People are such interesting creatures.
I find myself studying them, like a nature photographer might study insects or a pride of lions. I'm Sir David Attenborough, only the habitat of study is found among lattes and fake rustique furniture, rather than palm trees and exotic plants.
A meeting. Four women. In their forties, or seemingly in their forties. Maybe one is a little older. Maybe one is younger. But they are all of the glorious "too old to be naive, young enough to be fresh of mind" age. They know life, these women. They have ambitions, careers, they spend their weekends as happily with their small children as with friends over a glass of wine. Some of them are divorced. One has a young lover. They know where they are going, and more importantly - they know where they've been.
The women are joined by a man. He is midgeted by them. He is a photographer, and his task is to document the meeting. An interview. Classy pictures in soft light, disguising fine lines around the eyes, but not hiding the stauesque shades that add character to the faces. The man takes a bite of his sandwich. Takes a few more pictures. Knows that his role is unimportant now, here, but once the interview is published, the pictures will be glorious. He knows. He is man enough to realize is position.
A young bust boy. Not the brightest. Slightly inappropriate in that he steals candid looks at the female guests. He performs simple tasks such as refilling the coffee beans, stacking glasses, clearing tables. Maybe he has it the right way, though - why should life be complicated? Free coffee, simple tasks and unlimited access to the view of breastfeeding mothers. He's having the time of his life.
A couple. Recently married, a baby on the way. They hold hands and talk to the bump. Notice a small family nearby, exchange smiles with the tired-looking mother. The children, a toddler and a boy close to school-age, are more noisy than the young couple imagine their own child will be. "I was a quiet kid even if my parents gave me a free upbringing," she thinks, certain that her genes will ensure quiet café visits also after the baby is born. "I will be a firmer parent and thus avoid such nonsense," he thinks, certain that his wife will agree with this approach. "Our child will be different," they agree through meaningful glances as the toddler drops a cup to the floor.
A young mother. Two children, the second one planned. The father is working, and she once thought it romantic to stay at home while the kids were young. It is not romantic. It is meaningful, tiresome, exhausting. She misses her job, her colleagues, her career. She loves her children, but they drive her to the brink sometimes. Like now, when she in a desperate urge to leave the house - even for just a few hours - had taken them to the local café. She knows this is never a good idea. The kids only ever want cakes or pastries when they are there, and she can't be too firm in public, as she hates making a scene. Then again, she hates the idea of people thinking that she has a habit of feeding her kids confectionery goods. Sugared up and wearing too much clothes the boy turns into a nightmare and the sweet baby girl is not sweet enough to dull her mother's irritation when a cup disintegrates against the concrete floor. For a brief moment she considers standing up and leaving. But then, of course, she doesn't.
A woman, observing the lot. Trying to blend in, trying to conceal her fascination with them. She smiles - not at people, but, seemingly - of them. They don't notice her much, though. Everyone is busy with their own. When she leaves, no one even looks up.
Showing posts with label coffee. Show all posts
Showing posts with label coffee. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Saturday, September 22, 2012
On biscotti and being right
Today I visited for the first time a new coffee shop that's popped up in my neighbourhood.
It's not like we were lacking coffee shops as it was. There are probably at least ten or fifteen in a 1km radius from my house, and that's not even counting any of the places that are more restaurants or cafés than coffee shops.
But, evidently, we needed one more.
Granted, this one is different from many of the others. A few selected chains have a definite majority of the market here, while this is an indie shop. Also, while many other coffee shops focus on offering plenty of seats for their customers, this one goes the other way around. They offer no one.
It's a take-away joint, exclusively.
As I'm sure a significant portion of the market is take-away I suppose this makes no huge difference for the income for this little shop - they would at any rate not be able to serve many sit-in customers in such a tiny venue.
Still, this poses a new challenge for us as customers. I'm used to now, from years of being a coffee drinker, to always specify whether I want my coffee to-go or not. In this case, though, such details are redundant, as the barista kindly informed me.
I say "kindly" because that's what it was, or at least, that was the intention. Clearly, the barista used this extra information I provided automatically (and I'm sure I'm not the first to do so) as an ice-breaker of sorts, a way of chatting friendlily (which really ought to be a word. "Friendlily" is vastly different from "friendly", just saying...) with the customers.
Well, we chatted. Friendlily. I put up a calm face, and I'm certain that the barista thought I was being sincere. All the while standing there, however, I felt a burning desire to quarrel. It wasn't so much that I'd been caught stating the obvious as it was a reaction to low blood sugar and a result of a certain irrationality I've always carried with me. I'm not proud of it. But there you go.
