to uphold a decent quantity of theaters, concerts, exhibitions and other activities that depend on a certain amount of customers. As far as Norwegian standards go, Oslo is fairly diverse, and you can find small enclaves of different cultures around the city (but rather than Chinatown or Little Mexico, you have Little Little Pakistan). Oslo have both crazily expensive 12 bedroom mansions, apartment complexes originally built for working class heroes, and English style brick houses with surrounding gardens. The different areas of the city range from those who were settled in (and still have some original buildings from) the Viking Age, and those who are being constructed (or reconstructed) today.

Of the latter is the new opera house rising from the water in Bjørvika. Once you tire of promenading on top of the smooth marble surface, you can go see the view over the city from the new ski jump at Holmenkollen, or you can go people watching by the seaside at Aker Brygge. You can sit in one of the parks along the river. You can explore medieval ruins in the Old Town, or climb the cannons at the fortress. If there is a rain shower (let’s face it, it’s Norway – there probably will be) you can go see an original Munch at the designated museum at Tøyen, or you can visit the Kon Tiki or maritime museums out on Bygdøy.

In my opinion Oslo is at its best in May or June. That is when you have the best chance of experiencing days like today, when all you want to do is stroll down in the park and read a book, or take the ferry out to one of the islands where you can bathe in the cool seawater of the fjord. It is sunny outside, but thanks to the Scandinavian climate and a slight breeze, it isn’t hot. It is perfectly comfortable to sit outside in the sunshine, sipping an iced tea at a local café (like I am doing right now). This is one of those days when Oslo feels like a bigger city than it really is, because so many people are outside. People are smiling at strangers for once. They are showing off white arms and legs, not yet touched by much sunlight this season. In a few hours they will be lightly tanned arms and legs, or, if you’re like me – light pink.

Oslo in June is what makes Oslo in January worth enduring.




Disclaimer #1:  No, I am not paid by the Norwegian Tourist Agency or some such institution to write this. I really do feel this way about Oslo at times.

Diclaimer #2: To prove the above... I wrote this yesterday. Today we're back to "cloudy with a chance of Norwegian summer". Sigh.

On June

I don’t have a favourite month, mostly because all the months have their particular charm. Also, I’d probably feel compelled to pick my poor, unloved birth month, November; and frankly November isn’t my preferred month (but don’t tell it I said so!).


June, on the other hand, is one of those months everyone can agree is lovely. Living in Norway (or anywhere far north in the world) there is one thing that makes June extra special, and that is the light. We have light! Lots and lots of it! If the darker months (like November, but really, let’s try not to make November any sadder, okay? It already has a hard time dealing with the fact that nobody really likes it) – if the darker months seem, well, dark, there is always June to look forward to. We have what feels like endless daytime (some parts of Norway really do have endless days a few weeks, but I’m not far enough north to enjoy the midnight sun). It’s still light out when it’s supposed to be your bedtime (almost no matter when your bedtime is), and consequently many of us stay up much later than during the winter. That’s okay, though, because with all the light you don’t really need as much sleep (or so goes the common myth that I zealously obey to).

Another reason I like June is that it is strawberry season. Norwegian strawberries are (in my opinion) the best in the world, largely because of all that light; and they will soon be ripe. Strawberries with milk or cream, with or in ice cream, on cakes, as jam, or eaten directly from the box while you dip your feet in the fjord out on some island... Ah! It must be what heaven feels like!

June is also one of the few months when Norwegians enjoy something that in most parts of the world merely qualifies as “spring”. Norway will never be the warmest place on earth (unless the global climate change creates a completely new balance), but I am satisfied if our temperatures reach the 20s (celcius). That is enough for summer dresses and walking barefoot in the grass, and maybe for having an occasional bath in a nearby lake. (That must also be what heaven feels like – in fact, I think heaven probably feels a lot like June.)

