This evening I had hoped to listen to Merete Mazzarella, a Swedish journalist, essaist and author, speak at Finlandsinstitutet in Stockholm about her two most recent books: När vi spelade Afrikas stjärna and Fredricka Charlotta född Tengström. While I arrived in good time for the talk, I was turned away together with 20 to 30 other disappointed listeners because the lecture hall for some 200 persons was already full, despite the fact that we had arrived in good time before the posted "meeting time".
In my frustration, several thoughts went through my mind: relax, go home and take it easy; you've already corresponded with Merete M by mail about these books, so you've satiated at least some of your curiosity; how different this situation is from the times I''ve found myself sitting with a dozen or so other diehards at the foot of a Nobel laureate in the Black Oak Bookstore in north Berkeley and been given so much to think about; Jante Law: what is the difference between the intellectual climate of Sweden/Finland/Scandinavia and the USA? I think I am starved here in Sweden and returned home, wherever that may be, this evening to contemplate my empty plate....and write on.
I find solace in knowing that tomorrow evening, I will break bread and eat fish with one of my favorite friends.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Friday, February 8, 2008
Cultural clash
This morning I experienced an amusing culture clash.
We were four colleagues who had arrived simultaneously at the front door of our offices. The senior board member (a Swede) among us was quickest to pull out his magnetic entry card and hold the door open for the rest of us. All of a sudden my younger Chinese colleague backed into me, whereupon I nearly overturned the poor young Swedish colleague behind me. Instinctively grabbing a hold of my younger Chinese colleague for balance, I (typical American?) proceeded to push her in front of me through the door, ahead of our junior Swede.
My young Chinese colleague was of course flustered because she had not been the first to open the door for her senior colleagues, and in her failure to follow Asian protocol she at least wanted to be the last of us three remaining to enter. We all know that some (especially older) Swedes are chivalrous and that most Americans are pushy, right? Once we had all managed to enter the reception without setting off the alarm, we could laugh over a quick cultural debrief. Needlesstosay, I am privileged to work where the ceiling is high and a ubiquitous sense of humor prevails.
We were four colleagues who had arrived simultaneously at the front door of our offices. The senior board member (a Swede) among us was quickest to pull out his magnetic entry card and hold the door open for the rest of us. All of a sudden my younger Chinese colleague backed into me, whereupon I nearly overturned the poor young Swedish colleague behind me. Instinctively grabbing a hold of my younger Chinese colleague for balance, I (typical American?) proceeded to push her in front of me through the door, ahead of our junior Swede.
My young Chinese colleague was of course flustered because she had not been the first to open the door for her senior colleagues, and in her failure to follow Asian protocol she at least wanted to be the last of us three remaining to enter. We all know that some (especially older) Swedes are chivalrous and that most Americans are pushy, right? Once we had all managed to enter the reception without setting off the alarm, we could laugh over a quick cultural debrief. Needlesstosay, I am privileged to work where the ceiling is high and a ubiquitous sense of humor prevails.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
The primary election
My absentee vote is still waiting to be counted. I am glad I've had some choice, to bite or not to bite into the big juicy apple in the hands of Billary and Obama. "Some of the best choices we make are the ones we make when we don't have much choice," said Josephine M.
Ash Wednesday
Ash Wednesday is the beginning the fast, the day of the liturgical year that is to remind us of our own mortality. I watch the priest as he presses his thumb into the bowl of ashes and then hear him say “Dust thou art to dust returneth” or “Return to the Word” as ashes fall before my eyes, like my funeral veil. At once I am shielded from having to show my face, and allowed to wear my grief with grace. I can see that now. My entry on Ash Wednesday last year mentions my plans to return soon to mother Anne’s bedside before her hour of death.
This day also reminds me of the significance of setting limits, of willingly abstaining from things I think I cannot do without. We succumb to temptation so much more easily when and where barriers are invisible. This day reminds me of the unseen black veil and unheard water falling, before the opening behind which I stand.