Anyway, what she told me, this barista, was that the reason there was no need to specify whether one wanted to go or not (or rather, paper or porcelain) was that for coffee shops here in Oslo there is a rule, apparently, that you cannot serve in stoneware if you don't have a customer bathroom (!).
We collectively shook our heads at these silly rules, and she even had me there for a moment, forgetting that I was irrational and quarrelsome, and instead making jokes about how the authorities seems to overstate the correlation between people's need to pee when drinking from mugs instead of paper cups.
At this point we had reached the pay-part of the transaction, and I pulled out my wallet. Just before she put the (paper) cup on the desk in front of me, however, I decided that I also wanted something to go with my coffee.
"I'll take one of those as well," I said, pointing at a big jar of biscotti which was conveniently placed next to the register.
"Oh," she said, "now you've done it."
Turns out there was a consensus among customers and employees alike that these were the world's tastiest biscotti, and that it was virtually impossible to have just one. Not being one to back out of a challenge, however, I remained fixed on the idea of buying one - 1 - biscotti. Thus I did, and then I left.
I'd only walked about a block when I realized that there is a coffee shop not 200 metres from the one I visited today which doesn't have a customer bathroom either. It does, however, serve its coffee in porcelain mugs if you ask for it. Slightly annoyed that I hadn't thought of this earlier, I considered briefly turning around and letting the barista know that she was wrong/I was right/she couldn't get away with such lies. However, the need to actually taste my coffee (I've always found that the problem with take-away coffee is that it is quite difficult to drink and walk at the same time, and it thus often turns into "take-somewhere-else-and-then-drink" coffee for me) prevailed. I returned home instead.
There I tasted the world's tastiest biscotti.
Turns out they weren't lying about this in the coffee shop. It really is the yummiest biscotti I've ever had, and I seriously doubt it's possible that anyone else, anywhere else in time or space has had any yummier.
Now I have two reasons to return to the coffee shop. First, the biscotti. Clearly, it is (near?) impossible to eat just one. I've been craving another for the two hours that's passed since I had the first. Secondly, I still have an urge to go back and tell the barista that there is another coffee shop in the vicinity that doesn't have a customer bathroom but does have mugs.
My problem is this: the two reasons to go back go poorly together. I worry that I might be denied the right to buy another biscotti if I am rude and explains how she was wrong. But if I go back to only buy the biscotti, and not make the remark about the other coffee shop, I fear that I will explode. So far, the only solution I can think of is denying myself both these pleasures - biscotti and being a bossy know-it-all - since I cannot have them together. I can only hope that with time the desire for either one will fade and I can return to other considerations in life.
Also, I need to find a proper translation for the Norwegian word "kverulant".
It's not like we were lacking coffee shops as it was. There are probably at least ten or fifteen in a 1km radius from my house, and that's not even counting any of the places that are more restaurants or cafés than coffee shops.
But, evidently, we needed one more.
Granted, this one is different from many of the others. A few selected chains have a definite majority of the market here, while this is an indie shop. Also, while many other coffee shops focus on offering plenty of seats for their customers, this one goes the other way around. They offer no one.
It's a take-away joint, exclusively.
As I'm sure a significant portion of the market is take-away I suppose this makes no huge difference for the income for this little shop - they would at any rate not be able to serve many sit-in customers in such a tiny venue.
Still, this poses a new challenge for us as customers. I'm used to now, from years of being a coffee drinker, to always specify whether I want my coffee to-go or not. In this case, though, such details are redundant, as the barista kindly informed me.
I say "kindly" because that's what it was, or at least, that was the intention. Clearly, the barista used this extra information I provided automatically (and I'm sure I'm not the first to do so) as an ice-breaker of sorts, a way of chatting friendlily (which really ought to be a word. "Friendlily" is vastly different from "friendly", just saying...) with the customers.
Well, we chatted. Friendlily. I put up a calm face, and I'm certain that the barista thought I was being sincere. All the while standing there, however, I felt a burning desire to quarrel. It wasn't so much that I'd been caught stating the obvious as it was a reaction to low blood sugar and a result of a certain irrationality I've always carried with me. I'm not proud of it. But there you go.
Anyway, what she told me, this barista, was that the reason there was no need to specify whether one wanted to go or not (or rather, paper or porcelain) was that for coffee shops here in Oslo there is a rule, apparently, that you cannot serve in stoneware if you don't have a customer bathroom (!).
We collectively shook our heads at these silly rules, and she even had me there for a moment, forgetting that I was irrational and quarrelsome, and instead making jokes about how the authorities seems to overstate the correlation between people's need to pee when drinking from mugs instead of paper cups.