Finally, June is a great month for writing. (You almost thought I’d go an entire post without mentioning our little wrimo, BuNoWriMo, didn’t you? Ha! Seriously, though, I won’t keep bringing it up, but we really have a great group gathered [link still in the upper right corner, if you want to join], and with all the happy vibes and encouragement going on it wouldn’t surprise me if we max this challenge with 5 million words altogether – which is HUGE!)

June has always been a great month for writing for me, though. First of all there is the vacation aspect. June has traditionally been the month where my (seemingly) endless summer vacations from school started (though this year I have no vacation at all – my thesis takes no time off *sigh*). With no school, June was when I had the time to write (before the July laziness kicked in). Secondly, the long, light nights also helped. I have lots of memories of sitting up half the night watching the swallows glide across the sky (they must never sleep!) while writing. One of my first epiphanies (the realization that I wanted to be a writer) came one such night when I was about 13. During those many hours of light and the very few hours of darkness I wrote my way through three (!) pens and countless notebook pages, ending up with something of a “writer manifesto”. I have departed somewhat from that since... But the feeling of June as the month where anything is possible stayed with me. Thus, it is only fitting that June will be the month where I finish my first novel (yesIcanyesIcanyesIcan!!!).

On springishness

Spring won’t show her beautiful face in Oslo for a long time yet, but there are nevertheless a few, early signs that she is on her way.


We have hardly seen the sun for months, and the little we did see of it did not seem to give any warmth at all. This morning, however, I could for the first time since I came home from the US say that I felt warmer because of the sunshine in my face. It won’t give me freckles and it won’t melt any snow just yet, but we’re getting there. The sun as it is known throughout most of the world is heading back to Norway too.

Speaking of the sun – she is staying up longer each day. My morning walk to the subway or tram is no longer done in complete darkness. I even have a realistic hope of coming home before sunset one of these days. The polar night (which isn’t actually something we have this far south in Norway; we have some light even during the darkest period) can be tough to deal with, but the definite bonus is the wonderful feeling of coming out of it. Those first few mornings when you realize that you might actually see some light that day are magical. (And then there is the ultimate bonus of our long, long summer days, but I will save that for a post in June…)

The snow may not be melting just yet, but the icicles are falling. Icicles typically form on poorly insulated houses, seeing as the heat escaping from inside meeting the cold outside causes the snow and ice to melt/freeze/melt/freeze into perfect spears of ice. While it takes cold temperatures to form them, it takes warmer weather to make them fall. Now they are dropping like Toyota stock prices. Walking around in the older parts of Oslo (where certain houses haven’t had an upgrade in their insulation for a century or so) is a dangerous business these days. If you’re caught in a rooftop avalanche or hit by a foot long icicle, you won’t be able to enjoy spring this year!

The Romanian accordion players are back! They can’t play for the life of them, but this does not appear to be relevant as they occupy every subway station entrance there is in Oslo, hoping to earn a few kroner. Wisely enough they have been gone during the long, cold winter, so seeing them reappearing makes me feel almost as springish as seeing the first snow drops.

There is definitely springishness in the air. You just have to know what to look for!

On dugnad and bunad: a lesson in Norwegian(s) # 3

I apologize for my absence yesterday. I think I am trying to slowly ease into a “weekdays only” routine, but I am clearly not very good at it, as today is a Sunday. In my defense, though, it’s one of those Sundays that don’t really act like a Sunday. It definitely acts like a Monday. It’s raining, I have a feeling that I overslept (even though there was nothing I was supposed to get up in time for), and in general the world looks gloomy. I wonder if I’ll do that planned “Sunday walk” as all Norwegians are indoctrinated to do once a week from infancy… Right now, it isn’t very tempting, but as any Norwegian will tell you with an evil wink – det finnes ikke dårlig vær, det finnes bare dårlige klær [there’s no such thing as bad weather, there is only bad clothes].

To make my apology more credible, let me explain why I wasn’t blogging yesterday. I was out walking. Yup, that’s right – tradition breaker – my sister and I went for a Sunday walk on a Saturday! We visited a flea market and a fancy grocery store/café plus we walked for quite a long time (and talked even longer). The grocery store/café was nice and (expensive and) all, but hardly anything to blog home about. I thought I should elaborate on the flea market, though, as it reflects something very Norwegian.

