In reality - and this might be a shocker given all my quirks proudly displayed on this blog - I am a fairly socially adept person. No, really. My mom said so. (She did. Honestly.)
My mom is also socially adept, though, so it's okay. And you know how I know that she is right (and socially adept)? Because another socially adept person (me) said so. Word.
Huh. I got lost in one of my own digressions before even starting... But that set aside; digressions, parentheses, creative punctuation, giraffes and - hing yeah - the fact that someone found my blog the other day by searching for "ecard anti dance mom" (how'd THAT happen..?); all these things set aside, in real life I am a fairly normal, friendly, pleasant person with whom many people seem to enjoy a normal, friendly, pleasant conversation, be it of the "polite mingling"-variety or the more serious "what's the meaning of life?"-variety. I rock at small talk. I know how to hold a glass of wine in one hand, a canapé in the other, and somehow I still manage to find a free hand to shake hands (how many hands do I have? Party trick courtesy of the Norwegian foreign service, no doubt). I make friends easily, I have very few enemies (and then mostly carefully selected nemeses - everyone should have at least one), and when I choose to display it I can have a very winning smile. I am crisp (except when I try to use expressions like "crisp" that I clearly had to look up in Urban Dictionary before posting. And then I got stuck wondering why it's called "Urban Dictionary" and not "the Urban Dictionary", and then I started wondering if it was a Urban Dictionary thing to do to cut all "the's" and whether that won't get terribly confusing, and now I am trying so hard to be crisp or cool or whatever it's called these days that I long since punctured the above attempt at describing myself thus. Ah. Well, I was about to contradict myself anyway.)
Because.
Even though I'm mostly socially adept (sodept? Nah... I'm not crisp enough for that yet), I sometimes fail. And when I fail, I fail BIG time. Spectacularly. Think diving. Nine out of ten times I go in the water - not like a pro, but at least like an amateur that would like to consider his own diving skills appropriate for low-key competitions. Like the (or not "the") Annual Greendale Amateur Diving Championship (why, yes, Postman Pat might participate too, thankyouforasking). Only to find that the tenth time he goes in it's with a splash. A big one. An epic one. A gigantic belly flop which forever renders him (me? I got lost in my own metaphor) extremely aware that he is not only madly inferior to Postman Pat, but that he also has absolutely no business participating in any championships and that he preferable should never go near water ever again.
That's how awkward I can be on (the?) occasions that my social skills do fail.
Like today.
When they failed. Miserably so.
It all started well. I was on my way to work, not feeling terribly motivated by the fact that I had been forced to leave my warm, comfy bed to walk in grey, rainy-ish weather to go spend the day at the office where I will be teaching myself medieval history. Yeah. Motivation fail. Still, this isn't a huge derivation from normal mornings, so when I initiated this paragraph by saying "[i]t all started well" I wasn't lying. The above description is "well". It's not optimal, but "well". In the adverbial sense (--> better, best), not the "deep hole or shaft in the ground"-sense. Well.
I was interrupted in my somewhat gloomy well-ness, however, by a young lady.
Had I been a man, I presume this interruption would have been most welcome. The young lady in question was cute, friendly (crisp?), polite and when she spoke it was with an adorable accent. Charming, I'm sure.
I am not a man. I prefer that in any given conversation I am the cute, friendly (crisp?), polite one, even if my accent (when speaking Norwegian, at least) sadly is somewhat polished and boring (when speaking English, however, I probably have an accent so adorable bunnies fly out of my nose).
The young interruptive lady asked me for directions.
I hate directions.
Well (again in the above clarified sense of the word), I don't hate them. I find them difficult to take, and to give. Especially when we're talking about geographical directions. I have a terrible sense of direction. I managed to get lost in Washington, D.C. once (a city where the streets in one direction are numbered, and the streets in the other direction are alphabetized). I also managed to get lost in Skotterud, Eidskog, Norway once - a place so tiny you probably haven't even heard of it. That's right! That tiny! Once I got lost I followed a pidgeon for three blocks. I was still lost.
Thus, asking me for directions is not exactly your best strategy if you are the one who is lost. Asking me for directions when I am gloomy (if well), sleepy and probably slightly hormonal, is an even poorer strategy. The young lady of the charming accent did not know this, of course. (How could she? She did not know anything. Not even the way.)
I realize that the build-up here implies that I somehow exploded all over the poor girl and put her in tears on the first train back to Charmingaccentville. The build-up is misleading. Yes, I was gloomy, but no, I am not explode-all-over-stranger-prone. Besides, if you look back you'll realize that there also is a build-up to a detailed account of my social awkwardness. In fact, the build-up to that is much clearer, and forms a more coherent direction for this post. You only wanted the build-up to be for something more thrilling, like an explosion, because that would make for a more exciting tale! I'm sorry, but if you want exciting tales, you better go read someone else's blog.
So. There.
I did not explode. But I faced a terrible dilemma. Should I help this cute, friendly (I'm officially giving up crisp), polite and adorably accented young lady; or should I pretend to be a deaf, Chinese tourist genetically modified to look like a native, which would both explain why I could not hear, understand OR help her?
I chose the golden middle. I decided to "help" her.
In all fairness, the directions she asked were not complicated. She wanted to get to the University Campus. I believe I have mentioned this (several times) before, but for clarity's sake: I work at the university. On campus. I was headed for work. I was clearly going the same way as she was.
Now, a normal person - for instance me on most days - would say that to the young lady. "I work at the university, and I am going there now. Follow me, and I'll show you."
I didn't say that.
After all, it would be a good five to seven minutes before we reached campus. I would have to make polite conversation with this person for five to seven minutes. Or, if failing to make conversation, I would have to tolerate five to seven minutes walking next to a stranger without speaking at all.
This is where my brain on most days would have jumped to wine-glass-and-canapé-mode and handled the situation by asking her unimportant questions like "so, what are you doing at the university?" or "did you catch the last episode of Mad Men?" (the latter would be stupid, though, because I'm two seasons behind. No spoilers!).
Today, however, the only thing my brain could do was set of a red warning lamp, saying "DANGER, DANGER, UNWANTED SOCIAL INTERACTION MIGHT OCCUR!!!"
I smiled awkwardly. Then I pointed in the general direction she (and I) should be headed, saying something about keeping straight ahead over the hill, and then she'd see it (which might or might not be true. I had never checked). And then I left.
That's right. We were going to the same place, but instead of telling her so, I went another way.
My way was the right way. Hers was... not wrong, per se. But slightly less right.
Happy that I had solved the awkward situation in such a speedy manner, I continued walking my regular route. I had sent her a few blocks east of me. (Due to my aforementioned poor sense of direction I have no idea if it actually is east, but it serves to bring clarity to the narrative, so I'm keeping it [and not, Digression's forbid, checking it. That would be - reasearch. Dude!].) My theory was that she would walk (in accordance with my vague pointing) about two blocks north (again, for the sake of the narrative), and then turn west. If she had done do, at an appropriate speed, I would have been able to walk my two blocks north sufficiently far west of her (and then turning further west) to avoiding seeing her, ever, again.
My theory, not unlike my social skills, failed.
As I was about to turn west (the whole east-west-north-thingie is confusing me. I'm sorry if it was helping you, but I am inventing a new direction for the sake of un-confusing myself. Deal with it.) - as I was about to turn uppity, whom other did I see but the young lady with an adorable accent and issues with picking the right type of people to give her dictections. Whom other? A famous sports journalist, that's who(m). But the right thereafter I saw the young lady too.
At this, my social skills performed one small effort before crumbling into dust. They waved at the young lady. Oh, Digressions, I was beackoning her closer. My hand in some evil conspiracy with my terminal social skills were trying to help the poor girl.
By then it must have been rather obvious to her that I was, indeed, going the same direction as she. Still, I was the only person about (the sport journalist having disappeared by then), and she was still lost (due to the fact that the last person she'd asked for directions only had replied with vague finger pointing...). So she ran to me (again, had I been a man, this might have been a rather welcome situation. I am still not a man).
"Soooo," I said, stretching the oooo in an attempt to come up with an excuse as to why I had been reluctant to actually offer helpful help. "What part of campus are you going to? You see, there is an upper part, and then a lower part..."
By offering this information, I really hoped she would read between the lines and hear what I wanted her to hear:
"I would have offered to walk you there, naturally, but since you failed to specify where on campus you were going, I could only assume that you were going somewhere else than me. Which makes my reaction not socially awkward, but rather rational and understandable."
"I'm going to the library," she said.
"Ah." ("Darn, right in the middle, then. Yeah, well, I'm still going to a completely different part of campus than you, and it still makes sense to me, at least, why I didn't show you the way. Even if my office is located in the building right next to the library...")
We walked. In the dreaded silence. I tried a few "uhm, yeah, well, it's not easy knowing the way if you don't know the way, hum-di-dum" but by then the effort was pretty futile. She knew I'd been trying to get out of walking with her, and thus she wasn't up to making the situation any easier on me.
At the earliest possible moment I went for the finger-pointing strategy again ("It's that big black building you see far, far behind all those other buildings over there...") and she speeded up to avoid further embarassment on both our parts. Just to make sure to stick to my "story" (you know, the one I hoped she'd read between the lines), I took a detour and walked for a while in the opposite direction from where I was going. I hoped to never see her again.
I saw her again two blocks later.
I had deliberately been walking the wrong direction, sloooooowly, to make absolutely sure that she would have passed the intersection between my detour path and the uppity-headed path. But no. She passed it at the exact time I was headed there.
In total mortification, now, I snuck back, hid (literally HID) behind the biology building, wondering how long I could stand there before she'd find me. Or before someone else might find me terribly weird.
In the end I decided that neither would be very long. So I walked - again in the opposite direction from where I actually was going - to the Physics building cafeteria. Where I decided to spend a few extra minutes buying a salad (for lunch), and a cup of coffee (for immediately).
As I swiped my card I remembered that I was running low on funds. So low, in fact, that my purchase got denied. I had to humiliate myself and ask the lunch lady to charge only the coffee. Fortunately, I had (just) enough for the that. Which I needed (immediately). And then I put the salad back.
Basically, by then my social awkwardness (yes, at least, as crisp as crisp gets: socwardness) had made me wish I could just sink into a well (of the "deep hole or shaft in the ground"-sense) that would magically appear before me. No such thing happened.
Karma. I guess.
Showing posts with label walking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label walking. Show all posts
Friday, May 11, 2012
Thursday, February 23, 2012
On islands
No man is an island, but this one was. The traffic split around him, stuck in the middle of the road. An island, floating in a sea of vehicles. The drivers were annoyed at this intermission in their otherwise smoothly flowing day. The man, the island, was moving, but it was so slowly that it barely was recognizable to the human eye. He reminded me of a turtle, dragging one leg after the other, pushing his walker ahead of him. The device seemed to offer him as much trouble as support, as he hardly had the strength to even push it.
He had missed the stop light. Whether the reason was that he cared not for such things as stoplights or pedestrian crossings - or if his lack of speed simply had prevented him from crossing the road in time - was less certain. I didn't see how it started. I only saw him there, the man, turtle, island, looking terrified and terrible. He didn't really stand at risk of being hit by a car - they drove past him, or they waited. But he might not have realized that. Besides, being stuck in traffic - literally - like that, with absolutely no means of his own to get out of the situation, must have been scary.
I was standing at the other side of the street. Lest I wanted to get stuck between the cars too, there was nothing I could do. Besides, it didn't tempt me. Going over there. Touching him. He looked like he hadn't seen a piece of soap in this decade.
Fortunately, someone else overcame such petty obstacles. The driver of one of the front cars blocked by this pedestrian wreck got out of his car and walked over to the man, the turtle, the island. I was worried for a moment that the driver was going to yell at the old man. He looked like the type - young, bald, muscular, tough. Fancy car. But sometimes our stereotypes put us to shame. The younger man bent down to the crippled man, and talked to him. Took his arm around his own shoulder, helped him move forward.