…All this and more
remains to be seen
in the sound of silence
at all the checkpoints
between the pauses
between the Acts
before passing
all old stations
of the Ubahn.
Listen carefully
nowhere any longer
wall or ashes falling
before our eyes
to let me see
what remains
for who am I
otherwise?
Berlin, February 1993
This day also reminds me of the significance of setting limits, of willingly abstaining from things I think I cannot do without. We succumb to temptation so much more easily when and where barriers are invisible. This day reminds me of the unseen black veil and unheard water falling, before the opening behind which I stand.
…All this and more
remains to be seen
in the sound of silence
at all the checkpoints
between the pauses
between the Acts
before passing
all old stations
of the Ubahn.
Listen carefully
nowhere any longer
wall or ashes falling
before our eyes
to let me see
what remains
for who am I
otherwise?
Berlin, February 1993
Thursday, January 31, 2008
A subway encounter in 1990
I have a note in my diary from 1990 that I ran into one of the architects of the Kaknästorn in the Stockholm subway on 31 January. The note doesn’t indicate where we entered the train or who was on the train first. I can only see that we were both on our way to work in the Old Town, and that while we acknowledged one another, I was apparently the first to open a conversation by saying 'hello'. The note adds that the architect was unable to place me immediately, likewise that he seemed relieved when he was able to make a connection to my face, and pose a perfect “cocktail party” question:
“Have you seen the Börjeson girls lately?” The architect had re-membered that I was a friend of the daughters of one of his oldest childhood friends from Örebro, Börje Börjeson, whose oldest daughter, Tina, had bought the little red house next door to mine. Tina had grown up on a nearby broiler chicken farm, and the little red cabin was where her father had once lodged several illegal immigrants to work the farm. She later encouraged me - whom she had met through mutual friends a few years earlier – to purchase the adjacent property when it too was up for sale the next year. Though the miner's residence I bought was much larger, it didn't have the same emotional ties to Tina as the little red house, to where she and her sister had often gone to escape from farm chores and isolation, and where there were several young available foreign men. It didn’t occur to me then that suggesting that I purchase the old miner's residence might be a dubious exercise of the popular Swedish expression “territorial control”*, nor that it could well become the scene of a modern drama.
“Yes, as a matter of fact I have,” I answered the architect, adding “You know that Tina is married to my youngest brother.” I could see how the architect tensed, the way his face flushed as though I had suddenly offered him a piece of a totally different puzzle than the one he was working on.
“No, no she’s not,” he said impulsively, adding: “She married a rich American and moved to the United States.” I don’t think it was just his negation of my statement - and the obvious conviction with which he asserted that Tina had not married my brother - that was so absurd. There was something vulgar and impersonal about the way he pronounced the cliché “rich American” that caused me to react the way I did.
“No, no, she hasn’t, she’s married to my younger brother,” I said, instinctively defending myself from the source of his information as well as from his preferential right to interpret it, and hopefully protecting the integrity of my “poor little brother” at the same time. Who had told the architect about the marriage? Why did that messenger choose to identify the marriage with something like his Jaguar, a vehicle which he had chosen to hide in the woods because it spoiled the view of his own country house. What was it that the messenger had wanted, and had not wanted, the architect to see? Clearly embarrassed and flustered by the situation, the architect seemed relieved that the train was just approaching the Old Town.
“Yaha, well, I’m getting off here, goodbye for now.”
“Yes, well, I’m getting off here too,” I said, continuing to shuffle to the right of the architect as he stepped out of the subway car. I was curious and sensed that I had nothing to lose by pursuing the topic, despite whatever discomfort it may be causing. It seemed to be a perfect opportunity to consume our anxiety by disclosing the hypocrisy. We walked silently side by side until we were out of the station, when he motioned to the right.