Don’t worry. I know flea markets aren’t Norwegian by design, but there is something about the design of the Norwegian ones that makes me think they are Norwegian in spirit. They are almost exclusively run as a way of raising money to marching bands, sport teams or similar organizations. Basically, the flea markets are run by the parents of children in these teams or bands, voluntarily on a compulsory basis. It’s a dugnad.

Dugnad is one of the words Norwegian school children are taught you can’t find an equivalent of in the English language. According to my good friend, thefreedictionary.com, dugnad is

a Norwegian word for unpaid, voluntary work. It might be like a Barn raising, where friends and family meet to help an individual, or the members of a club meet to build a clubhouse, arrange a flea market and so on.

 Further, there is another word – dugnadsånd [spirit of the dugnad] – which indicates the enthusiasm participation in a dugnad is met with (though frankly – this enthusiasm isn’t actually all that common. Norwegians love to hate dugnads). The idea still lives strongly in this country, though, as it seems to be expected of you, as a Norwegian, to participate in these “voluntary” activities. However, let me emphasize that I don’t believe in the implication some seem to put into the teaching that Norwegian is one of the few languages in the world that has a word for dugnad. We don’t have a monopoly on voluntary activities, and pretending otherwise is just stupid.

Another word that is exclusive for Norwegian has more of a natural explanation. Our national costume is called a bunad. (I wanted to comment on the relative similarity between these two words, but I can’t really think of anything to say. I still needed to say that I wanted to say something, though, before someone else comments... First!) A bunad is a dress-like costume, frequently made partly or entirely of wool, often with elaborate decorations on them. They are made to resemble clothes the rural population of Norway used to wear in the period and areas most cherished in our National Romanticism. With time, a number of designs were developed, usually constructed according to what was believed were traditions in the local area the particular design is from. My own bunad (you may not know it, but assuming you have visited this blog before, you have seen a picture of it several times. Take a look in the right top corner of this page. Ignore the silly facial expression...) is from my mother’s birthplace, Toten, and in its design you find patterns both from the beginning of the 18th and 19th centuries, and replicas of jewellery that was found in a Viking grave.

Not unlike other “cultural reconstructions”, though, there is no definite telling whether the actual results are anything like the original they are supposed to be reconstructed from. There is no doubt that the bunad is an extremely Norwegian cultural phenomenon, but it’s safer to say that it is a phenomenon of today, rather than a (concise) historical one.

Not all Norwegians have bunads, but those that have them (and can still fit in them – frequently, girls are given one for their confirmation at the age of fourteen. Needless to say, this means that a lot of them grow out of their bunads before they are fully grown...) mostly wear them for our constitutional day, at May 17th. Tune back in then for more reports on bunads...

The point of this post, though, was to enlighten any non-Norwegian speaking readers of these two words that are exclusively Norwegian. Learn them, and you’ll have a good starting point for mastering the rest of the language (or at least, understanding its speakers a little better).



Currently listening to: Min allra största kärlek by Richard Wolff (that I bought for 25 kroner at the flea market. Bargain!)

Currently reading: To Kill a Mocking Bird by Harper Lee. We finally figured out what book we decided to read for the book circle.

On snow

It’s snowing again. This is early, even for Norway*. Normally, November snow - if we have any - will be gone within hours, or turn into slush as soon as it hits the ground. I’m willing to bet that today’s white prettiness also will disappear again relatively quick – we’re not guaranteed a White Christmas just yet.


Still, knowing that it is temporary does not limit the peacefulness I feel when the ground is covered with a white layer. Anne Grete Preus, a Norwegian singer/songwriter put it this way: “Det snør himmelsk korrekturlakk over feilstavet sommer” [It’s snowing heavenly correction fluid over misspelled summer]. The snow really covers up any blemishes and makes the world look a little prettier. There are few things that make me happier than snow when it first appears in the winter.