After a while, the lights changed again. The other pedestrians who had been standing at the side of the road approached the stranded island and its savior. "Let me help him," one man said to the young driver, "and then you can go back to your car."
But he wouldn't. The fancy car stood abandoned, blocked no longer by an island, but by an act of kindness.
In the end, they both helped the old man cross the road. They didn't make it on that first stoplight. Perhaps not even the second. When I turned to look after having crossed from the opposite direction, they had still only come about halfway. When I returned after having run my errands, everything was back to normal. Traffic ran as usual.
The old man was still there, though, at the curb of the opposite side of the road. He was still dragging his feet along, moving at the speed of a turtle, or a large island - a continent, perhaps. I don't know where he was going. I hope he got there safe.
He had missed the stop light. Whether the reason was that he cared not for such things as stoplights or pedestrian crossings - or if his lack of speed simply had prevented him from crossing the road in time - was less certain. I didn't see how it started. I only saw him there, the man, turtle, island, looking terrified and terrible. He didn't really stand at risk of being hit by a car - they drove past him, or they waited. But he might not have realized that. Besides, being stuck in traffic - literally - like that, with absolutely no means of his own to get out of the situation, must have been scary.
I was standing at the other side of the street. Lest I wanted to get stuck between the cars too, there was nothing I could do. Besides, it didn't tempt me. Going over there. Touching him. He looked like he hadn't seen a piece of soap in this decade.
Fortunately, someone else overcame such petty obstacles. The driver of one of the front cars blocked by this pedestrian wreck got out of his car and walked over to the man, the turtle, the island. I was worried for a moment that the driver was going to yell at the old man. He looked like the type - young, bald, muscular, tough. Fancy car. But sometimes our stereotypes put us to shame. The younger man bent down to the crippled man, and talked to him. Took his arm around his own shoulder, helped him move forward.
After a while, the lights changed again. The other pedestrians who had been standing at the side of the road approached the stranded island and its savior. "Let me help him," one man said to the young driver, "and then you can go back to your car."
But he wouldn't. The fancy car stood abandoned, blocked no longer by an island, but by an act of kindness.
In the end, they both helped the old man cross the road. They didn't make it on that first stoplight. Perhaps not even the second. When I turned to look after having crossed from the opposite direction, they had still only come about halfway. When I returned after having run my errands, everything was back to normal. Traffic ran as usual.
The old man was still there, though, at the curb of the opposite side of the road. He was still dragging his feet along, moving at the speed of a turtle, or a large island - a continent, perhaps. I don't know where he was going. I hope he got there safe.
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.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
On golf
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| Serenity. Or, as you might know it:golf. |
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| What is up, what is down, what is real, what is dream? What is crap floating in a golf course pond? |
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| Such an odd mix of sports... |
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| Lucky clover? Or just a bunch of unlucky weeds? |
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| Someone must really love golf. Or is it only me that can see the heart? |
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| "No, I said tee!" |
I don't golf. I've tried mini golf (once or twice), and Wii Golf ® (once, and I lost spectacularly to my entire US family). But I've never played real golf. Not that the opportunity hasn't been there - my hometown has the most beautiful golf course I've ever seen (but then you all know I'm comparing it to mini golf and Wii).
Monday, June 27, 2011
On urban localism
Tokyo is one of those places that doesn't always feel very large despite the fact that its population is one of the largest for any city in the world (depending on how and what you count). As an urban area, it's obviously HUGE with its 30 million people. But the place I'm currently living in, however, doesn't feel very big at all. Perhaps the considerable local-ness of Tokyo is what made me feel so at home here right from the start? Below are a few of the things that comprise my local community.
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| The Mori Tower. My favourite skyscraper. |
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| Roppongi Crossing |
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| Traditional meets modern, at the Imperial Palace/Hibya |
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| Hibiya at sunset ♥ |
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| One of the oddest buildings I know, right in my neighbourhood |
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| Because every pet needs that special attention, right? |
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| Temple with a basketball net? But of course. |
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| Geisha barbie and all her friends @ the spa... |
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| Stairway to heaven? Maybe not, but there is a temple at the top |
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| The mandatory temple cat |
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| I thought this was interesting, in all its moldy, broken beauty |
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| Messy, noisy, trafficky, and YET local... |
I ♥ local Tokyo :)
Friday, July 9, 2010
On Portveien 2
I was out walking my regular route to the university the other day when I decided to take a detour through the kolonihage. A kolonihage (directly translated: colony garden) is an area of garden patches designed to give those of us who are living in condos or apartment buildings the pleasure and agonies of having a garden. Typically each garden has a tiny cabin or hut in it, so the kolonihage looks a little like a village for small people. (By using my googling skills I have learned that the proper English word for kolonihage would be either 'community garden' or 'allotment'.)
Oslo has quite a few of those 'villages' since gardening always has been considered healthy for mind and body, something every Norwegian should partake in directly after climbing a mountain or hike in the forest – activities we all do every Sunday, of course.
I’ve never really been the gardening (or mountain climbing) type, but I like walking through the kolonihage. The houses are adorable, and it is rather amazing to see what they manage to do even in such limited garden space. Flowers, vegetables, trees – and the obligatory hammock.
Since I moved not long ago, I haven’t been able to explore the kolonihage in my new neighbourhood yet. As I walked down the gravel lane with white picket fences on each side, I suddenly noticed a familiar pennant. It said “Portveien 2”.
I went SQUEEEEE!
I realize this will not make sense to anyone that isn’t Norwegian, but let me try to translate it. Imagine you were walking around in your neighbourhood, and suddenly you found yourself strolling down Sesame Street. (Don’t tell me you didn’t go SQUEEEEE! now… )
"Portveien 2" was a television show for kids when I was little. They showed cartoons, and they played games, and there were songs (some of which I still know). This show might even be where my strange fondness for giraffes originated, since there was a giraffe living in the house without the humans knowing about it. The giraffe kept “borrowing” their stuff and make funny faces behind their backs, though also leave presents every now and then if my memory serves me right (something we shouldn’t entirely trust, since I can’t have been older than maybe five when this was running).
I always knew they shot this show somewhere in Oslo, and I may have even known that it was in one of the kolonihage, but this sounded unlikely to me since I didn’t remember the house in the show as particularly small. In retrospect, I can think of two possible explanations to that: First of all, I was a lot smaller myself, so naturally the house looked bigger. Secondly, all houses looked small inside the TV… (Naturally, this was before the age of giant plasma screens)
Seeing the (slightly smaller than I remembered) house took me right back to my childhood. Suddenly I craved popsicles and my mother’s homemade pizza. I imagined waving my bare toes from the highest point of the swing set’s pendulum. Had I seen any, I would have picked wild strawberries and put them on a straw.
Walking through that kolonihage made me 20 years younger in a second. When I left, I was back at my own age, but with a smile on my face.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In other giraffe related news, I was thrilled to discover earlier this week that one of my giraffes (one that has made an appearance on this blog before) was chosen as "Giraffe of the day # 391" on http://www.onemilliongiraffes.com/. This project, which started as a silly bet, has earned originator and Giraffe in Command, Ola, 884,834 handmade giraffes since he started collecting a little over a year ago. The goal is to reach 1,000,000 before the end of this year, and it looks like Ola is going to win his bet. But there are still 115,166 giraffes missing - you go make one right now, and upload it to (I'll provide the link just one more time, shall I?) http://burrowers.blogspot.com/ - just kidding - to http://www.onemilliongiraffes.com/, of course :)
Have a very happy weekend, lovely followers! Don't forget to check in at the Burrow Blog. We have a special something planned for this weekend :)
Oslo has quite a few of those 'villages' since gardening always has been considered healthy for mind and body, something every Norwegian should partake in directly after climbing a mountain or hike in the forest – activities we all do every Sunday, of course.
I’ve never really been the gardening (or mountain climbing) type, but I like walking through the kolonihage. The houses are adorable, and it is rather amazing to see what they manage to do even in such limited garden space. Flowers, vegetables, trees – and the obligatory hammock.
Since I moved not long ago, I haven’t been able to explore the kolonihage in my new neighbourhood yet. As I walked down the gravel lane with white picket fences on each side, I suddenly noticed a familiar pennant. It said “Portveien 2”. I went SQUEEEEE!
I realize this will not make sense to anyone that isn’t Norwegian, but let me try to translate it. Imagine you were walking around in your neighbourhood, and suddenly you found yourself strolling down Sesame Street. (Don’t tell me you didn’t go SQUEEEEE! now… )
I always knew they shot this show somewhere in Oslo, and I may have even known that it was in one of the kolonihage, but this sounded unlikely to me since I didn’t remember the house in the show as particularly small. In retrospect, I can think of two possible explanations to that: First of all, I was a lot smaller myself, so naturally the house looked bigger. Secondly, all houses looked small inside the TV… (Naturally, this was before the age of giant plasma screens)
Seeing the (slightly smaller than I remembered) house took me right back to my childhood. Suddenly I craved popsicles and my mother’s homemade pizza. I imagined waving my bare toes from the highest point of the swing set’s pendulum. Had I seen any, I would have picked wild strawberries and put them on a straw.
Walking through that kolonihage made me 20 years younger in a second. When I left, I was back at my own age, but with a smile on my face.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In other giraffe related news, I was thrilled to discover earlier this week that one of my giraffes (one that has made an appearance on this blog before) was chosen as "Giraffe of the day # 391" on http://www.onemilliongiraffes.com/. This project, which started as a silly bet, has earned originator and Giraffe in Command, Ola, 884,834 handmade giraffes since he started collecting a little over a year ago. The goal is to reach 1,000,000 before the end of this year, and it looks like Ola is going to win his bet. But there are still 115,166 giraffes missing - you go make one right now, and upload it to (I'll provide the link just one more time, shall I?) http://burrowers.blogspot.com/ - just kidding - to http://www.onemilliongiraffes.com/, of course :)
Have a very happy weekend, lovely followers! Don't forget to check in at the Burrow Blog. We have a special something planned for this weekend :)
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
On snakes (*shudder*)
Whenever I am asked what my greatest phobia is, one of two things will happen: if the person asking looks like he/she is in possession of snakes and a reason to torture me, I’ll answer “bunnies!” or some such nonsense. If the person who asks does not look like he/she has any reasons or means to torture me, however, I will truthfully reply that my one and only fully fletched phobia is ophiophobia – the fear of snakes. I am not happy about flying, but that is a discomfort, not a phobia. I am not thriving in heights, but again, it hasn’t yet caused me to panic in public. Spiders? I don’t love them, but if forced to choose between having tarantulas crawling all over me and touching a snake, I’m seriously considering the former the best alternative.
You might think my fear of snakes irrational, especially considering I live in a country where we barely have any, but I can assure you I have my reasons. I once was very nearly killed by a snake. True story.
It was the first week I lived in Japan, and I was out walking with the other Norwegian student at my university. The campus was located in scenic surroundings (you know, if your idea of “scenic” means rice fields and forests), and there were several short hike routes in the area. We had been walking for maybe half an hour when we came to a small creek. There was a nice, little bridge crossing the creek, and as we crossed it we saw something moving in the water some five meters below. Slowly gliding across the creek was a GIGANTIC, yellow snake. In my mind it was at least 20 meters long, but I have been informed that it most likely was about one and a half meter. Still, BIG snake!
Now, as mentioned the snake was pretty far away and not actually in any position (or inclination, I’ve been told, though I am not entirely convinced of this) to hurt us. However, just seeing that rubbery thing wind its way across that creek made me so terrified I nearly suffered a heart attack. I froze completely, and I had no idea how to move my legs in order to get across the bridge and worse, continue walking in the area I now realized was snake infested. Basically, I was prepared to stay right there forever, regardless if that would mean I would eventually starve to death. This would probably have made me a bit of a local attraction – the Westerner Who Died of Fear would have brought some much needed tourist cash to the prefecture of Akita. The Japanese have a thing for morbid attractions (like The Waterfall Where Most People Kill Themselves Each Year, or the Natural Disasters Amusement Park – yes, I’ve been to both).