At this point we had reached the pay-part of the transaction, and I pulled out my wallet. Just before she put the (paper) cup on the desk in front of me, however, I decided that I also wanted something to go with my coffee.
"I'll take one of those as well," I said, pointing at a big jar of biscotti which was conveniently placed next to the register.
"Oh," she said, "now you've done it."
Turns out there was a consensus among customers and employees alike that these were the world's tastiest biscotti, and that it was virtually impossible to have just one. Not being one to back out of a challenge, however, I remained fixed on the idea of buying one - 1 - biscotti. Thus I did, and then I left.
I'd only walked about a block when I realized that there is a coffee shop not 200 metres from the one I visited today which doesn't have a customer bathroom either. It does, however, serve its coffee in porcelain mugs if you ask for it. Slightly annoyed that I hadn't thought of this earlier, I considered briefly turning around and letting the barista know that she was wrong/I was right/she couldn't get away with such lies. However, the need to actually taste my coffee (I've always found that the problem with take-away coffee is that it is quite difficult to drink and walk at the same time, and it thus often turns into "take-somewhere-else-and-then-drink" coffee for me) prevailed. I returned home instead.
There I tasted the world's tastiest biscotti.
Turns out they weren't lying about this in the coffee shop. It really is the yummiest biscotti I've ever had, and I seriously doubt it's possible that anyone else, anywhere else in time or space has had any yummier.
Now I have two reasons to return to the coffee shop. First, the biscotti. Clearly, it is (near?) impossible to eat just one. I've been craving another for the two hours that's passed since I had the first. Secondly, I still have an urge to go back and tell the barista that there is another coffee shop in the vicinity that doesn't have a customer bathroom but does have mugs.
My problem is this: the two reasons to go back go poorly together. I worry that I might be denied the right to buy another biscotti if I am rude and explains how she was wrong. But if I go back to only buy the biscotti, and not make the remark about the other coffee shop, I fear that I will explode. So far, the only solution I can think of is denying myself both these pleasures - biscotti and being a bossy know-it-all - since I cannot have them together. I can only hope that with time the desire for either one will fade and I can return to other considerations in life.
Also, I need to find a proper translation for the Norwegian word "kverulant".
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
On [insert title]
I want you to think of it as a work of fiction, but one produced by an initially creative mind trained for years to think analytically.
I want you to think of me as the main character in this work of fiction. As such you’ll need to know certain things about me. Had this been a regular work of fiction, I would try to weave it in more “comfortably”, “naturally”, subtly. Perhaps a nice “the main character stares at her own reflection in the mirror before having a flashback to childhood”-scene to start things off. But I won’t be doing that.
First of all, to fit the nature of this text – as mentioned I (and by “I” in this case I mean both main character, narrator and, even, author, even though that is breaking all literary rules) have been trained to think and write analytically. I am a lecturer. I preach to my students to be specific, concrete, clear. “Say exactly what you want to say! Don’t expect the reader to know a thing!” (I also tell them to be genre-aware, which of course contradicts my current point since I am about to use the rules from one genre on a completely different one, but whatever.)
Secondly, you don’t have to know what I look like (but for clarity’s sake: tall, blond, blue eyes, small nose and ears, cheeky grin, freckles for spring, one eyebrow that leaps toward my hairline when I question something [the other one pretty much stays put]). You don’t have to know anything about my childhood (but again: happy, youngest child with two older siblings, a fair amount of precociousness that made me simultaneously cute and terribly annoying). A mirror and flash-back scene, then, would not serve the purpose of this text. Story. Whatever.
There might not be a purpose to this text. Story. Whatever.
Sorry. Whatever.
Life is oddly good and bad at the same time for our main character. Let me be specific. I - she - is sitting at a café, enjoying a rare treat (for Norway) of a bottomless coffee pot. In Norway you often pay for your second and third cup as well. [footnote] There is free WiFi at the café, which is less unusual, but not less of a treat to our main character. Her home internet connection died a few weeks ago, and she occasionally suffers from Facebook withdrawal. Not terribly so, though. Other things have been keeping her occupied. Work. Family stuff. The loss of a loved one. The gain of another. (I'd be even more specific, but these details are not strictly necessary for the text. I should cut them, probably. But I am not yet seasoned enough to "kill my darlings". I tell my students to do that. I don't practice what I preach, apparently, Then again, they don't listen [,she says and writes the letter "D" on a piece of paper in front of her. Grading, again.].)