After a while, though, the snow starts to wear on me. Usually I am fairly okay with it on this side of Christmas. I can’t imagine anything but a White Christmas (the few times I’ve experiences snow-less Christmas, it has often been cold enough for frost to make it look like there is snow after all). But as soon as we pass New Years Eve, snow isn’t as wonderful anymore. I tolerate it in January. I am getting tired of it, but still realize that it is supposed to be there in February. Come March and I am fed up. If we still have snow in April (or worse, if it’s all gone, and then comes back), I am ready to emigrate. Because, no matter how pretty it looks, snow is impractical. It is also true as Preus continues: “Alt går litt langsommere her på jorden når hele himmelen faller ned” [Everything is slower on Earth when the entire sky falls down]. I don’t understand why Oslo, a city that gets snow EVERY year, still is completely paralyzed with heavy snow falls. It will happen again, the same way it always does. You’d think they’d learned by now.

Instead of dreading the long months ahead with all the problems snow and limited daylight will guarantee, though, tonight I refuse to be anything but happy about it. It looks very pretty with the flakes falling, gliding, dancing towards the ground.

*Keep in mind that Norway is a long and narrow country. There are considerable climatic differences between 71° and 56°, which are the two latitudes between which Norway’s continental territory spans. My idea of November as early for snow might not be shared by people living up north. And they certainly have even less daylight than what we do in the Oslo-area. The benefit of having the Midnight Sun in summer, also means they have almost two months without any sun at all in winter time.


Currently listening to: Anne Grete Preus – “Når himmelen faller ned” and DumDum Boys – ”Stjernesludd”

Currently reading: my own sorry NaNo(Poo)In Progress, even though I know I shouldn’t… Ability to write, what happened to you? Did I kill you?

On with it

From Newark airport you can see Manhattan. Which, apart from my train ride to Boston, was as close as I got...

On Friday I was 23 years old, I was in the United States, and I was preparing to leave after my three months stay. Today, Monday, I’m 24, I’m in (snowy) Norway, I’ve had a great weekend with my family and it hardly feels like I’ve been away at all (except for the unpacked suitcase that I try to ignore). I’m not even all that jetlagged – I don’t think my body ever got used to the East Coast time zone, so adjusting it back wasn’t all that hard. In fact I think it’s harder for me now to adjust to the fact that I am a lot further north – this primarily has two consequences.

First of all, it’s colder. I mentioned we had snow today. It stopped a few hours ago, but it’s still white out (it probably will stay till the morning, then I expect it’ll all melt). Now, I like snow (at least on this side of Christmas), so I’m okay with this. I also have a new coat that I couldn’t use in the US (too warm), so I’m also okay with lower temperatures.

The other result of being further north is that it’s a lot darker here. It started getting dark at 4p.m. this afternoon (“the blue hour” – fall and winter twilight makes the whole world blue), and by 5 p.m. it was pitch dark. I guess this also helps with convincing my body it’s not midday, so perhaps I have winter darkness to thank for lack of jetlag. It also allows nice, cozy evenings in front of the fireplace. Let’s hope it won’t give me too much “darkness depressions” – usually I find spring before actually spring starts worse in that respect so I might be okay for now.

It is also dawning on me that now that I am back, it is time to return to my daily life. I’ve had a ton of greetings from friends, asking me when I’ll be back in Oslo (I’m currently residing with my parents in my hometown, in case I didn’t mention that). It’s very nice to feel so appreciated. The truth is, though, that I haven’t thought that much about when I’ll go back yet. Actually, I don’t even have a place to stay. (I have options, but nothing settled.) Since I ideally ought to get cracking on my thesis again pretty damn soon, there is no time to lose in getting back to Oslo (plus I want to see my friends). However, it is pretty darned comfortable being here, having my meals made, my clothes washed and no rent to pay. Still, I can’t have such luxury forever.