But back to the snake. What finally convinced me to move was the logic of my friend who told me that if I remained at that location the snake might come back, and that the quick walk through the forest after all was a small price to pay in order to get back to our guaranteed snake-free dorm, where there was food and beds and where I would not become Japan’s fourth most visited tourist attraction (the third is Disneyland). My friend also told me that the snake was “cute”, “harmless” and probably “minding its own business without even noticing us”. Needless to say, none of these arguments sounded particularly convincing in my ears.
In the end we got back to campus without any further snake encounters. I did hear noises from the grass and bushes as we passed; but this might just have been the wind, or a bird, or a snake thinking we looked too pale for his liking. Either way we were not eaten that day (or any other day, for that matter, even though there were a couple of times I am fairly certain we had a close call).
I wanted to know, though, if I should just be afraid of this snake because it was a snake, or because it was a dangerous snake. Thus I googled “snakes in Japan”. If you live in Norway that can be scary enough, but if you’re a Norwegian exchange student in Japan – googling the snaky scariness that surrounds you is just asking for trouble. I nearly scared myself to death learning of all the long, short, green, orange, poisonous or just plain evil snakes there were in the country I had just travelled to, where I had to stay for at least another four months. I never found the snake we had seen, though. I looked through a number of images to try to identify it (but since I covered my eyes with my hand the most of the time, it isn’t exactly very surprising that I didn’t see any snakes that looked like the one that nearly killed me).
As you can see, my phobia is not irrational at all.
You might think my fear of snakes irrational, especially considering I live in a country where we barely have any, but I can assure you I have my reasons. I once was very nearly killed by a snake. True story.
It was the first week I lived in Japan, and I was out walking with the other Norwegian student at my university. The campus was located in scenic surroundings (you know, if your idea of “scenic” means rice fields and forests), and there were several short hike routes in the area. We had been walking for maybe half an hour when we came to a small creek. There was a nice, little bridge crossing the creek, and as we crossed it we saw something moving in the water some five meters below. Slowly gliding across the creek was a GIGANTIC, yellow snake. In my mind it was at least 20 meters long, but I have been informed that it most likely was about one and a half meter. Still, BIG snake!
Now, as mentioned the snake was pretty far away and not actually in any position (or inclination, I’ve been told, though I am not entirely convinced of this) to hurt us. However, just seeing that rubbery thing wind its way across that creek made me so terrified I nearly suffered a heart attack. I froze completely, and I had no idea how to move my legs in order to get across the bridge and worse, continue walking in the area I now realized was snake infested. Basically, I was prepared to stay right there forever, regardless if that would mean I would eventually starve to death. This would probably have made me a bit of a local attraction – the Westerner Who Died of Fear would have brought some much needed tourist cash to the prefecture of Akita. The Japanese have a thing for morbid attractions (like The Waterfall Where Most People Kill Themselves Each Year, or the Natural Disasters Amusement Park – yes, I’ve been to both).
But back to the snake. What finally convinced me to move was the logic of my friend who told me that if I remained at that location the snake might come back, and that the quick walk through the forest after all was a small price to pay in order to get back to our guaranteed snake-free dorm, where there was food and beds and where I would not become Japan’s fourth most visited tourist attraction (the third is Disneyland). My friend also told me that the snake was “cute”, “harmless” and probably “minding its own business without even noticing us”. Needless to say, none of these arguments sounded particularly convincing in my ears.
In the end we got back to campus without any further snake encounters. I did hear noises from the grass and bushes as we passed; but this might just have been the wind, or a bird, or a snake thinking we looked too pale for his liking. Either way we were not eaten that day (or any other day, for that matter, even though there were a couple of times I am fairly certain we had a close call).
I wanted to know, though, if I should just be afraid of this snake because it was a snake, or because it was a dangerous snake. Thus I googled “snakes in Japan”. If you live in Norway that can be scary enough, but if you’re a Norwegian exchange student in Japan – googling the snaky scariness that surrounds you is just asking for trouble. I nearly scared myself to death learning of all the long, short, green, orange, poisonous or just plain evil snakes there were in the country I had just travelled to, where I had to stay for at least another four months. I never found the snake we had seen, though. I looked through a number of images to try to identify it (but since I covered my eyes with my hand the most of the time, it isn’t exactly very surprising that I didn’t see any snakes that looked like the one that nearly killed me).
As you can see, my phobia is not irrational at all.
Monday, April 12, 2010
On Sunday the 11th of April
I almost never do a “this is what I did today” blog. Partly because I almost never write my posts on the day I publish them. I usually let them simmer for a while, and I like to get a second or third read-through with fresh eyes which can only be achieved if I write it first, then leave it for a while, and then read it again. This gives me the ability to spot terrible writing, and the strength to cut it like a mad butcher. (Take this paragraph. Absolutely hopeless. I expect to molest it to smithereens before finally being satisfied with it [unless I will keep it the way it currently is to make a point. Oh, dang, now that I said it, I kind of have to, don’t I?].)
The other reason I don’t do “this is what I did today” posts is because I have absolutely no need for this blog to turn into my personal (yet very public) diary. I used to keep diaries (well, one at the time…). When I visited my parents over the Easter break, I found some of my old diaries, and boy am I glad those aren’t public material... Some of it probably should be – if it’s true that laughter is healthy, I should be sentenced for keeping this miracle drug to myself.
Back when I kept a diary I was surprisingly audience-aware (even if I pointed out a number of times that the only audience for whom I was writing was myself). I was concerned with voice, language, structure – all the things I now consider when composing texts were already then tools I actively used (more or less consciously) to make a readable diary.
A third reason I normally avoid “this is what I did today” (if I am going to continue using this term I very soon need to invent an abbreviation for it – TIWIDT?) posts is that my life often isn’t all that exciting on a day-to-day basis. A lot of my blog posts would sound something like this: “I got up between 6 am and 7.30 am (entirely depending on how long I bothered hitting the snooze button before actually leaving bed – usually somewhere between 3 and 50 times. No kidding). Had a shower, took the tram to the university. Sat at my desk for X hours, only interrupted by Y number of breaks. Took the tram back home. Slept.” Boring!
Today, however, has been an out of the ordinary sort of day. So if I ever was to do a TIWIDT post, this would be the time.
Oslo seems to be the kind of city where it’s either awesome or awful to be. It’s never, or at least rarely, “just okay”. Today was one of the awesome days. The sun was shining, and believe you me, after five months of winter and one month of rain (slightly exaggerated on both accounts, but not by a lot) we deserve some sun. When it finally showed up, however, it was so brilliant that it hardly feels like it’s been gone at all. I think my face freckled up after about ten minutes outside (alright – I’m exaggerating again – first of all we had lots of sun yesterday as well, and secondly I spent about 7 hours outside today, so I was expecting spring freckles).
I’m not the only one who feels this way. It takes no more than ten degrees (celcius) and half an hour of sun before Osloensians (we aren’t called that. I don’t really know what we are called. So I made up a name. I do that a lot…) are popping up everywhere, smiling, wearing short sleeves, eating ice cream or drinking beer (utepils – "outdoors beer" – is a common term here). If I had told a foreigner walking around in Oslo two weeks ago that the city has half a million inhabitants he wouldn’t have believed it, because there were no one to be seen. If I had told him today, he might be inclined to think I was making an understatement. Oslo does have half a million inhabitants, and today all of them were outside (or so it seemed).
I too acted like a proper Osloensian (it’s catching on!) today and enjoyed just how lovely this city can be in springtime. My roommate and I walked to a museum I’ve been meaning to visit for a while. The Nobel Peace Center (whose giraffe mascot I wrote a blog post about a while back) has been featuring an exhibit called “From King to Obama”, showing the links between the two Nobel Peace Prize laureates (cleverly summed up in the following quote: “Rosa sat so Martin could walk. Martin walked so Barack could run. Barack ran so our children can fly.”). As the quote perhaps also shows, the exhibit somewhat glorified both King and Obama. However, since the exhibit was focusing on the Nobel Peace Prize aspect of both their journeys I suppose there was little point in emphasizing any controversies.
After the exhibit (and the gift shop. Let’s not forget the gift shop. I almost always prefer the gift show [shop. I might subconsciously have given the answer to why I always prefer the gift shop. Clearly I mistake it for a show!] to the actual museum no matter how interesting the exhibits…) we had lunch – outside, naturally (this is also part of the Oslo spring – every little café will magically conjure up at least one table with a couple of chairs, and voila – people can enjoy their coffee/beer/meal/ice cream at the risk of freezing to death. Very charming). There we also met another friend of mine, before both my friends left me to walk around on my own. I went to the fortress, where I took some very poor pictures (in my defense, I was blinded by the sun), before a friend called up asking if I wanted ice cream. Of course I did.
I had some spare time before the ice cream appointment, so I went to a bookshop (probably the only one in Oslo that is open on a Sunday) to see if I could find a copy of The Secret Garden. This little piece of information has so many digressions tied to it that even I don’t know where to start… Alright, let’s give it a try.
First of all, I always, always read The Secret Garden in spring, and I have for as long as I’ve been able to read. It’s very important that I don’t read it too early (if any more snow falls after I’ve started reading it, spring is ruined), but I can also not read it too late (it’s already late-ish. Anything after April is out of the question). While I recognize that there are books that are better written, more interesting, with better plots and more complex characters; I still considers this as my favourite book. After all, I have read it about 20 times by now.
Seeing as I love it so much, you might wonder why I haven’t purchased it before. Oh, I have! Trust me! I own no less than three copies of this book. The first one is in Norwegian, and this is the copy I have read over and over and over and… And over. I know every little typo (there are plenty) in that copy, and because this is my childhood copy, I must admit I prefer it. For every other book, though, I tend to prefer the original version (that is, if the original version is in a language I can read. So my “original version preference” is pretty much limited to English and Norwegian. And Swedish and Danish, but that is only because they are so similar to Norwegian. It also used to include French, but I haven’t tried reading French for years, so I don’t know how much I’d get out of it now. How stupid was I to let my third language go?!?).
Since I normally prefer the original version, I decided to convert to English for my annual Secret Garden reading a couple of years ago. I bought it in English, and started reading it, but it just wasn’t the same… What I didn’t know, however, was that a good friend of mine (who was at the time living in the US) had bought me another English version, a beautifully illustrated version, even. When she came back with this thoughtful gift for me, I didn’t have the heart to tell her that a) I had already bought a copy; and b) I preferred reading it in Norwegian. So I accepted the present. The following spring (last spring, in fact) when I had to pack most of my books away for long-time storage since I was moving, I chose to keep the illustrated English version in the easy access pile, while the two others went into boxes.
Thus, I only had one of my three copies available this spring. I had completely forgotten that I had packed the other two copies when I promised my sister that she could borrow the book from me this spring. Consequently, I lent her my only remaining copy, and was left with nothing… I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I didn’t have another copy, but I also could not face having spring ruined because I could not read it. So I thought that buying another copy was a reasonable solution (I will never be rich. Not as long as there are bookshops in the world). (Un?)Fortunately, my other sister called just as I was about to make the purchase, and she managed to convince me to check a library before buying it (again). So, I still don’t have the book, but I’m guessing that this time tomorrow I will (if the library at the university doesn’t have it, the bookshop probably will. And what are the odds that my sister phones me twice in two days?).