She is smiling. It's been a good morning, even if she's barely started with her work and - boy - does she have work to do. (Grading. As mentioned. Don't use terms like "as previously mentioned" in excess. They derail the reader and make him/her unnecessarily aware of pointless repetitions. Preach. Practice.) She stretches her neck. It's hurting, a little.
Should she brave another cup of coffee? Better not. Even if it's free. She should get going - physically removing herself from the internet seems the only way of getting anything done. Well, not from "the internet". From anywhere with internet access. To explain: the internet holds unlimited (insofar as anything can be "unlimited" in a physical universe. Or a metaphysical one. Or any kind of -ysical. Basically, ∞ - 1, then. The internet holds ∞ - 1) possibilities for procrastination. And it just happens that our main character is a world class procrastinator. If there was an Olympic Championship for procrastination she would win - well, not gold, probably, but silver, or bronze. Or maybe the lousy number four.
Doesn't matter. Does not matter. Try to avoid contractions in formal text. She tends to get stuck in vicious cycles, our friend. "Friend". Main character. Her life distracts her from what she is supposed to do. What she is supposed to do is not something she wants to do, so she lets life distract her even more.
She is an analyst. Not just by profession, but in life. "What does it signify?" she will ask herself, daily, hourly, minutely. "I need a definition." (But did she want one? She is not sure. Though she is fairly happy with the end result.) [Limit the usage of italics. They distract the reader. Especially when you keep highlighting the same word several times in a row, indicating that it is somehow more important than the rest. And then referring to it afterwards, making it unnecessarily clear that there indeed is some specific significance tied to this word. More people than you are analysts, you know. Plus, "unnecessarily" is spelled with two n's, two s's and only one c. You should know this by now, without the spell check having to tip you off every time. Spell check is written in two words.]
She is fairly happy. And she is running out of battery. Another way of physically removing herself from the internet. Or, to be specific, from an internet connection.
[insert footnotes later]
F.
There might not be a purpose to this text. Story. Whatever.
Sorry. Whatever.
Life is oddly good and bad at the same time for our main character. Let me be specific. I - she - is sitting at a café, enjoying a rare treat (for Norway) of a bottomless coffee pot. In Norway you often pay for your second and third cup as well. [footnote] There is free WiFi at the café, which is less unusual, but not less of a treat to our main character. Her home internet connection died a few weeks ago, and she occasionally suffers from Facebook withdrawal. Not terribly so, though. Other things have been keeping her occupied. Work. Family stuff. The loss of a loved one. The gain of another. (I'd be even more specific, but these details are not strictly necessary for the text. I should cut them, probably. But I am not yet seasoned enough to "kill my darlings". I tell my students to do that. I don't practice what I preach, apparently, Then again, they don't listen [,she says and writes the letter "D" on a piece of paper in front of her. Grading, again.].)
She is smiling. It's been a good morning, even if she's barely started with her work and - boy - does she have work to do. (Grading. As mentioned. Don't use terms like "as previously mentioned" in excess. They derail the reader and make him/her unnecessarily aware of pointless repetitions. Preach. Practice.) She stretches her neck. It's hurting, a little.
Should she brave another cup of coffee? Better not. Even if it's free. She should get going - physically removing herself from the internet seems the only way of getting anything done. Well, not from "the internet". From anywhere with internet access. To explain: the internet holds unlimited (insofar as anything can be "unlimited" in a physical universe. Or a metaphysical one. Or any kind of -ysical. Basically, ∞ - 1, then. The internet holds ∞ - 1) possibilities for procrastination. And it just happens that our main character is a world class procrastinator. If there was an Olympic Championship for procrastination she would win - well, not gold, probably, but silver, or bronze. Or maybe the lousy number four.
Doesn't matter. Does not matter. Try to avoid contractions in formal text. She tends to get stuck in vicious cycles, our friend. "Friend". Main character. Her life distracts her from what she is supposed to do. What she is supposed to do is not something she wants to do, so she lets life distract her even more.
She is an analyst. Not just by profession, but in life. "What does it signify?" she will ask herself, daily, hourly, minutely. "I need a definition." (But did she want one? She is not sure. Though she is fairly happy with the end result.) [Limit the usage of italics. They distract the reader. Especially when you keep highlighting the same word several times in a row, indicating that it is somehow more important than the rest. And then referring to it afterwards, making it unnecessarily clear that there indeed is some specific significance tied to this word. More people than you are analysts, you know. Plus, "unnecessarily" is spelled with two n's, two s's and only one c. You should know this by now, without the spell check having to tip you off every time. Spell check is written in two words.]
She is fairly happy. And she is running out of battery. Another way of physically removing herself from the internet. Or, to be specific, from an internet connection.