Finally, NaNoWriMo is on. I signed up not really believing I could do it, and I still don’t know if I can. But by now I’ve decided that I do want to make an effort. So far (2460 words) it’s crappy, but I know that it will get better once get further into the actual plot. The problem right now is that my back story doesn’t match the character, which eventually will mean I re-write the back story, but at the moment it’s too integrated in the main action for me to care, and in true NaNo spirit, I’ve decided to limit edits in favour of word count.

The view from my bedroom window this afternoon. I told you there was snow!

On midwestern adventures (part one)

I was terribly nervous before I left for Minnesota – both the fact that I was about to meet someone I had not seen for 16 years, and the fact that I had to fly to get there contributed to my “close to breakdown” state of mind on Friday morning. However, thanks to the (placebo?) effect of some long-since expired motion sickness pills and the distracting effect of the Nobel Peace Prize, I was surprisingly unaffected by the flights.


When I arrived in Minneapolis Darlene and her son, Troy, were waiting for me. It took about two seconds – the same two seconds it took to recognize each other (I have, after all, changed somewhat since 1993) – and then it was as if we had known each other for ever. It felt a lot less weird than expected to meet again someone I’ve basically communicated with through postcards since I was six years old. Darlene has always been the nicest of people, and meeting the rest of them, I was about to discover that nice runs in the family. On our way to Sartell we stopped for dinner. That was where I discovered a couple of things. First, that I was not allowed to pay even a dime whenever we ate somewhere. To Darlene, this was the most natural thing in the world seeing as this was her way of paying back for the hospitality she and her mother received in Norway when they visited (did I mention that I was only six…?). Secondly, I discovered breakfast for supper. The beauty of this is that I often find it too much to eat the American (or even worse, the British) version of breakfast in the morning. At night, however… (I love hash browns!)

Once we got to Darlene’s house, where I also got to meet her husband, Dick, she gave me the grand tour. Darlene runs a daycare from home. The basement of the house was dedicated to this. In the rest of it, however, her house was filled with all sorts of Norwegian artifacts – either souvenirs from her trip there, or items her grandmother or other relatives brought with them when they emigrated. The Norwegian identity means a lot to Darlene. She also let me see some photographs – both from her vacation in Norway (how strange it was to see how little I was, and how young my parents looked! Also it was weird to see people, like my grandmother, who are no longer with us), and some older ones inherited from her grandmother. Some of these had Norwegian inscriptions, so I happily translated for them what I could decipher (old handwriting can be hard to understand).

The next morning we woke up to snow! Snow in mid-October is early even for Minnesota, especially considering they had just had a warm period. However, I absolutely loved it – made me feel right at home (though they haven’t had any snow at home yet, as far as I know). Luckily I had been warned, so I had made sure to bring some warm clothes. This was especially fortunate since we were to spend much of the day driving north, where it got colder still.

“North” technically meant about mid-Minnesota, to Darlene’s mom’s hometown, where a number of her (and mine) relatives still live. We got to meet her cousin Jeanie (or Janie – it was kind of hard to tell since they were identical twins. Even if I only met the one, the fact that they had such similar names made it hard for me to keep them apart. I’m told I’m not the only one) for lunch. Together the twins run a beauty salon, and Janie (I found the card she gave me, so I’m pretty sure this was her) is going to D.C. this fall on business. Unfortunately this is after I leave – otherwise it would be a lot of fun to see her again.

After chatting with her for a while (the diner we went to was a really stereotypical truck stop, one of those who probably haven’t changed much the last 30, 40 or even 50 years. I loved it!), Darlene and I headed for her brother John’s house. John is the family genealogist. I don’t know if his interest for family history got a kick start when he visited Norway back in the early 70s, but he definitely had fond memories from back then and he was happy to share. He also showed me several documents (some of which I could help translate). He had some charts, a family tree of such, sent to his grandmother (the one who emigrated, my great grandfather’s sister) by a local clergy man from her parish in Norway in 1935. Looking at these charts, I thought the handwriting was somewhat familiar. And quite correctly, in the corner of the charts was an inscription in Norwegian – “from your old friend, O. Gjörvad”. The local clergy man, Olav Gjørvad (as the modern spelling would be), is no other than my great, great grandfather on the other side of my family. Small world, huh? Since John had copies he offered me the charts, so I will now return them to Norway, after they have been in the U.S. for almost 75 years.