To finish this digression before returning to the actual topic – as far as I know neither my sister nor my friend are regular readers of this blog, so I feel relatively safe writing about this without making anyone feel too bad about the possible ruination of my spring…
(See, this is another reason why I don’t write TIWIDT posts. With my digressionary tendencies, they end up frightfully long! I shall try to hasten my pace…)
I eventually met up with my friends for ice cream. Again, we insisted on sitting outside, even though it was getting chillier by then. Eating ice cream in Oslo in April in sunshine (am I even allowed to have that many in’s in [haha] one sentence?) can be quite pleasant. Eating ice cream in April in Oslo in shade, however, is c-c-cold. But we survived, and afterwards we strolled around to regain normal body temperatures. Oslo (this post should of course be called “On Oslo” [or quite possibly “On The Secret Garden”], but I have reserved that title [the Oslo-one] for a similar-yet-different post that I have in mind for June[-ish]) – Oslo has a relatively new opera house, and it has become a popular attraction for tourists and Osloensians alike. You can walk around on its white marble exterior, looking out over the fjord. It’s very nice, actually. We went there for something of a photo shoot (don’t ask – I have digressed enough as it is), before I finally decided it was time to call it a day.
I made one last stop on my way home – I picked some flowers that to me more than anything say spring. Hestehov [tussilago farfara, or coltsfoot] isn’t actually all that pretty. It doesn’t smell nice, and it grows in such numbers that by many it is considered a weed. Still, it is the first wild flower that appears each spring, and the yellow little heads look like miniature suns stretching towards the sky. In true spirit of this springful day, then, I picked some and brought home where they are now sunning up our kitchen table (I just googled “sunning” to make sure I wasn’t saying something I didn’t know what meant. The definition “the opposite of mooning – involving front” clearly implies that I did… And yet, I am too tired and amused to change it…).
There. I finished my TIWIDT post. I shall post it as it is (with one quick read-though. Just the one), even if it is as long as a Osloensian winter. Now that I think about it, though, the proper title of this post would have been “On spring”. Oh, well…
[Note: if you have actually read through all of the above you also deserve to know that I really meant to post this last night. Just as I typed up the last paragraph, however, my internet connection died. I probably should have interpreted this as a sign that the Internet gods didn't want me to expose anyone to such a lenghty ramble. Seeing as you are reading this, I evidently am not afraid of the wrath of the Internet gods. If you never hear from me again, chances are I should have been afraid...]
The other reason I don’t do “this is what I did today” posts is because I have absolutely no need for this blog to turn into my personal (yet very public) diary. I used to keep diaries (well, one at the time…). When I visited my parents over the Easter break, I found some of my old diaries, and boy am I glad those aren’t public material... Some of it probably should be – if it’s true that laughter is healthy, I should be sentenced for keeping this miracle drug to myself.
Back when I kept a diary I was surprisingly audience-aware (even if I pointed out a number of times that the only audience for whom I was writing was myself). I was concerned with voice, language, structure – all the things I now consider when composing texts were already then tools I actively used (more or less consciously) to make a readable diary.
A third reason I normally avoid “this is what I did today” (if I am going to continue using this term I very soon need to invent an abbreviation for it – TIWIDT?) posts is that my life often isn’t all that exciting on a day-to-day basis. A lot of my blog posts would sound something like this: “I got up between 6 am and 7.30 am (entirely depending on how long I bothered hitting the snooze button before actually leaving bed – usually somewhere between 3 and 50 times. No kidding). Had a shower, took the tram to the university. Sat at my desk for X hours, only interrupted by Y number of breaks. Took the tram back home. Slept.” Boring!
Today, however, has been an out of the ordinary sort of day. So if I ever was to do a TIWIDT post, this would be the time.
Oslo seems to be the kind of city where it’s either awesome or awful to be. It’s never, or at least rarely, “just okay”. Today was one of the awesome days. The sun was shining, and believe you me, after five months of winter and one month of rain (slightly exaggerated on both accounts, but not by a lot) we deserve some sun. When it finally showed up, however, it was so brilliant that it hardly feels like it’s been gone at all. I think my face freckled up after about ten minutes outside (alright – I’m exaggerating again – first of all we had lots of sun yesterday as well, and secondly I spent about 7 hours outside today, so I was expecting spring freckles).
I’m not the only one who feels this way. It takes no more than ten degrees (celcius) and half an hour of sun before Osloensians (we aren’t called that. I don’t really know what we are called. So I made up a name. I do that a lot…) are popping up everywhere, smiling, wearing short sleeves, eating ice cream or drinking beer (utepils – "outdoors beer" – is a common term here). If I had told a foreigner walking around in Oslo two weeks ago that the city has half a million inhabitants he wouldn’t have believed it, because there were no one to be seen. If I had told him today, he might be inclined to think I was making an understatement. Oslo does have half a million inhabitants, and today all of them were outside (or so it seemed).
I too acted like a proper Osloensian (it’s catching on!) today and enjoyed just how lovely this city can be in springtime. My roommate and I walked to a museum I’ve been meaning to visit for a while. The Nobel Peace Center (whose giraffe mascot I wrote a blog post about a while back) has been featuring an exhibit called “From King to Obama”, showing the links between the two Nobel Peace Prize laureates (cleverly summed up in the following quote: “Rosa sat so Martin could walk. Martin walked so Barack could run. Barack ran so our children can fly.”). As the quote perhaps also shows, the exhibit somewhat glorified both King and Obama. However, since the exhibit was focusing on the Nobel Peace Prize aspect of both their journeys I suppose there was little point in emphasizing any controversies.
After the exhibit (and the gift shop. Let’s not forget the gift shop. I almost always prefer the gift show [shop. I might subconsciously have given the answer to why I always prefer the gift shop. Clearly I mistake it for a show!] to the actual museum no matter how interesting the exhibits…) we had lunch – outside, naturally (this is also part of the Oslo spring – every little café will magically conjure up at least one table with a couple of chairs, and voila – people can enjoy their coffee/beer/meal/ice cream at the risk of freezing to death. Very charming). There we also met another friend of mine, before both my friends left me to walk around on my own. I went to the fortress, where I took some very poor pictures (in my defense, I was blinded by the sun), before a friend called up asking if I wanted ice cream. Of course I did.
I had some spare time before the ice cream appointment, so I went to a bookshop (probably the only one in Oslo that is open on a Sunday) to see if I could find a copy of The Secret Garden. This little piece of information has so many digressions tied to it that even I don’t know where to start… Alright, let’s give it a try.
First of all, I always, always read The Secret Garden in spring, and I have for as long as I’ve been able to read. It’s very important that I don’t read it too early (if any more snow falls after I’ve started reading it, spring is ruined), but I can also not read it too late (it’s already late-ish. Anything after April is out of the question). While I recognize that there are books that are better written, more interesting, with better plots and more complex characters; I still considers this as my favourite book. After all, I have read it about 20 times by now.
Seeing as I love it so much, you might wonder why I haven’t purchased it before. Oh, I have! Trust me! I own no less than three copies of this book. The first one is in Norwegian, and this is the copy I have read over and over and over and… And over. I know every little typo (there are plenty) in that copy, and because this is my childhood copy, I must admit I prefer it. For every other book, though, I tend to prefer the original version (that is, if the original version is in a language I can read. So my “original version preference” is pretty much limited to English and Norwegian. And Swedish and Danish, but that is only because they are so similar to Norwegian. It also used to include French, but I haven’t tried reading French for years, so I don’t know how much I’d get out of it now. How stupid was I to let my third language go?!?).
Since I normally prefer the original version, I decided to convert to English for my annual Secret Garden reading a couple of years ago. I bought it in English, and started reading it, but it just wasn’t the same… What I didn’t know, however, was that a good friend of mine (who was at the time living in the US) had bought me another English version, a beautifully illustrated version, even. When she came back with this thoughtful gift for me, I didn’t have the heart to tell her that a) I had already bought a copy; and b) I preferred reading it in Norwegian. So I accepted the present. The following spring (last spring, in fact) when I had to pack most of my books away for long-time storage since I was moving, I chose to keep the illustrated English version in the easy access pile, while the two others went into boxes.
Thus, I only had one of my three copies available this spring. I had completely forgotten that I had packed the other two copies when I promised my sister that she could borrow the book from me this spring. Consequently, I lent her my only remaining copy, and was left with nothing… I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I didn’t have another copy, but I also could not face having spring ruined because I could not read it. So I thought that buying another copy was a reasonable solution (I will never be rich. Not as long as there are bookshops in the world). (Un?)Fortunately, my other sister called just as I was about to make the purchase, and she managed to convince me to check a library before buying it (again). So, I still don’t have the book, but I’m guessing that this time tomorrow I will (if the library at the university doesn’t have it, the bookshop probably will. And what are the odds that my sister phones me twice in two days?).
To finish this digression before returning to the actual topic – as far as I know neither my sister nor my friend are regular readers of this blog, so I feel relatively safe writing about this without making anyone feel too bad about the possible ruination of my spring…
(See, this is another reason why I don’t write TIWIDT posts. With my digressionary tendencies, they end up frightfully long! I shall try to hasten my pace…)
I eventually met up with my friends for ice cream. Again, we insisted on sitting outside, even though it was getting chillier by then. Eating ice cream in Oslo in April in sunshine (am I even allowed to have that many in’s in [haha] one sentence?) can be quite pleasant. Eating ice cream in April in Oslo in shade, however, is c-c-cold. But we survived, and afterwards we strolled around to regain normal body temperatures. Oslo (this post should of course be called “On Oslo” [or quite possibly “On The Secret Garden”], but I have reserved that title [the Oslo-one] for a similar-yet-different post that I have in mind for June[-ish]) – Oslo has a relatively new opera house, and it has become a popular attraction for tourists and Osloensians alike. You can walk around on its white marble exterior, looking out over the fjord. It’s very nice, actually. We went there for something of a photo shoot (don’t ask – I have digressed enough as it is), before I finally decided it was time to call it a day.
I made one last stop on my way home – I picked some flowers that to me more than anything say spring. Hestehov [tussilago farfara, or coltsfoot] isn’t actually all that pretty. It doesn’t smell nice, and it grows in such numbers that by many it is considered a weed. Still, it is the first wild flower that appears each spring, and the yellow little heads look like miniature suns stretching towards the sky. In true spirit of this springful day, then, I picked some and brought home where they are now sunning up our kitchen table (I just googled “sunning” to make sure I wasn’t saying something I didn’t know what meant. The definition “the opposite of mooning – involving front” clearly implies that I did… And yet, I am too tired and amused to change it…).
There. I finished my TIWIDT post. I shall post it as it is (with one quick read-though. Just the one), even if it is as long as a Osloensian winter. Now that I think about it, though, the proper title of this post would have been “On spring”. Oh, well…
[Note: if you have actually read through all of the above you also deserve to know that I really meant to post this last night. Just as I typed up the last paragraph, however, my internet connection died. I probably should have interpreted this as a sign that the Internet gods didn't want me to expose anyone to such a lenghty ramble. Seeing as you are reading this, I evidently am not afraid of the wrath of the Internet gods. If you never hear from me again, chances are I should have been afraid...]
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
On literary wars
You may remember my book circle. I mentioned it briefly in my crazed Friday post – as I am self-appointed resident baker for our meetings. My book circle had an extraordinary meeting, seeing as we were participating in a survey/interview for the National Broadcasting Company (NRK). They were asking for book circles where the members were under the age of 40, and we volunteered. There was a lot of commotion prior to this meeting, because we struggled a lot in finding a time where both we and the interviewers were able to participate, but finally, on Friday, we managed to get together.
It was an interesting event, seeing as we were able to talk quite liberally about the book coverage in NRK in general; about their website specifically (this was originally what we were supposed to review); and about anything else that came to our mind concerning NRK, a national institution we all grew up with.
Even though we spent even less time than usual to discuss the book of the month – Alice in Wonderland (no, we did not pick this one because the movie is just out... Fine, that is why…) – we decided to find a new book for our next (this time NRK-free) meeting.