[insert footnotes later]
F.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
On coffee
I had one. Coffee. Black. No sugar, no cream. Thus, black. As I said. I already said that. Didn't need to specify. But I might as well. People are stupid. Common educational tool. Repetition. I had coffee. Black.
Listen. How I take my coffee doesn't matter. Besides, I change my mind about it. Frequently. I once stopped visiting a coffee shop because the guy figured out my "regular". I don't do regular. I do random.
What matters, then, is that I had coffee. Of some kind. Black, we've established that now. But the type of coffee is less relevant than the fact that there was coffee. That I had. Drank, even. You don't just "have" coffee. You drink it. It's not an asset to keep for the future. Unless we're talking about coffee plantations, or stocks, or something. But we're not. Especially not "something". I'm very specific, down-to-earth, concrete, about this. "Concrete" as in opposed to "abstract", not "concrete" as in the construction material. Abstract concrete.
It was a cup of coffee. Black, as I've now stated so many times it seems to hold more significance than I intended. I didn't intend the type of coffee to be significant at all. Only that it was concrete. Not abstract. And not a plantation. Not stocks. Plain, old coffee. That you drink. Or, rather, I drank it. I had it, then I drank it.
Now I don't have it anymore.
Listen. How I take my coffee doesn't matter. Besides, I change my mind about it. Frequently. I once stopped visiting a coffee shop because the guy figured out my "regular". I don't do regular. I do random.
What matters, then, is that I had coffee. Of some kind. Black, we've established that now. But the type of coffee is less relevant than the fact that there was coffee. That I had. Drank, even. You don't just "have" coffee. You drink it. It's not an asset to keep for the future. Unless we're talking about coffee plantations, or stocks, or something. But we're not. Especially not "something". I'm very specific, down-to-earth, concrete, about this. "Concrete" as in opposed to "abstract", not "concrete" as in the construction material. Abstract concrete.
It was a cup of coffee. Black, as I've now stated so many times it seems to hold more significance than I intended. I didn't intend the type of coffee to be significant at all. Only that it was concrete. Not abstract. And not a plantation. Not stocks. Plain, old coffee. That you drink. Or, rather, I drank it. I had it, then I drank it.
Now I don't have it anymore.
Friday, December 16, 2011
On keeping it together
First of all. Don't read damnyouautocorrect.com at work. Even if you're in your own office, behind a closed door. You *will* laugh loud enough for your collegues to suspect that you are not grading papers. Also, grading papers rarely make me tear up (yet).
Secondly - the weather. Yeah, that's right. I'm putting on my old man pants for a minute. Let's dicuss the weather. We're having snow. And then not snow. And then snow. And then ice. And melty-hell. And wet shoes, slippery, dangerous ice-melty-hell. And then snow again. Right now, the view from my window is not-so-bad:
(Not-so-great either, but that is mainly due to a) poor picture quality since my phone is ancient; and b) it's not that spectacular a view. That's reserved for the people on the 11th floor.)
Anyway. Today it was slippery-hell when I left the house, it was raining by the time I changed trains, and when I got to the office I was soaked. 30 minutes later it was snowing like mad. Hence the Winter Wonderland-ish-ness above.
Speaking of....
I kinda love this. (And my old man pants are off again!)
(Pants should, generally be off. At least this is what the Michigan contingent of my shrinks tell me)
(I haven't asked the rest of the world. Yet.)
I'm stressing, A LOT, lately. With everything. Life. Living situation. Work. More work. Christmas shopping. Finding the right kind of music for the holiday mood to tick in...
(This helps, a little)
Basically, it's all about keeping it together, right? Not letting the stress get to you. One day at the time, or, even, one breath at the time. Breathe in. Breathe out.
I will try, at least.
Secondly - the weather. Yeah, that's right. I'm putting on my old man pants for a minute. Let's dicuss the weather. We're having snow. And then not snow. And then snow. And then ice. And melty-hell. And wet shoes, slippery, dangerous ice-melty-hell. And then snow again. Right now, the view from my window is not-so-bad:
(Not-so-great either, but that is mainly due to a) poor picture quality since my phone is ancient; and b) it's not that spectacular a view. That's reserved for the people on the 11th floor.)
Anyway. Today it was slippery-hell when I left the house, it was raining by the time I changed trains, and when I got to the office I was soaked. 30 minutes later it was snowing like mad. Hence the Winter Wonderland-ish-ness above.
Speaking of....
I kinda love this. (And my old man pants are off again!)
(Pants should, generally be off. At least this is what the Michigan contingent of my shrinks tell me)
(I haven't asked the rest of the world. Yet.)