We spent the evening with John and his wife Shelley, and their gorgeous one-year-old granddaughter Arenda, that they were babysitting. After everyone in the family had beaten me thoroughly in every sport their Wiii had to offer, we went to the closest neighbor – Arenda’s parents Nick and Candi, where we stayed overnight. The next morning, Nick and Candi, who had been to a wedding Saturday night, were able to join us for breakfast back at John and Shelley’s. You might wonder why I am offering all these details. Basically, it’s primarily because I feel that it illustrates so well the hospitality they showed me. I felt so welcome everywhere, and they were such nice people. All this just because I’m family! Needless to say, I made sure to tell them all that they would be as welcome should they ever decide to visit Norway (I’ve got something of a debt to pay).

On Sunday we went back south, where we were scheduled to visit a grand old lady, but not a relative this time. The history museum in Saint Cloud is currently hosting the dinosaur “Sue”. She was pretty impressive, and I also liked the rest of the museum.

That night Troy took me to the local movie theater (which I loved, since this actually is the first time since I came to the U.S. I’ve been to the movies). And the next morning, to finish off my Minnesota stay in style, we went to the Mall of America. Depending on how you count, it’s either the largest or the second largest mall in the USA. It’s got more than 400 stores, I’ve no idea how many restaurants and cafés, there’s an amusement park and an aquarium, to mention some of the attractions. It’s also a good place to get lost, and to spend more dollars than you can afford. I enjoyed seeing it, though, and it was a nice end of my stay. We went directly from the mall to the airport, where Darlene and Troy dropped me off. I really hope I will get to see them again, and I certainly will stay in touch!

Leaving Minnesota behind for this time, I was so excited to go to Michigan to see Tami that I arrived three hours early... To get the details from the mayhem we caused, however, you will have to tune back in tomorrow…

On blogging about nothing

Oh, my great Digression – I have nothing to blog about today!


No funky telegrams have been found; no odd weather phenomena have struck me to the ground; no language related craziness has come in my way lately (though it did take me a while to figure out what the plural of phenomenon was, since Phenomena to me only is a YA fantasy series I reluctantly sell to teenagers or their moms every now and then back home).

I suppose I could write about how my throat all of a sudden feels sore and how I hope it isn’t the swine flu, or any other kind of flu, for that matter – but I feel that this has been done (and it is more of a Facebook status update kind of thing anyway). I could write about the lady in the office next to mine who has the annoying habit of putting a question mark at the end of every sentence? But then again, I already did use that as a Facebook status update? (Plus I think it would be annoying to write an entire blog filled with question marks?)

There is always the possibility of writing a book review, but I’ve never been very good at that – I tend to be overly afraid of giving away anything, which is all nice and cotton candy, but it doesn’t make for a good book review if you can’t say zilch about what happens in the book. Besides, I’m in the middle of a book at the moment (Going Bovine, which is highly entertaining, though I suspect tears towards the end), and the previous book I read has already been mentioned in this blog – and even though Pandora in the Congo was an interesting book that I’d highly recommend if you’re looking for a good, but not necessarily mainstream read, I’m not sure it’s entitled to both an anecdote and a review within a couple of weeks.

Since I only have one month left in the US now, I ought to take the opportunity to write page up and page down on all the American oddities I find, or the cultural differences that sooner or later surely will send me straight into cultural shock. However, I find that the differences can either be overcome easily, or they are not that big in the first place. Or maybe I’m just awesomely superior at adapting? Either way, the biggest challenge isn’t the difference in culture, but the fact that my friends and family are far away. And who wants to read a blog where I complain about missing those at home, eh? I could spice it up with how I am not sure if I like or dislike the fact that soup comes in cans rather than “mix-with-water-powder-packs” here; or how I have discovered that I really hate that the cashier packs your groceries for you – it takes FOREVER; but again, I don’t think it makes a great blog. It makes boring blog. Boring blog bad.