We ended up weighing H.G. Wells’ The War of the Worlds (not The World of the Wars, as I keep calling it) against Joseph Heller’s Catch 22. Several of us favoured Heller – mostly because catch 22 has become an idiom, so we’d all like to know what the back story is. Perhaps even more mostly, though, we favoured Catch 22 because we, with one (or possibly two) exceptions, are generally skeptical towards science fiction (one might wonder what Wells is doing on the list at all, actually…). Another strong argument was that Tom Cruise is in Warp of the Worlds, but seeing as we’re supposed to read the book and not see the movie, this was quickly written off as irrelevant. However, we realized that since about half of our book circle members are finishing their master’s degrees this spring, we didn’t want a long book. So Wells’ hundred-something pages won over Heller’s five hundred-something.
As a result of our “intellectually” preferred book of the month, I went on another insidious book hunt this Saturday. Well, insidious might be overstretching things (I really like that word), but it was arduous at least. An onerous quest, that required a strenuous effort (yes, I am done flashing fancy words now).
The first bookshop I entered had a copy of The Warf of the Worlds. Yay! I almost bought it, but then I discovered that they also had a copy of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness (am I the only one who gets Joseph Conrad mixed up with Joseph Heller? Ironic, I know. At least it isn’t Lauren Conrad.). I’ve been in a funny reading mode lately, where I get extreme urges to read something from or depicting a specific country or culture. For instance, in the making of yesterday’s post, I immediately desired to read a book from the Central African Republic. I think it all started with my reading of Chris Cleave’s The Other Hand (otherwise known as “The Orange Book”) last year – at least this is the origin of my Africa-specific reading appetite. Anyway, I have for a while wanted to read something from the Congo. I’ve just started The Poisonwood Bible, and so far I really like it, but the book you’re “supposed” to read when the words “novel” and “the Congo” is mentioned in the same sentence is Heart of Darkness.
Consequently, I’ve been looking for this book for a while, and seeing it in the same shop that had the other book I was looking for, I figured this was probably the world’s way of telling me that I deserved both books (having just received my student loan also helped me conclude in this fashion).
However, my rationality kicked in. What might have been the true rational thing would have been to go to the library. But no, I’m not that rational. What I knew, though, is that there is another bookstore chain which has a running offer of 3 for 2 on English pocket books. Here I was about to buy two book in a different store, where I could get a third for free. No, siree!
There is a store of this same chain in the mall I was currently visiting, so I went there.
Naturally, they did not have The Wart of the Worlds. They did, however, have Heart of Darkness. When it comes to books, though, I don’t give up easily. There are a number of bookstores downtown Oslo, and the biggest one from the chain I wanted to visit, is right by the main street. It isn’t far to walk, but seeing as I somehow ended up visiting every other store in the area as well, it took some time to get there. In the process I even managed to buy a ridiculously expensive (and ridiculously purple) raincoat. I ♥ it!
When I finally got to the bookstore in question, I immediately went to the classics section. They had Heart of Darkness, but, surprise, surprise, no War of the Words. Then I went to the science fiction section. No War of the Wards. I even tried the fantasy section (just for kicks), but no – not even a hint of War of the Worms. Eventually I did something I almost never do in bookstores – I asked the staff to help me find it. They did not help me find it, but they did help establish that the book indeed was out of stock. And not just from this store, but from the entire chain. So the War of the Walls + Heart of Darkness + random, free goodness dream was crushed.
I reluctantly faced defeat (though I did visit another bookstore, from another chain, before I went home. They didn’t even have Heart of Darkness).
The result? I went through five bookstores to find what I already had found in the very first (and ironically, one of the smallest) of them. Looking for a “free” book, I ended up bookless. It was all very sad.
“Fortunately,” I said to myself, “the bookstore at the university is quite big, and it often stacks up on classics (with them literature studies people hanging around there all day).” (Yes, I even speak in parentheses. Especially when I am talking to myself.) “I will probably be able to get both Heart of Darkness and The War of Whatever It Was on Monday.” It would mean no free book, but that is probably just as well, seeing as my bookshelves are already filled to the insidious risk of them falling down. And putting them back up would simply be arduous.
And that should have been the end of this blog post.
But the world was not done waging war on me.
Because I did go to the university book store, and I did ask for The Wwwar of the Wwworlds (only by intense concentration and multiple w’s could I bring myself to say the wars, sorry, the worlds, sorry, the words in correct order). As you will have guessed, however, they did not have it. As you also might have guessed, they did have Heart of Darkness (but in a copy that had an appendix that was three times as long as the actual book. I told you [well, no, I told me] there were literature studies people hanging around there…). Once again I left the bookstore bookless. Clearly the world is trying to tell me something about which book to read… But I shall conquer it yet!
The morale of this blog post was supposed to be that if you only search long enough, you will find. Or something to that effect. Seeing as I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For (but I did manage to lure a U2 title in there), I cannot conclude in the manner I intended. Instead, I think that it is high time I draw another conclusion, a conclusion I probably should have accepted after my experiences with the Orange Book and the New Orange Book (That is Actually Green) : never, NEVER, leave a book you intend to buy behind!
Tonight I am going back to that first bookshop, and I am picking up both the Way of the Worlds and Heart of Darkness (unless one or both of them have sold out since Saturday – in which case I might finally take the hint that I am simply not supposed to read this/these book/s).
It was an interesting event, seeing as we were able to talk quite liberally about the book coverage in NRK in general; about their website specifically (this was originally what we were supposed to review); and about anything else that came to our mind concerning NRK, a national institution we all grew up with.
Even though we spent even less time than usual to discuss the book of the month – Alice in Wonderland (no, we did not pick this one because the movie is just out... Fine, that is why…) – we decided to find a new book for our next (this time NRK-free) meeting.
We ended up weighing H.G. Wells’ The War of the Worlds (not The World of the Wars, as I keep calling it) against Joseph Heller’s Catch 22. Several of us favoured Heller – mostly because catch 22 has become an idiom, so we’d all like to know what the back story is. Perhaps even more mostly, though, we favoured Catch 22 because we, with one (or possibly two) exceptions, are generally skeptical towards science fiction (one might wonder what Wells is doing on the list at all, actually…). Another strong argument was that Tom Cruise is in Warp of the Worlds, but seeing as we’re supposed to read the book and not see the movie, this was quickly written off as irrelevant. However, we realized that since about half of our book circle members are finishing their master’s degrees this spring, we didn’t want a long book. So Wells’ hundred-something pages won over Heller’s five hundred-something.
As a result of our “intellectually” preferred book of the month, I went on another insidious book hunt this Saturday. Well, insidious might be overstretching things (I really like that word), but it was arduous at least. An onerous quest, that required a strenuous effort (yes, I am done flashing fancy words now).
The first bookshop I entered had a copy of The Warf of the Worlds. Yay! I almost bought it, but then I discovered that they also had a copy of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness (am I the only one who gets Joseph Conrad mixed up with Joseph Heller? Ironic, I know. At least it isn’t Lauren Conrad.). I’ve been in a funny reading mode lately, where I get extreme urges to read something from or depicting a specific country or culture. For instance, in the making of yesterday’s post, I immediately desired to read a book from the Central African Republic. I think it all started with my reading of Chris Cleave’s The Other Hand (otherwise known as “The Orange Book”) last year – at least this is the origin of my Africa-specific reading appetite. Anyway, I have for a while wanted to read something from the Congo. I’ve just started The Poisonwood Bible, and so far I really like it, but the book you’re “supposed” to read when the words “novel” and “the Congo” is mentioned in the same sentence is Heart of Darkness.
Consequently, I’ve been looking for this book for a while, and seeing it in the same shop that had the other book I was looking for, I figured this was probably the world’s way of telling me that I deserved both books (having just received my student loan also helped me conclude in this fashion).
However, my rationality kicked in. What might have been the true rational thing would have been to go to the library. But no, I’m not that rational. What I knew, though, is that there is another bookstore chain which has a running offer of 3 for 2 on English pocket books. Here I was about to buy two book in a different store, where I could get a third for free. No, siree!
There is a store of this same chain in the mall I was currently visiting, so I went there.
Naturally, they did not have The Wart of the Worlds. They did, however, have Heart of Darkness. When it comes to books, though, I don’t give up easily. There are a number of bookstores downtown Oslo, and the biggest one from the chain I wanted to visit, is right by the main street. It isn’t far to walk, but seeing as I somehow ended up visiting every other store in the area as well, it took some time to get there. In the process I even managed to buy a ridiculously expensive (and ridiculously purple) raincoat. I ♥ it!
When I finally got to the bookstore in question, I immediately went to the classics section. They had Heart of Darkness, but, surprise, surprise, no War of the Words. Then I went to the science fiction section. No War of the Wards. I even tried the fantasy section (just for kicks), but no – not even a hint of War of the Worms. Eventually I did something I almost never do in bookstores – I asked the staff to help me find it. They did not help me find it, but they did help establish that the book indeed was out of stock. And not just from this store, but from the entire chain. So the War of the Walls + Heart of Darkness + random, free goodness dream was crushed.
I reluctantly faced defeat (though I did visit another bookstore, from another chain, before I went home. They didn’t even have Heart of Darkness).
The result? I went through five bookstores to find what I already had found in the very first (and ironically, one of the smallest) of them. Looking for a “free” book, I ended up bookless. It was all very sad.
“Fortunately,” I said to myself, “the bookstore at the university is quite big, and it often stacks up on classics (with them literature studies people hanging around there all day).” (Yes, I even speak in parentheses. Especially when I am talking to myself.) “I will probably be able to get both Heart of Darkness and The War of Whatever It Was on Monday.” It would mean no free book, but that is probably just as well, seeing as my bookshelves are already filled to the insidious risk of them falling down. And putting them back up would simply be arduous.
And that should have been the end of this blog post.
But the world was not done waging war on me.
Because I did go to the university book store, and I did ask for The Wwwar of the Wwworlds (only by intense concentration and multiple w’s could I bring myself to say the wars, sorry, the worlds, sorry, the words in correct order). As you will have guessed, however, they did not have it. As you also might have guessed, they did have Heart of Darkness (but in a copy that had an appendix that was three times as long as the actual book. I told you [well, no, I told me] there were literature studies people hanging around there…). Once again I left the bookstore bookless. Clearly the world is trying to tell me something about which book to read… But I shall conquer it yet!
The morale of this blog post was supposed to be that if you only search long enough, you will find. Or something to that effect. Seeing as I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For (but I did manage to lure a U2 title in there), I cannot conclude in the manner I intended. Instead, I think that it is high time I draw another conclusion, a conclusion I probably should have accepted after my experiences with the Orange Book and the New Orange Book (That is Actually Green) : never, NEVER, leave a book you intend to buy behind!
Tonight I am going back to that first bookshop, and I am picking up both the Way of the Worlds and Heart of Darkness (unless one or both of them have sold out since Saturday – in which case I might finally take the hint that I am simply not supposed to read this/these book/s).
Sunday, November 22, 2009
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
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
On a pedestrian's agonies
Even though I do have a driver’s license, I don’t have a car. At home I rarely need to drive (and even more seldom do I want to). Therefore, to make absolutely sure I wouldn’t have to drive in the US, I left my license at home. Of which I am happy. However – and I knew this before I left – it can be a pain to not have a car in the US. (I sense a lot of rolling eyes.) Because when you don’t have a car, you’re either left to explore whatever public transportation your area can offer (and it isn’t always a given that there is any), or, you’re stuck with what you were born with: your legs.
So I walk. I walk to the metro station, I walk to the grocery shop, and I walk to the ruddy archive. I like to walk. It is my transportation of preference at home too. But the experience of walking is slightly different here than at home. As long as you’re in the city, you’re fine. D.C. is a pedestrian’s city in many respects (one-way streets, parking challenges and an easily navigatable metro system being excellent reasons for leaving your car at home). It’s when you stray out of city limits you face the real problems.