I'm stressing, A LOT, lately. With everything. Life. Living situation. Work. More work. Christmas shopping. Finding the right kind of music for the holiday mood to tick in...
(This helps, a little)
Basically, it's all about keeping it together, right? Not letting the stress get to you. One day at the time, or, even, one breath at the time. Breathe in. Breathe out.
I will try, at least.
Monday, June 20, 2011
On true happiness
Not that I have too much time for anything like this. If I could choose, I probably would spend about an hour each morning like this - on Starbucks, with my Kindle (product placement, much? *snort*), having a relaxing start of my day. But alas, my mornings tend to be far more stressful than that. I frequently sleep too little (especially in Tokyo), so I get up too late. I run to the shower, try to make time for both breakfast and basic make-up, and then I'm off to work. I can only dream of having the time to pick up a coffee most days, little less sit down to drink it.
In a perfect world I would have that kind of time. Or I would make that kind of time. But then... If this was my daily routine, perhaps I wouldn't appreciate it as much..?
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
On questions, of the frequently googled variety.
Every now
and then I check the stats for this site. Not actually because I am so terribly
obsessed about how many people visit my blog (well, okay, slightly because of
that too), but because checking the stats can be quite entertaining. You see,
there is a function that allows you to see from what website the visitors came.
Quite a lot of them are from google.com, .au, .ca, .so-on and .so-forth. In
itself not very interesting, but amusing when you also look at the search terms
used by these visitors. Or at least the ones landing on my blog are fairly interesting...
(Also, for clarity - the reason these people end up here might have a little something to do with this post...)
This month
Turning to my monthly stats, there are some truly random searches. I particularly like "nuclear chemistry site", "gingerbread song egner", and "norway starbucks salary". Let me try to answer your questions, random googlers.
Nuclear chemistry is not, has not been, and definitely never will be a specialty of mine. But since you came here looking for it, I can only assume that you ended up on my post on the Fukushima threat. This post was written when I still was in Japan, and it is coloured by this. However, I still feel that most of it is valid, even though some of my points seem less impressive now that the nuclear disaster has been ongoing for more than a month. "Fukushima will not be a Chernobyl 2!" I said. And yet - the disaster has since been upgraded to the top level of severity on the nuclear disaster scale. The same as Chernobyl. I still don't think Fukushima will have the lasting and widespread effects Chernobyl had - the way the radioactive material have leaked this time, for instance, is still quite different than it was in 1986. But there is no doubt that Fukushima has become much more severe than I was willing to believe one month ago.
Was this what you were looking for, random googler? If not, let me guide you to a "nuclear chemistry site". You can never go wrong with Wikipedia. (Yes you can. Muchly. But if you want nuclear chemistry beyond that I am afraid you'll have to look elsewhere than this blog for answers.)
Torbjørn Egner's "The Gingerbread Song". You're at the wrong time of year, that's for sure. In Norway we only make these cookies for Christmas. But okay - I don't mind if you want to sing the song all year long. I have written about it, but I failed to include the actual song. Let me make up for that right away. Here you'll find one version. It probably won't make any sense to anyone that isn't Norwegian (since you won't understand the lyrics, or the pun), so I better also include a link to the original version of the song. You still won't understand the lyrics, but at least you might be able to see why the former is amusing (it's a parody). Also, I took the liberty to translate (very directly, very unlyrically) the lyrics. Just in case that's what you were looking for:
This week
One of the
major hits this week have been from people googling the sentence: ”Adam Hills
you’re not special princess”. I am sure Adam Hills is glad to hear that…
Actually, though, I happen to know what people are looking for when they google it. It's a bit (stop laughing Aussies...) he did as part of the hilarious "Live at the Apollo", and it's got many of my favourite Adam Hills jokes.
What I don't get, however, is why these googlers end up on my blog. I don't have the video here. Or rather, I didn't use to. But since I feel the need to satisfy these people who are clearly looking for a laugh, I am now posting the video here. Hopefully it'll satisfy some of the rest of you too.
The princess part starts at about 6:52, but do yourself a favour and watch the rest too. And make sure you don't have any coffee or such in your mouth while watching (it will end up in your nose/on your screen).
(Also, for clarity - the reason these people end up here might have a little something to do with this post...)
This month
Turning to my monthly stats, there are some truly random searches. I particularly like "nuclear chemistry site", "gingerbread song egner", and "norway starbucks salary". Let me try to answer your questions, random googlers.