“Well, I’m off here…”
“Yes, me too” I interrupted, continuing to keep pace alongside of him on the narrow cobblestoned street, “I have an appointment with a graphic designer on Ferkens Gränd.” I knew that the architect had an office next door to where I was going because I had seen his name many times before on the building. Thus, I could politely prepare him either for a few more minutes of conversation, or the chance to take a detour. He seemed to succumb, however reluctantly, to my company.
“Yes, they were married several years ago, and have a young son now.” I think that both the architect and I sensed the need to begin from the beginning, with the innocence of a child.
To be continued...
* Max Weber’s definition of state, which has long been appropriated by the Swedish foreign ministry (though applicable only to strong states): “unchallenged control of the territory within the defined boundaries under its control, monopolization of the legitimate use of force within the borders of the state, and the reliance upon impersonal rules in the governance of its citizens and subjects” (SIDA 2533n)
“Have you seen the Börjeson girls lately?” The architect had re-membered that I was a friend of the daughters of one of his oldest childhood friends from Örebro, Börje Börjeson, whose oldest daughter, Tina, had bought the little red house next door to mine. Tina had grown up on a nearby broiler chicken farm, and the little red cabin was where her father had once lodged several illegal immigrants to work the farm. She later encouraged me - whom she had met through mutual friends a few years earlier – to purchase the adjacent property when it too was up for sale the next year. Though the miner's residence I bought was much larger, it didn't have the same emotional ties to Tina as the little red house, to where she and her sister had often gone to escape from farm chores and isolation, and where there were several young available foreign men. It didn’t occur to me then that suggesting that I purchase the old miner's residence might be a dubious exercise of the popular Swedish expression “territorial control”*, nor that it could well become the scene of a modern drama.
“Yes, as a matter of fact I have,” I answered the architect, adding “You know that Tina is married to my youngest brother.” I could see how the architect tensed, the way his face flushed as though I had suddenly offered him a piece of a totally different puzzle than the one he was working on.
“No, no she’s not,” he said impulsively, adding: “She married a rich American and moved to the United States.” I don’t think it was just his negation of my statement - and the obvious conviction with which he asserted that Tina had not married my brother - that was so absurd. There was something vulgar and impersonal about the way he pronounced the cliché “rich American” that caused me to react the way I did.
“No, no, she hasn’t, she’s married to my younger brother,” I said, instinctively defending myself from the source of his information as well as from his preferential right to interpret it, and hopefully protecting the integrity of my “poor little brother” at the same time. Who had told the architect about the marriage? Why did that messenger choose to identify the marriage with something like his Jaguar, a vehicle which he had chosen to hide in the woods because it spoiled the view of his own country house. What was it that the messenger had wanted, and had not wanted, the architect to see? Clearly embarrassed and flustered by the situation, the architect seemed relieved that the train was just approaching the Old Town.
“Yaha, well, I’m getting off here, goodbye for now.”
“Yes, well, I’m getting off here too,” I said, continuing to shuffle to the right of the architect as he stepped out of the subway car. I was curious and sensed that I had nothing to lose by pursuing the topic, despite whatever discomfort it may be causing. It seemed to be a perfect opportunity to consume our anxiety by disclosing the hypocrisy. We walked silently side by side until we were out of the station, when he motioned to the right.
“Well, I’m off here…”
“Yes, me too” I interrupted, continuing to keep pace alongside of him on the narrow cobblestoned street, “I have an appointment with a graphic designer on Ferkens Gränd.” I knew that the architect had an office next door to where I was going because I had seen his name many times before on the building. Thus, I could politely prepare him either for a few more minutes of conversation, or the chance to take a detour. He seemed to succumb, however reluctantly, to my company.
“Yes, they were married several years ago, and have a young son now.” I think that both the architect and I sensed the need to begin from the beginning, with the innocence of a child.
To be continued...