First of all – the roads are so much bigger than at home (I’ve yet to see one that in Norway wouldn’t be defined as “highway”...), and everything is adjusted to the driver’s need, not the pedestrians’. Pedestrian crossings are few, they are only occasionally regulated by lights, and if so, these lights only stop traffic for a few seconds. I walk relatively fast, but more than once I’ve found it difficult to cross the street on time. I wonder how an old lady with a cane would manage?
Secondly, when walking you’re free game. It appears that the drivers consider me part of the roadside entertainment. At home, I have never, ever, been honked at. Ever. Here, it appears that is common. Am I wearing a bumper sticker that says “Honk if you’re horny?” No! And yes, I did notice that you checked my “bumper” just to make sure… I don’t know if it is my striking beauty and obvious charm, but I have a feeling that it’s not. Just because I’m there, walking, doesn’t mean you have to eat me up with your eyes!
Some don’t even stop there. Again, at home I have never been randomly offered a ride from a stranger (unless you count the time I was eight... It sounds worse than it is. Long story...)*. Here, it happened three times during my first month. How stupid do they think I am? I might be blond and blue-eyed, I might look (and be) naïve, but seriously – I don’t accept rides from strangers! I could have been walking with broken legs and a concussion, and I would still have turned down the offer to take a ride from a stranger. (Call it Norwegian tight-assedness, call it healthy scepticism, call it a principle. Not gonna affect my firm belief that I am safer sticking to it as a rule.)
Finally, (and I realize this isn’t a U.S. thing – this is more a me-thing,) when you’re walking carrying your camera (which I have been doing a lot – my camera having been my tool of choice for my archive work, and when I’ve been touristing about I also brought it along), you stand at risk of creating the strangest situations. I have mentioned some already (my SWAT encounter, my near-death tree photographic episode and of course the squirrels, the show-offs). But in addition, let me tell you a little story. This happened about a month ago, when I was, as usual, walking home from the archive. It was a beautiful day – the sun was about to set, but it was still light out. Suddenly I saw a big bird sitting at the top of a building. It looked an awful lot like an owl, but since it was daytime, I doubted this could be it. Cautiously, I approached it, camera ready. When I got close enough to see that, yes, it definitely was an owl, I snapped a shot just to make sure I had this documented. As the bird did not appear to be scared at all, however, I went even closer to get a better shot.
This was when I realized why it didn’t move. It was made of plastic.
Needless to say, I put my camera back in my bag and left quite quickly. The owl, I believe, is still there.
So I walk. I walk to the metro station, I walk to the grocery shop, and I walk to the ruddy archive. I like to walk. It is my transportation of preference at home too. But the experience of walking is slightly different here than at home. As long as you’re in the city, you’re fine. D.C. is a pedestrian’s city in many respects (one-way streets, parking challenges and an easily navigatable metro system being excellent reasons for leaving your car at home). It’s when you stray out of city limits you face the real problems.
First of all – the roads are so much bigger than at home (I’ve yet to see one that in Norway wouldn’t be defined as “highway”...), and everything is adjusted to the driver’s need, not the pedestrians’. Pedestrian crossings are few, they are only occasionally regulated by lights, and if so, these lights only stop traffic for a few seconds. I walk relatively fast, but more than once I’ve found it difficult to cross the street on time. I wonder how an old lady with a cane would manage?
Secondly, when walking you’re free game. It appears that the drivers consider me part of the roadside entertainment. At home, I have never, ever, been honked at. Ever. Here, it appears that is common. Am I wearing a bumper sticker that says “Honk if you’re horny?” No! And yes, I did notice that you checked my “bumper” just to make sure… I don’t know if it is my striking beauty and obvious charm, but I have a feeling that it’s not. Just because I’m there, walking, doesn’t mean you have to eat me up with your eyes!
Some don’t even stop there. Again, at home I have never been randomly offered a ride from a stranger (unless you count the time I was eight... It sounds worse than it is. Long story...)*. Here, it happened three times during my first month. How stupid do they think I am? I might be blond and blue-eyed, I might look (and be) naïve, but seriously – I don’t accept rides from strangers! I could have been walking with broken legs and a concussion, and I would still have turned down the offer to take a ride from a stranger. (Call it Norwegian tight-assedness, call it healthy scepticism, call it a principle. Not gonna affect my firm belief that I am safer sticking to it as a rule.)
Finally, (and I realize this isn’t a U.S. thing – this is more a me-thing,) when you’re walking carrying your camera (which I have been doing a lot – my camera having been my tool of choice for my archive work, and when I’ve been touristing about I also brought it along), you stand at risk of creating the strangest situations. I have mentioned some already (my SWAT encounter, my near-death tree photographic episode and of course the squirrels, the show-offs). But in addition, let me tell you a little story. This happened about a month ago, when I was, as usual, walking home from the archive. It was a beautiful day – the sun was about to set, but it was still light out. Suddenly I saw a big bird sitting at the top of a building. It looked an awful lot like an owl, but since it was daytime, I doubted this could be it. Cautiously, I approached it, camera ready. When I got close enough to see that, yes, it definitely was an owl, I snapped a shot just to make sure I had this documented. As the bird did not appear to be scared at all, however, I went even closer to get a better shot.
This was when I realized why it didn’t move. It was made of plastic.
Needless to say, I put my camera back in my bag and left quite quickly. The owl, I believe, is still there.
* Just because I know someone or other is bound to ask... When I was eight years old, I was accidentally abducted by a misguided bureaucrat. This was May 17th (Norway’s Constitutional Day, in case you haven’t been at the receiving end of my propagandic raving about it before), and a TV-team wanted an interview with the little girl who had held the traditional speech at City Hall (yes, I held speeches at age eight. Don’t even get me started at my career in public speaking. That definitely merits a post of its own sometime...). My kidnapper, who worked for the local municipality, was just doing his job, but he chose a very bad way of doing it. He basically tracked me down in the children’s parade, told me I would get to be on TV if I came with him, and since I was eight and didn’t know better, I did. When my teacher turned around to find me gone, she asked my classmates what had happened. I am fairly sure the reply “she went with a man in a car” didn’t make her feel too happy, but apart from the simultaneous near-heart attacks of her, my mom and my dad, nothing bad happened that day. I have, however, learned better since.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
On intentions and interventions
Consider yourselves ditched. I got up early this morning, ready to write a blog (before doing lots of tedious stuff like laundry), but then a neighbour reminded me of something I had completely forgotten about in my frantic attempts to finally finish my archive work this week (with success – yay me!). Today was the date the National Book Festival took place in Washington, D.C. I saw posters for this in the beginning of my stay here, and I always meant to go, but since it wouldn’t take place until the end of September – two thirds into my extremely long stay in America – I filed it away at the back of my brain. All of a sudden, two months have passed. It feels unreal that I only have one month left before I go back home. Needless to say, I ditched writing my blog this morning because I went to the festival instead.
[Short side note – I’m writing this while watching Finding Nemo for the millionth time – and I’m now at the part where Marlin is riding with the sea turtles. I adore those creatures. Oh, and the seagulls! Dude, I’ve got to stop commenting before I end up writing a movie review rather than a National Book Festival blog]
The festival took place at the National Mall, and it featured an impressive number of famous authors either speaking, signing or both. According to the poster, the festival was free and open to the public. This was the main problem with the arrangement. Since I had forgotten about it, I hadn’t planned well enough to be able to leave the house particularly early, so I wasn’t in D.C. until about noon. The festival started at 10 am, and in those two hours a significant crowd had managed to gather. There were people everywhere: standing in lines to buy books; standing in lines to get to hear some interesting author speak about some interesting topic; standing in lines to get in the lines to have their books signed. Just as I was about to make up my mind if it was worth getting in one of those lines, I felt the first few raindrops.
[“Just keep swimming!”]
I decided it wasn’t worth it. I had even brought a book I recently read and liked (The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao) to potentially have it signed by the author (Junot Diaz), but as his line was insanely long, I settled for having seen him from afar and wandered on. I got a free tote bag, I saw John Grisham (also from afar) and I left the mall. Instead, I figured I might have my own personal book festival in one of the big downtown bookshops. I was, after all, feeling some considerable withdrawal symptoms since it had been a full week since I last visited a bookshop.
I believe I have previously touched upon my at times nonexistent sense of direction. Today, however, I surprised even myself. Washington, like any citiy where there streets are numbered in one direction, and alphabetized in the other, should be relatively easy to navigate. Considering this, and the fact that I have walked quite a bit in Washington during these two months, I felt confident enough that I didn’t even bring a map. To illustrate just how sure I felt that I knew my way around, let me give you a direct quote from myself, approximately one and a half month ago: “I love walking in D.C.! It’s like impossible to get lost!” No need to go hungry – I’ve got words to eat…
I knew where I was going, and I knew how to get there. And I still managed to walk in the opposite direction – twice! How that is possible – since the opposite of the opposite direction ought to have been the right direction – is beyond me, but all I know is that I ended up almost falling into the Chesapeake Bay. Twice.
[“I speak whale!”]
Luckily I was able to retrace my steps, get on the right side of the mall, find the bookshop (once I walked in the right direction it was easy), and indulge in the pleasures a combined coffee-, book-, CD- and DVD-shop offers.
One final weird thing happened to me today. It’s not just a small world, it’s a tiny one. In that crowd of thousands of booklover, whom did I see other than one of my fellow researchers from the archive? That is, ex-fellow. As mentioned, I now consider myself done, finito, never goin’ back (well, never say never, but at least I don’t intend to spend every waking moment there anymore. I’ve got what I need. I hope). I figured it was about time to leave when several staff members now not only had memorized my name, but also were able to pronounce it properly. Who knows, maybe sending one of the researchers after me was the archive’s way of saying goodbye?
[Nemo and dad are happily reunited, so I think this is also my cue to say bye-bye for the night]
[Short side note – I’m writing this while watching Finding Nemo for the millionth time – and I’m now at the part where Marlin is riding with the sea turtles. I adore those creatures. Oh, and the seagulls! Dude, I’ve got to stop commenting before I end up writing a movie review rather than a National Book Festival blog]
The festival took place at the National Mall, and it featured an impressive number of famous authors either speaking, signing or both. According to the poster, the festival was free and open to the public. This was the main problem with the arrangement. Since I had forgotten about it, I hadn’t planned well enough to be able to leave the house particularly early, so I wasn’t in D.C. until about noon. The festival started at 10 am, and in those two hours a significant crowd had managed to gather. There were people everywhere: standing in lines to buy books; standing in lines to get to hear some interesting author speak about some interesting topic; standing in lines to get in the lines to have their books signed. Just as I was about to make up my mind if it was worth getting in one of those lines, I felt the first few raindrops.
[“Just keep swimming!”]
I decided it wasn’t worth it. I had even brought a book I recently read and liked (The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao) to potentially have it signed by the author (Junot Diaz), but as his line was insanely long, I settled for having seen him from afar and wandered on. I got a free tote bag, I saw John Grisham (also from afar) and I left the mall. Instead, I figured I might have my own personal book festival in one of the big downtown bookshops. I was, after all, feeling some considerable withdrawal symptoms since it had been a full week since I last visited a bookshop.
I believe I have previously touched upon my at times nonexistent sense of direction. Today, however, I surprised even myself. Washington, like any citiy where there streets are numbered in one direction, and alphabetized in the other, should be relatively easy to navigate. Considering this, and the fact that I have walked quite a bit in Washington during these two months, I felt confident enough that I didn’t even bring a map. To illustrate just how sure I felt that I knew my way around, let me give you a direct quote from myself, approximately one and a half month ago: “I love walking in D.C.! It’s like impossible to get lost!” No need to go hungry – I’ve got words to eat…
I knew where I was going, and I knew how to get there. And I still managed to walk in the opposite direction – twice! How that is possible – since the opposite of the opposite direction ought to have been the right direction – is beyond me, but all I know is that I ended up almost falling into the Chesapeake Bay. Twice.
[“I speak whale!”]
Luckily I was able to retrace my steps, get on the right side of the mall, find the bookshop (once I walked in the right direction it was easy), and indulge in the pleasures a combined coffee-, book-, CD- and DVD-shop offers.