My very last idea is to find a random picture from my personal archive (it’s called “the Internet” – haha – kidding… I try to use my own pictures whenever possible, but every now and then I find my own set of images just doesn’t cover it – if I for some reason should need a picture of a cucumber, it would be a lot easier to try to find one online instead of going to the store, buy a cucumber, take it home, take a picture, upload it to my computer and from there to my blog. Too much work. Wow – I almost forgot that I still was inside a parenthesis there). I could do that. But the first very random picture I found was the one below, and frankly, there’s not all that much to say about good, old Axil of Evil (other than that he was the result of what an already corrupted mind did to a frequent typo back when I was writing about North Korea and not the Middle East. We love them conflicts, don’t we?).

So, to conclude, I am very sorry, but I have absolutely nothing to blog about today.

On laundry

You might not have actually done it, but I believe the situation is so familiar that you all can relate anyway. The red sock in the otherwise white laundry. Everybody knows what happens – all the white clothes turn a bubblegum shade of pink. Well, imagine it wasn’t just a sock, imagine it was a dress. Oh, the agony. Let my tale unroll…


I bought a red dress. It is a lovely dress – I feel great wearing it, and the dress as a dress is not an issue at all. I love it, and I will come back to whether or not I love it enough to feel that this was worth it.

The first time I wore the dress I spent many hours outdoors. At the end of the day, I was more sunburned than I’d realized – and oddly enough it seemed as though the sun had affected me more in areas that I’d thought was covered. “Seemed” is the keyword in that sentence. When I got home and washed off the dust and sweat after having explored Washington, D.C. in 30 or so degrees (Celsius – meaning “horrid” in Fahrenheit, according to my personal converting system ), the washcloth (the spotless, white washcloth) turned pink. It wasn’t the sun after all; it was the result of a colourful dress worn in extreme humidity.

The washcloth looked beyond repair, and as it is not my washcloth – it belongs to the family I live with – I was not too happy about it, but I figured that I might give it a wash before I gave up on it. Plus, white can be bleached. Worst case scenario – I owed them a washcloth. I could live with it.

After a few days I wore the dress again. This time I wore it with a white (…) tank top and white tights under. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Naturally, when I got home, I was wearing partially pink tank top and tights… (I looked like a bubblegum giraffe.) Again, the whites look beyond repair (but at least this time only my own items got affected, I thought).

Until I decided to try to wash them.

For some reason I decided to try hand wash.

First, I washed the whites. I might as well have stuck out my tongue and licked them – none of the red/pink came off. Fine, one go in the washing machine before I try bleach, I thought to myself. Not tonight though. No, this was Amish-night – hand wash was the deal.

Then I decided to also wash the dress.

Not surprisingly, the washing water (and the basin, I’m afraid) was pretty red. I washed it over and over and over again. Still red. (How much colour can there be in one dress?) Again and again, but the water was as red as ever. Finally, I started to worry that I’d probably spent the water supply of an entire African village for a year trying to get the excess dye out of the dress. So I decided to give up, and instead try the washing machine on the dress as well. However, it was getting late and I was in no mood to do more laundry, so I hung the dress over the bathtub to let it dry (Amish all over the place).

Only it didn’t dry (HING humidity! For an entertaining – yet truthful – etymology of the word hing, that surely will be used again in this blog, follow this link). It dripped. Red water. Onto a white towel I had hung under (also to dry – hahahaha), and from there, onto the white rug on the floor. To top it I also noticed that I had managed to wipe my hands on another towel after having washed the dress – transferring the dye to this (also white) towel as well.

In the process of using and washing this dress for the first time, I have ruined a washcloth, a tank top, a pair of tights, two towels and a rug. Plus potentially the bathtub and the bathroom sink. I can now truly say I know how it feels to discover the red sock in the white wash.

(I still love the dress, and I remain hopeful that we will reconcile once sufficiently colour has washed off so that I can use it without fear of pinkifying the world.)