Nuclear chemistry is not, has not been, and definitely never will be a specialty of mine. But since you came here looking for it, I can only assume that you ended up on my post on the Fukushima threat. This post was written when I still was in Japan, and it is coloured by this. However, I still feel that most of it is valid, even though some of my points seem less impressive now that the nuclear disaster has been ongoing for more than a month. "Fukushima will not be a Chernobyl 2!" I said. And yet - the disaster has since been upgraded to the top level of severity on the nuclear disaster scale. The same as Chernobyl. I still don't think Fukushima will have the lasting and widespread effects Chernobyl had - the way the radioactive material have leaked this time, for instance, is still quite different than it was in 1986. But there is no doubt that Fukushima has become much more severe than I was willing to believe one month ago.
Was this what you were looking for, random googler? If not, let me guide you to a "nuclear chemistry site". You can never go wrong with Wikipedia. (Yes you can. Muchly. But if you want nuclear chemistry beyond that I am afraid you'll have to look elsewhere than this blog for answers.)
Torbjørn Egner's "The Gingerbread Song". You're at the wrong time of year, that's for sure. In Norway we only make these cookies for Christmas. But okay - I don't mind if you want to sing the song all year long. I have written about it, but I failed to include the actual song. Let me make up for that right away. Here you'll find one version. It probably won't make any sense to anyone that isn't Norwegian (since you won't understand the lyrics, or the pun), so I better also include a link to the original version of the song. You still won't understand the lyrics, but at least you might be able to see why the former is amusing (it's a parody). Also, I took the liberty to translate (very directly, very unlyrically) the lyrics. Just in case that's what you were looking for:
When a gingerbread cookie baker
Is baking gingerbread cookies
He first takes a cooking pot
And a kilo margarine
He melts the butter [margarine..?] in the pot
And the next he has to do,
Is to mix the melted butter
With a kilo sugar.
And while the butter and sugar is foaming
You take eight egg yolks
That you stir into the pot
With a kilo wheat flour
And in the end you drop
Into the pot a small tea spoon pepper
And then stir all about!
I make no excuses for the fact that it obviously makes no sense. Plus, the recipe is rubbish, and NOT for gingerbread cookies. Egner was a better writer than was he a baker (though I JUST realized he changed P.O.V. during the song... Not so great writer either? Childhood hero lost? Nah, I forgive him).
Norwegian Starbucks salary. This one is easy. Zilch. Nada. Nothing. You won't get a dime (or an øre, as would be more likely, this being Norway and all. Øre = 100th of a krone, by the way. Øre [also] = ear...) The reason? You'll find out here.
All time
Two search phrases dominate my all time search history. Both seem incredibly unreasonable to me.
Fraggle rock characters. 77 people have searched for "Fraggle Rock characters" and arrived at my blog. 68 simply searched for "Fraggle Rock". Add 21 for "Uncle Traveling Matt" and a dozen each for "fraggle uncle" or "fraggle rock pictures" and this is clearly one of the main searches that leads to my blog. Not giraffes. Oh, no. Fraggles. I love me some Fraggles, but this is just silly. Haven’t I written like one post about them? One!
And yet. They came here looking for Fraggles. Poor things. I feel the need to provide Fraggles.
Looking for the theme song? It's here! And here. The latter is the Norwegian version, by the way. You know you want to hear how it sounds in Norwegian right..? Of course you do. That's why the former ALSO is the Norwegian version ;)
By the way - did you know how JK Rowling came up with the word for non-magical people in the Harry Potter books?
Fraggle rock characters. 77 people have searched for "Fraggle Rock characters" and arrived at my blog. 68 simply searched for "Fraggle Rock". Add 21 for "Uncle Traveling Matt" and a dozen each for "fraggle uncle" or "fraggle rock pictures" and this is clearly one of the main searches that leads to my blog. Not giraffes. Oh, no. Fraggles. I love me some Fraggles, but this is just silly. Haven’t I written like one post about them? One!
And yet. They came here looking for Fraggles. Poor things. I feel the need to provide Fraggles.
Looking for the theme song? It's here! And here. The latter is the Norwegian version, by the way. You know you want to hear how it sounds in Norwegian right..? Of course you do. That's why the former ALSO is the Norwegian version ;)
By the way - did you know how JK Rowling came up with the word for non-magical people in the Harry Potter books?
Muppet + Fraggle = MUGGLE!
(True story)
Cats the
musical. I am no
crazy cat lady, but I am a crazy-cat lady. I’m not the crazy one – the cats
are. You see, I have this special thing - I don't know if it's a touch, a way of moving, a smell, or Digression forbid, a stench - but cats love it. I generally get along well with other people's cats (I've never owned one myself), but the real oddity is with stray cats (actual cats). Stray cats have followed me home since I was little (still cats. No metaphor intended). They would seek out my window - among the dozens of other windows in my house, they would always find mine - and then sit there and cry all night, until I took pity on them and talked back, or came out, or fed them or some such thing. Like magic.