One final weird thing happened to me today. It’s not just a small world, it’s a tiny one. In that crowd of thousands of booklover, whom did I see other than one of my fellow researchers from the archive? That is, ex-fellow. As mentioned, I now consider myself done, finito, never goin’ back (well, never say never, but at least I don’t intend to spend every waking moment there anymore. I’ve got what I need. I hope). I figured it was about time to leave when several staff members now not only had memorized my name, but also were able to pronounce it properly. Who knows, maybe sending one of the researchers after me was the archive’s way of saying goodbye?
[Nemo and dad are happily reunited, so I think this is also my cue to say bye-bye for the night]
Friday, September 25, 2009
On missing the wood because you're barking up the wrong tree
I was walking home from the archive one beautiful, sunny day, when I decided to stop and take a picture of a tree. I’ve been walking the same route for weeks now, passing this three twice a day, but I have never noticed just how beautiful it is. It is tall – very tall, in fact – but it doesn’t look too tall, since it’s also a very wide tree. If I am to give a rough estimate of how wide the crown is (keep in mind, very rough, since estimates fall into the category my brain defines as “science” and thus “not my domain”) I’d say it’s maybe 15 square meters. The branches stretch out, neatly, but not too evenly – just enough so it doesn’t look lopsided, but not so much that it looks trimmed. Because this is a wild tree – no doubt about it. To emphasize the wildness, the stem is covered with a climbing vine, striving to join the leaves of the crown in a beautiful harmony.
Are you tired of reading my lyrical description of this wonderful tree yet? Or are you happily imagining sparkling fairies fluttering around the vine-covered stem? Either way, there is a question that surely must be pressing – why are you describing this tree with words when you simply can show us the picture you took? Well, actually, you hit a sore spot there. Because there is no picture (and that is the topic of today’s post, the tree merely plays a secondary role in the upcoming tale).
Why is there no picture?
Let me assure you, none of the normal excuses apply. Yes, I did have my camera with me. Since it’s my primary working tool in the archive, Buck has become my companion through thick and thin. No, she didn’t have film in her, but then again, that is of little relevance since she’s a digital camera. Before you have the time to reply to that, let me quickly add that she did have a memory card. One that wasn’t full (though it was not empty either – 283 pictures taken from three archive boxes). Battery? Well, actually, that is almost correct – there was little enough battery left for that to be a perfectly valid excuse. But then I’d have no blog post (or at least a significantly shorter one). The lack of sufficient battery capacity does play a role, but still, it’s not the superstar. (When will I get to the point, you say? Never! I laugh evilly. But then I will reluctantly admit that I am on my way.)
I stopped and pulled out my camera. I removed the lens cover (there goes another potential reason); adjusted the camera; looked through the little thingie that isn’t the screen (I like to pretend I know what I’m doing, after all) and was just about to take the picture that forever would capture the spirit of this tree, when I was rudely interrupted. A car had stopped behind me, and a voice called out from it.
My first thought was “please, don’t let it be the owner”. The tree, wild as it may look, was after all firmly placed in the middle of a neatly trimmed lawn, in front of a “two SUVs and a Porsche”-looking garage and a huge house with lots of windows where the blinds were firmly shut. The entire property screamed “paparazzis will be shot first, then questioned”. And yet I thought it would be a good idea to wave my camera around like a crazy person.
Slowly, I turned around, to face my potential killer. The guy in the car looked good-natured enough, but you never know with potential killers. I kept my distance (which was a pretty safe one, considering he was on the other side of the road).
“Excuse me, you couldn’t tell me where X Road is?” he asked.
Seeing as the driver was asking for directions, it was apparent (even to me) that this was not the owner, and thus I simply wanted the man to go away, before the real owner turned up, or my battery died (whichever came first). However, even if I had wanted to help him, I don’t know any roads in our neighbourhood named X. Therefore I put on my finest Norwegian accent (reserved for occasions such as this) and replied: “Sorri, I am djust a torist, I don’t know where aniting is!”
He looked at me suspiciously, but as I was holding a camera, my story seemed likely enough. “Just a tourist, huh?” he said, and took off. Happy that this minor setback was overcome, I returned to my task. The battery was very nearly dead now, so it took me a few moments to convince the camera to wake up again. Just as I was ready – another car approached and slowed down.
What – was this “plague the photographer” day? Again I turned around, half expecting the same guy to be back, accusing me of employing a fake Norwegian accent since I, after all, had been able to pronounce W. Only this time it wasn’t a false alarm. One of the SUVs who belonged in the garage whose tree I desperately was trying to capture, nearly pushed me into the ditch as it pulled over and into the driveway I seconds earlier had been standing in. I was worthy of one hateful look cast from the woman in the car before the (automatically opened) garage door swallowed both her and the car. She was quite obviously on her way to find her shotgun, and as my battery in that very instant shut down completely (probably out of fear), I realized it was not meant to be.
I could go back another day, (at the risk of my life and pride,) to once more try to photograph the tree. But I think the opportune moment passed – it’s time to face that some pictures are just not supposed to be taken.
Are you tired of reading my lyrical description of this wonderful tree yet? Or are you happily imagining sparkling fairies fluttering around the vine-covered stem? Either way, there is a question that surely must be pressing – why are you describing this tree with words when you simply can show us the picture you took? Well, actually, you hit a sore spot there. Because there is no picture (and that is the topic of today’s post, the tree merely plays a secondary role in the upcoming tale).
Why is there no picture?
Let me assure you, none of the normal excuses apply. Yes, I did have my camera with me. Since it’s my primary working tool in the archive, Buck has become my companion through thick and thin. No, she didn’t have film in her, but then again, that is of little relevance since she’s a digital camera. Before you have the time to reply to that, let me quickly add that she did have a memory card. One that wasn’t full (though it was not empty either – 283 pictures taken from three archive boxes). Battery? Well, actually, that is almost correct – there was little enough battery left for that to be a perfectly valid excuse. But then I’d have no blog post (or at least a significantly shorter one). The lack of sufficient battery capacity does play a role, but still, it’s not the superstar. (When will I get to the point, you say? Never! I laugh evilly. But then I will reluctantly admit that I am on my way.)
I stopped and pulled out my camera. I removed the lens cover (there goes another potential reason); adjusted the camera; looked through the little thingie that isn’t the screen (I like to pretend I know what I’m doing, after all) and was just about to take the picture that forever would capture the spirit of this tree, when I was rudely interrupted. A car had stopped behind me, and a voice called out from it.
My first thought was “please, don’t let it be the owner”. The tree, wild as it may look, was after all firmly placed in the middle of a neatly trimmed lawn, in front of a “two SUVs and a Porsche”-looking garage and a huge house with lots of windows where the blinds were firmly shut. The entire property screamed “paparazzis will be shot first, then questioned”. And yet I thought it would be a good idea to wave my camera around like a crazy person.
Slowly, I turned around, to face my potential killer. The guy in the car looked good-natured enough, but you never know with potential killers. I kept my distance (which was a pretty safe one, considering he was on the other side of the road).
“Excuse me, you couldn’t tell me where X Road is?” he asked.
Seeing as the driver was asking for directions, it was apparent (even to me) that this was not the owner, and thus I simply wanted the man to go away, before the real owner turned up, or my battery died (whichever came first). However, even if I had wanted to help him, I don’t know any roads in our neighbourhood named X. Therefore I put on my finest Norwegian accent (reserved for occasions such as this) and replied: “Sorri, I am djust a torist, I don’t know where aniting is!”
He looked at me suspiciously, but as I was holding a camera, my story seemed likely enough. “Just a tourist, huh?” he said, and took off. Happy that this minor setback was overcome, I returned to my task. The battery was very nearly dead now, so it took me a few moments to convince the camera to wake up again. Just as I was ready – another car approached and slowed down.
What – was this “plague the photographer” day? Again I turned around, half expecting the same guy to be back, accusing me of employing a fake Norwegian accent since I, after all, had been able to pronounce W. Only this time it wasn’t a false alarm. One of the SUVs who belonged in the garage whose tree I desperately was trying to capture, nearly pushed me into the ditch as it pulled over and into the driveway I seconds earlier had been standing in. I was worthy of one hateful look cast from the woman in the car before the (automatically opened) garage door swallowed both her and the car. She was quite obviously on her way to find her shotgun, and as my battery in that very instant shut down completely (probably out of fear), I realized it was not meant to be.
I could go back another day, (at the risk of my life and pride,) to once more try to photograph the tree. But I think the opportune moment passed – it’s time to face that some pictures are just not supposed to be taken.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
On religious encounters
Yesterday (today, Sunday, hasn’t seen any adventures yet) I went for a walk. It was an exercise in Digressionism, to say the least, and therefore I feel compelled to write about it here. I’m not pretending this is the gospel of Mari, but for any of you out there with a foot or more in my religion of choice, reading this might be a good place to start. It also has a tad of “real” religion in it, but I will try to avoid sticking my tongue too far into the bee hive.
Before I left the house, my landlady/host mom/roomie/TV buddy, Linda, told me about a craft fair at the Presbyterian Church nearby. She gave me some directions, and I decided to see if I could find it. My original plan had, after all, been limited to “go outside since the weather is good” (Norwegian to the bone). A goal was not unwelcome.
By now I have lived here for close to two months, and with a lot of help from a map, the elimination method (otherwise known as trying and failing and failing and failing and failing before maybe succeeding), and directions from random passersby (frequently squirrels) – I have with time learned to navigate the tricksy streets of my neighbourhood despite my lousy sense of direction. That is – I have learned to navigate the parts of it I actually need to know. Send me off in any other direction, however, and I am lost as a cupcake. To my defence, let me point out my poor sense of direction (or lack thereof) isn’t the only thing to blame – the neighbourhood I live in really feels like a maze most of the time. I remember the first few times I went in here (as a passenger) in a car, and I realized that I would never be able to get back out again on my own. Not too far from the truth. The streets all have similar sounding names (most of them has something with a tree in them – pine-; forest-; wood-;– get the drift?) , and for some reason they seem to be moving around (you thought you were walking down Woodberry Lane, but all of a sudden, you find yourself in Wells Parkway. You take a left in Pineway Drive, knowing that this will take you up to Forrest Hill, but no – you’re back on Well’s Parkway. The only safe thing with these streets, really, is that no matter where you try to go, you will always end up in Well’s Parkway. It’s magnetic, or something). In addition, 90% of the houses are made of red brick, and they all have similar looking yards and driveways. All the driveways are inhabited by one Lexus and one minivan. I kid you not.
So, to expect me to find the Presbyterian Church on my first attempt, was a haphazard to say the least.
I walked down our street. I knew that if I only followed it to the end, I would end up at Route 1, which would take me either to College Park town or to the area where the church was supposed to be, depending of which way I went. However, since I now know the area “so well”, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to take a little detour. Since it was such a lovely day, I wanted to take some lovely pictures with my lovely camera (whose name is Buck, so you’re all introduced). This was a bad idea.
I walked in what I thought was a circle. When I get lost, I usually walk in circles. When I am not lost, or have not yet understood that I am lost, however, it turns out I don’t walk in circles. Either that, or the circle failed to take me back to the start (that’s not really an “either”, is it? Circles always take you back to the start – that is sort of the point...). Anyway, where I ended up was (amazingly enough) not Well’s Parkway, and thus I had lost my one foolproof method of navigation. Since I didn’t have my map with me, and since I no longer trusted the elimination method since it now apparently did not take me back to Well’s, I was forced to turn to my last option: ask someone.
The first squirrel I met was not very helpful. I tried to climb the tree it directed me to, but no luck. I should have known better – Presbyterians are too down to earth to have their churches in trees.
After a while I ran into a nice looking group of mothers and kids, and they were able to give me much more useful directions. Apparently, I had been walking in circles after all – only the church was in the middle of the circle.