* Max Weber’s definition of state, which has long been appropriated by the Swedish foreign ministry (though applicable only to strong states): “unchallenged control of the territory within the defined boundaries under its control, monopolization of the legitimate use of force within the borders of the state, and the reliance upon impersonal rules in the governance of its citizens and subjects” (SIDA 2533n)
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
In between flights
...and frights. Another pause in my story, brought to me by my first love (Michael Chase, Berkeley, CA, 1969):
FLIGHT
Hidden in suds,
while we were aloft,
the bashful sea played,
soapy and soft.
FLIGHT
Hidden in suds,
while we were aloft,
the bashful sea played,
soapy and soft.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
The patron of Sweden
Over the past 30 years in Sweden I have read stacks of “technological poetry” and reflected enough on the ”timeless erection” [‘tidlös stake’ på svenska] that one of the architects of the Kaknästorn would evidently like to be remembered by. It has taken me many years, and many a twist and turn of words in the dark, to eventually confirm my own perspectives. Sometimes I wonder why it has taken me so long, but that’s another story.
In one of my diaries of early personal encounters in Sweden, I note that I ran into the quoted (last blog entry) Kaknästorn architect one day in the subway in Stockholm. We were both on our way to work in the Old Town. I recognized him because he had a quaint little house in the woods not far from my old country house, and sometimes stopped by to inspect my place.
He had also invited me once on a tour of his house, which I found to be a perfectly charming museum piece, a piously renovated and meticulously maintained 18th century cabin with no running water or electricity indoors. There were funky scrap metal sculptures and a little homemade generator along a dammed up stream that ran through the property. When there was enough water in the stream, a falling squirt was used to power a lightbulb in the outhouse, though it wasn’t working when I was there. This was where he chose to remind himself of his history. When he was there he always kept his Jaguar out of sight in the woods behind his house, as though it marred the timeless illusion. I was learning about Sweden and Swedes.
On the unannounced inspection days, he would park his Jaguar under the pear tree in front of my house. I might be up on the roof laying new tiles, on a ladder puttying the window panes, sanding the fir floors, laying bricks around a new hearth, or wallpapering – all in my attempts to make an old whitewashed miners’ residence that hadn’t been maintained for decades, inhabitable. I never remember him knocking, though I believed he should have since we did not know one another particularly well. He always seemed to appear in some sort of a professional capacity, somewhere between that of an industrial patron overseeing his foundry and a housing contractor inspecting his construction site.
Getting used to the patronizing manner of this man was part of the process of acclimation to the Swedish landscape. I was young, a female, and a foreigner to boot.
To be continued...
In one of my diaries of early personal encounters in Sweden, I note that I ran into the quoted (last blog entry) Kaknästorn architect one day in the subway in Stockholm. We were both on our way to work in the Old Town. I recognized him because he had a quaint little house in the woods not far from my old country house, and sometimes stopped by to inspect my place.
He had also invited me once on a tour of his house, which I found to be a perfectly charming museum piece, a piously renovated and meticulously maintained 18th century cabin with no running water or electricity indoors. There were funky scrap metal sculptures and a little homemade generator along a dammed up stream that ran through the property. When there was enough water in the stream, a falling squirt was used to power a lightbulb in the outhouse, though it wasn’t working when I was there. This was where he chose to remind himself of his history. When he was there he always kept his Jaguar out of sight in the woods behind his house, as though it marred the timeless illusion. I was learning about Sweden and Swedes.
On the unannounced inspection days, he would park his Jaguar under the pear tree in front of my house. I might be up on the roof laying new tiles, on a ladder puttying the window panes, sanding the fir floors, laying bricks around a new hearth, or wallpapering – all in my attempts to make an old whitewashed miners’ residence that hadn’t been maintained for decades, inhabitable. I never remember him knocking, though I believed he should have since we did not know one another particularly well. He always seemed to appear in some sort of a professional capacity, somewhere between that of an industrial patron overseeing his foundry and a housing contractor inspecting his construction site.
Getting used to the patronizing manner of this man was part of the process of acclimation to the Swedish landscape. I was young, a female, and a foreigner to boot.
To be continued...
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