Apparently, this magic also works across the internet. I know I have written about this before, but it still baffles me. Why do people search for cats, and end up here, of all places?!? The internet is swarming with cats (do cats swarm? A murder of crows, a pack of cats? The internet is packed with cats? Hm...). There is absolutely no need to come here to look for them! But since you did, let me help you out. I aim to please (and purr) after all (this might be why cats like me).
A great deal of the cat-searches that lead to my blog also include the words "the musical". Now, you might think this is the critically (and publically) acclaimed musical "Cats", but you arewrong boring. "The musical cat(s)", I say! Just take a look at this:
So there. Those where my answers to your frequently googled questions. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to try to find out who or what "gregory cauthen" and "rooibos charcot marie tooth" are, and why they lead people to my blog.
Apparently, this magic also works across the internet. I know I have written about this before, but it still baffles me. Why do people search for cats, and end up here, of all places?!? The internet is swarming with cats (do cats swarm? A murder of crows, a pack of cats? The internet is packed with cats? Hm...). There is absolutely no need to come here to look for them! But since you did, let me help you out. I aim to please (and purr) after all (this might be why cats like me).
A great deal of the cat-searches that lead to my blog also include the words "the musical". Now, you might think this is the critically (and publically) acclaimed musical "Cats", but you are
So there. Those where my answers to your frequently googled questions. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to try to find out who or what "gregory cauthen" and "rooibos charcot marie tooth" are, and why they lead people to my blog.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
On Starbucks
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| Mmmmmm.... |
We don't have Starbucks in Norway. It's a hopeless market. Oslo already has a large number of coffee shops - many of them serving high quality coffee, for more affordable prices than what Starbucks would land on if the price regime follows that of other countries. Norwegians are used to paying much for their coffee, but then they are also used to getting quality coffee back. As it is, there is a question whether Starbucks is needed, wanted or even possible in Norway. We have long coffee traditions; we're used to thinking we do certain things best at home (or at least "in Europe"); and there is a latent skepticism towards consumerism(/Americanism?) that often surfaces in Norwegians when faced with the potential introduction of new products. We don't have KFC or Dunkin' Donuts either.
And yet. The fact that we have a lot of money and drink a lot of coffee in Norway, is bound to make us interesting for the American chain. Thus they are looking into the Norwegian market, aiming at establishing some customer recognition by selling their pre-produced iced lattes and such in stores and kiosks. Gradually, they are going to open stores, first at airports, and then eventually (possibly) in Oslo. Or so is the strategy as of today (as far as I know. I should probably mention that I don't have a direct line to the people in charge, and thus cannot say for sure whether this is the actual strategy. But this is the strategy our newspapers report, and that is good enough for me).
One major risk, in addition to the competition and the tough market, is that the Starbucks business model might be more difficult to promote in Norway than elsewhere. Because of the many established coffee houses in Norway, where the "sit-ins" are far more established, it is likely that Starbucks will have better chances of competing with the more recent take-away market (which today largely is handled by 7-11 and the likes of it, especially outside of the major cities). Usually Starbucks coffee shops have many employees, which allows for a speedy making of the coffee suitable for the take-away segment of the customers. In Norway, however, where salary costs are quite high, it is unlikely that Starbucks will be willing or able to have as many workers on the same shift. Thus, they risk slowing down the coffee making process, which in turn will make Starbucks a less attractive alternative for the take-awayers.
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| From one of the many Facebook groups... (guess which side) |
In the end, however, if and when Starbucks does open a store in Oslo, I think it most likely will be a success during its first week, and then it is completely in the blue. Will people stay true to their old habits and pick the coffee they think is the best when they have time (aka not Starbucks), and the coffee they think is the fastest when they don't (aka not Starbucks, again)? Or will they be willing to accept the Starbucks concept of vanilla/cinnamon/caramel/lazy-Sunday-heaven, occasionally transformed into semi-fast take-away (since there is only financial justification for one person at work per shift)?
Time will show. I have my doubts, though. I'm not convinced Starbucks will conquer Norway.
Thus, don't judge me. If I want to spend my non-Norway Sundays in Starbucks, I feel entitled to do so. Whether I'm in Japan, the United States, or any of the other 55 countries where the it's currently located. I might not feel the same way if and when I get the chance in Norway.
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And yes - I am aware of the irony of posting this on the same week as I spoke so grandly on fair-trade. That is another issue about coffee and/or Starbucks...
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