Once I got there, the fair was almost over. I went in, looked at a few items, and figured out that I was not feeling entirely comfortable there. I had not brought a lot of cash, and I had also failed to bring any sincere intentions to buy anything. Nothing feels worse than having 4th graders look at you with their big puppy eyes, wondering why you’re not buying the egg cosy they have made under great risk of stinging their own fingers. I ended up getting a couple of used books (25 cents each, so I had cash for those) – ironically one was about a sordid love affair and the other one was about a Jewish man losing his faith (was this my suppressed opposition to organized religion speaking?). Then I left, feeling oddly aware of my (limited, yet visible) cleavage and the fact that I was in a church.
I don’t mind religion, especially not when people don’t feel the urge to convert others (which, I should point out, no one in that church seemed to have even the tiniest inkling to do). I even respect it – to the point that I feel compelled to be properly dressed when I visit a church or another religious site, since I am the one coming to them and thus should strive to not offend anyone. However, even after this brief encounter with religion, I felt the need to seek an idolatry that much more fits my personality – Starbucks (which incidentally is where my camera got her name. Yes, she is a she. Don’t ask). This time I easily navigated my way back to Route 1, went into College Park and found my place of worship.
Currently reading: Here, There Be Dragons by James A. Owen, though with only some 50 pages left, I believe I soon will venture on to the “new orange book” (that you will have to good grace to hear about tomorrow).
Currently listening to: September’s Playlist as assembled by J. M. Hunter at this awesome blog (I stalk the blog for the music, and end up giggling over the incredibly funny posts).
Currently eating: Goldfish S’mores – since I was too lazy to go make real breakfast before writing this…
Before I left the house, my landlady/host mom/roomie/TV buddy, Linda, told me about a craft fair at the Presbyterian Church nearby. She gave me some directions, and I decided to see if I could find it. My original plan had, after all, been limited to “go outside since the weather is good” (Norwegian to the bone). A goal was not unwelcome.
By now I have lived here for close to two months, and with a lot of help from a map, the elimination method (otherwise known as trying and failing and failing and failing and failing before maybe succeeding), and directions from random passersby (frequently squirrels) – I have with time learned to navigate the tricksy streets of my neighbourhood despite my lousy sense of direction. That is – I have learned to navigate the parts of it I actually need to know. Send me off in any other direction, however, and I am lost as a cupcake. To my defence, let me point out my poor sense of direction (or lack thereof) isn’t the only thing to blame – the neighbourhood I live in really feels like a maze most of the time. I remember the first few times I went in here (as a passenger) in a car, and I realized that I would never be able to get back out again on my own. Not too far from the truth. The streets all have similar sounding names (most of them has something with a tree in them – pine-; forest-; wood-;– get the drift?) , and for some reason they seem to be moving around (you thought you were walking down Woodberry Lane, but all of a sudden, you find yourself in Wells Parkway. You take a left in Pineway Drive, knowing that this will take you up to Forrest Hill, but no – you’re back on Well’s Parkway. The only safe thing with these streets, really, is that no matter where you try to go, you will always end up in Well’s Parkway. It’s magnetic, or something). In addition, 90% of the houses are made of red brick, and they all have similar looking yards and driveways. All the driveways are inhabited by one Lexus and one minivan. I kid you not.
So, to expect me to find the Presbyterian Church on my first attempt, was a haphazard to say the least.
I walked down our street. I knew that if I only followed it to the end, I would end up at Route 1, which would take me either to College Park town or to the area where the church was supposed to be, depending of which way I went. However, since I now know the area “so well”, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to take a little detour. Since it was such a lovely day, I wanted to take some lovely pictures with my lovely camera (whose name is Buck, so you’re all introduced). This was a bad idea.
I walked in what I thought was a circle. When I get lost, I usually walk in circles. When I am not lost, or have not yet understood that I am lost, however, it turns out I don’t walk in circles. Either that, or the circle failed to take me back to the start (that’s not really an “either”, is it? Circles always take you back to the start – that is sort of the point...). Anyway, where I ended up was (amazingly enough) not Well’s Parkway, and thus I had lost my one foolproof method of navigation. Since I didn’t have my map with me, and since I no longer trusted the elimination method since it now apparently did not take me back to Well’s, I was forced to turn to my last option: ask someone.
The first squirrel I met was not very helpful. I tried to climb the tree it directed me to, but no luck. I should have known better – Presbyterians are too down to earth to have their churches in trees.
After a while I ran into a nice looking group of mothers and kids, and they were able to give me much more useful directions. Apparently, I had been walking in circles after all – only the church was in the middle of the circle.
Once I got there, the fair was almost over. I went in, looked at a few items, and figured out that I was not feeling entirely comfortable there. I had not brought a lot of cash, and I had also failed to bring any sincere intentions to buy anything. Nothing feels worse than having 4th graders look at you with their big puppy eyes, wondering why you’re not buying the egg cosy they have made under great risk of stinging their own fingers. I ended up getting a couple of used books (25 cents each, so I had cash for those) – ironically one was about a sordid love affair and the other one was about a Jewish man losing his faith (was this my suppressed opposition to organized religion speaking?). Then I left, feeling oddly aware of my (limited, yet visible) cleavage and the fact that I was in a church.
I don’t mind religion, especially not when people don’t feel the urge to convert others (which, I should point out, no one in that church seemed to have even the tiniest inkling to do). I even respect it – to the point that I feel compelled to be properly dressed when I visit a church or another religious site, since I am the one coming to them and thus should strive to not offend anyone. However, even after this brief encounter with religion, I felt the need to seek an idolatry that much more fits my personality – Starbucks (which incidentally is where my camera got her name. Yes, she is a she. Don’t ask). This time I easily navigated my way back to Route 1, went into College Park and found my place of worship.
Currently reading: Here, There Be Dragons by James A. Owen, though with only some 50 pages left, I believe I soon will venture on to the “new orange book” (that you will have to good grace to hear about tomorrow).
Currently listening to: September’s Playlist as assembled by J. M. Hunter at this awesome blog (I stalk the blog for the music, and end up giggling over the incredibly funny posts).
Currently eating: Goldfish S’mores – since I was too lazy to go make real breakfast before writing this…
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
On walking between bookstores
The final day of Leanne’s visit in D.C. had one goal, and one only: to make us completely and utterly exhausted so that we would be able to sleep on the overnight train to Boston. We did our best, and we were pretty exhausted, but did we sleep on the train? Not so much…
Thursday started early – we had a breakfast date with our mutual friend, Sarah. Even though we did most of our packing the previous night, somehow we were still unable to be completely ready at time. Fortunately Sarah was patient, and tolerated being attacked by my host family’s over-enthusiastic dogs. When we finally were off, it turned out that the intended destination – a vegetarian breakfast place – was not yet open. We settled for alternative number two – bagels in a local college hang-out. The place was more that good enough, but in reality it probably had not mattered at all where we ate – we would have had a great time anyway. I have met Sarah in person before, Leanne had not, but our online interaction goes a long way back. We had such a great time thinking back to the “good, old times” we used to have, and since we share a lot of mutual interests, the conversation never stalled.
Sarah kindly dropped us off at the metro station, and then Leanne and I headed into the city. My office at George Washington University is, as I may have bragged about before, just a few blocks from the White House, so we went there to drop off our luggage before we started the day that was to be characterized by walking.
We walked to the White House, around it, from there to the Washington monument, around it, down the mall to the Lincoln memorial, yes, around it, and back to the White House area where we had lunch. Then we returned to my office, walked around it (but it’s not very big), went out again and ended up in Georgetown.
The train ride was long. It is one thing to spend ten hours on a train when it’s light and you can see things. It’s a whole different matter when you’re exhausted and cannot sleep. No matter how comfortable the seats were, they were not comfortable enough, and I had a feeling my neck wasn’t attached to my body in the same spot as usual when we finally left the train in Boston. However, despite the lack of sleep, our spirits were high. After a (not so) quick stop at Leanne’s apartment to leave luggage, freshen up and introduce me to her two beautiful cats, we went for a(nother) walk – this time around the area where she lives. It was very nice – one of the highlights was, naturally, a bookstore (before Leanne went to stay in one for the rest of the night – aka work).
When she left for work, I went on my own to the area around Harvard university. Forever and ever I will now be able to say that I once went to Harvard. Feels good.
The area is, however, worth a visit even if you hadn’t been able to say those words. It’s filled with quirky little shops of every kind (not to mention the bookstore of bookstores – I will shut up about them soon, I promise, or at least consolidate my thoughts into a single post…), lots of college students (but in my opinion they looked slightly smarter than what I see at other universities – this might be a trick of the mind…) and beautiful, old buildings.
Finally, however, the walking caught up with me, and I was thoroughly happy when I finally could go to sleep on Leanne’s couch.
Thursday started early – we had a breakfast date with our mutual friend, Sarah. Even though we did most of our packing the previous night, somehow we were still unable to be completely ready at time. Fortunately Sarah was patient, and tolerated being attacked by my host family’s over-enthusiastic dogs. When we finally were off, it turned out that the intended destination – a vegetarian breakfast place – was not yet open. We settled for alternative number two – bagels in a local college hang-out. The place was more that good enough, but in reality it probably had not mattered at all where we ate – we would have had a great time anyway. I have met Sarah in person before, Leanne had not, but our online interaction goes a long way back. We had such a great time thinking back to the “good, old times” we used to have, and since we share a lot of mutual interests, the conversation never stalled.
Sarah kindly dropped us off at the metro station, and then Leanne and I headed into the city. My office at George Washington University is, as I may have bragged about before, just a few blocks from the White House, so we went there to drop off our luggage before we started the day that was to be characterized by walking.
We walked to the White House, around it, from there to the Washington monument, around it, down the mall to the Lincoln memorial, yes, around it, and back to the White House area where we had lunch. Then we returned to my office, walked around it (but it’s not very big), went out again and ended up in Georgetown.
During this walk we also learned that Leanne apparently speak squirrel. The squirrels in D.C. are plentiful and relatively tame – they will for instance happily pose for photographs. However, I have never seen one approach by request until now, in fact it got so close that both Leanne an I were slightly worried the little bugger was going to climb her…
Squirrel pit stops set aside – in total this is a decent walk, especially considering we gradually added weight in our bags (we did naturally stop in every bookstore on our way). When we finally returned to my office that evening, we were tired enough to take advantage of my GWU privileges and call 4-RIDE to transport us to the metro rather than walk some more. This ensured that we got to Union Station in one piece (well, actually, Leanne and I were two separate pieces, and we had many pieces worth of luggage, so let me estimate we got there in maybe seven pieces). From there we managed to print our tickets, have some food, and board the 10 o’clock train.
The train ride was long. It is one thing to spend ten hours on a train when it’s light and you can see things. It’s a whole different matter when you’re exhausted and cannot sleep. No matter how comfortable the seats were, they were not comfortable enough, and I had a feeling my neck wasn’t attached to my body in the same spot as usual when we finally left the train in Boston. However, despite the lack of sleep, our spirits were high. After a (not so) quick stop at Leanne’s apartment to leave luggage, freshen up and introduce me to her two beautiful cats, we went for a(nother) walk – this time around the area where she lives. It was very nice – one of the highlights was, naturally, a bookstore (before Leanne went to stay in one for the rest of the night – aka work).
When she left for work, I went on my own to the area around Harvard university. Forever and ever I will now be able to say that I once went to Harvard. Feels good.
The area is, however, worth a visit even if you hadn’t been able to say those words. It’s filled with quirky little shops of every kind (not to mention the bookstore of bookstores – I will shut up about them soon, I promise, or at least consolidate my thoughts into a single post…), lots of college students (but in my opinion they looked slightly smarter than what I see at other universities – this might be a trick of the mind…) and beautiful, old buildings.
Finally, however, the walking caught up with me, and I was thoroughly happy when I finally could go to sleep on Leanne’s couch.
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