Rock On

 

I stole this from a Threadless profile. And I love it.

Life: for a limited time only.

My mind likes to run in circles. Sometimes when I read my own writing I feel like I can see concentric little circles of thought spiraling their way down the page. Likewise, I find that each season holds its own set of cyclic thoughts, memories, and compulsions, and each year they return like clockwork—circling back to remind me of where I’ve been and where I’m headed. 

Spring has forever been my season of crossroads, of evaluation, of decision.With the monumental decision at hand now, I’ve realized something really amazing: There are no wrong answers. There are no bad options. Not anymore, baby.

 I don’t think I’ve ever been able to say that. I guess age and education really do bring some valuable gifts, and I’m so grateful to have gained and realized. With that thought swirling around my head, the decision seems much more of a blessing than a curse. It knocked out some blockage up there and dusted off a whole room full of perennial spring dreams.

 Ever since I found out that a unique and brazen bunch of people set out each year to through-hike the 2,200 miles of the Appalachian Trail, I’ve dreamed of saddling myself up and meeting them at Springer Mt; and each early spring I’m reminded that I’m still not among them, and I wonder why.

I’ve always wanted to travel out West, working seasonal jobs in the desert. I’ve even accepted jobs in the Four Corners states on a few occasions, but I’ve never gone. I want to volunteer in a developing country. I want to actually give writing a go, even if it means selling my eggs and slingin’ Timmy’s coffee… There are so many dreams I’ve thrown away because they just weren’t feasible. Everyone has those, I guess.

But why we choose to toss those shiny little dreams over our shoulders is probably a little more personal. Probably the most common two reasons are: something better came up, or I just had to focus on my career/finances/family… It’s totally understandable. That’s life.

 
Of course those have been some of my common factors as well, but on the other hand I’m realizing that one of the biggest culprits is actually fear. I always sort of imagined myself somewhat less prone to fear (I like to think I grew up like a Kingsolver woman or a London man), but I’m slowly realizing just how much that nasty little four-letter wretch has dictated my life.

I’ve been afraid to commit to going home in case I don’t find a job. I’ve been afraid to stay in case it turns out to be a sad and lonely year. I’ve been afraid to look outside those two options because I worked so hard to get where I am now.

But, when I let go of the fear I can see something really exquisite: there is no expiration date on my career.

I’ve been working so hard for that career pass—that little piece of paper that gets my foot in the door. And here I am, standing fully inside that room, with nothing expiring but my life. Whether I land a job today, tomorrow, or three years from now doesn’t matter. That option will forever be open to me, but some other parts of life may not…

And that brings me to the most powerful fear of all: not being accepted, not being understood, not being approved. We single people often find ourselves in the same really beautiful boats; only trouble is that many of the child-laden powerboat people out there think our sails are vain and inadequate and feel the need to point that out as regularly as the tides knock us around.

Do I sound bitter? GOOD. I’m tired of people shooting pea holes in my sails.

I admit, I’ve caught myself thinking it too: when you get into the real world, you’ll realize why that’s not feasible. But why on earth do we all feel the need to judge other people’s lives based on our own? There ARE people out there who grow up and never marry, never have kids, never settle into a house, career, and square little box. Are they all immoral, degenerate losers? Not even at a glimpse. Not even for a second.

But still, if I told most people that I was going to give up my life and job here in Sweden, go back to North America, get a puppy, work as a sub until next March then hike the AT, they would have a very common reaction: why is she throwing it all away? Why won’t she grow up?   

Yes, I am up on my soapbox, and I am yelling.

 

  

Love ya, but I just don't need your stamp on my life...

 

 

BEING SINGLE DOES NOT EQUATE TO BEING YOUNG AND IMMATURE!

DIFFERENT DECISIONS AND VALUES DO NOT EQUATE TO WRONG DECISIONS AND VALUES!

INGENUITY AND AMBITION IN THOUGHT AND DREAM DO NOT EQUATE TO IMPULSIVITY!

QUIT TRYING TO IMPOSE YOUR VALUES ON MY LIFE!

 

 

 

Phew, got that out. In short, I’ve realized that other people run my life far too much. I think it may be more of a single person’s curse, as it’s hard to forget judgment when there’s no one at home to back you up. I think many of us are seen as younger because our lives are so much “easier.” That’s a whole blog for another day, though.

I’ve been afraid of losing my chance at my career. I’ve been afraid of making the wrong decision. I’ve been afraid of letting my family down. I’ve been afraid of relegating myself to a life without a family. I’ve been afraid of everything. And I had no idea.

I hold no illusions. I realize that I may remain single for the rest of my life and that my family may never understand or approve of my decisions. But what’s most important is that I know that my career isn’t going anywhere, but my life is running out by the second. And no one can find that happy variable but me. I’m going to take it in whatever form it arrives, and I’m going to search for it anywhere I please without fear.

And I’ll welcome all thoughts, suggestions, and constructive criticism. All judgment and guilt will be tossed aside though, because I’m going to make this decision on my own, based on my life and values. Because this life is mine—for a limited time only.

Variable Advice and Happiness on D Day

In grade 4 we read Gary Paulsen’s “Hatchet,” and I quickly followed it up with many of Jack London’s greats. I fed my starving little literary brain on morsels of Northern ice and adventure, scraps of wild men, embers of fires circled by snarling wolves. I grew up yearning for a life of unrivaled adventure and fierce independence.
Before boarding the plane to Sweden last August, my father held me tight and recalled those old dreams, “you always wanted to run away into the Northern woods… This is a better way to have a northern adventure.”

And I’m sure that he was right, but it’s been an adventure of different dreams.

Living abroad is an adventure and a bore all at once. Everything is new and different, and even the simplest things can be a trial. Food shopping is interesting at first, but as you grow tired of living your life by means of pictograms you find yourself cooking the same, safe, recognizable dishes over and over again.

At first the different language exhausts you and interests you, but you shortly find yourself tuning it all out… living in an auditory vacuum. In fact, when I was back in North America over the holiday, I found myself exhausted because I couldn’t help but listen in on every conversation around me—I felt obligated just because I could understand them.

The exciting sheen of originality wears off. You find yourself craving familiar things you thought you hated. I miss London traffic. I miss Hockey Night In Canada, The Beer Store, and even traffic on the 401. I miss giant stores that have whatever you want whenever you want it. Heck, I watch TV now. It’s become my best friend because it talks to me in my own language and shows me all kinds of pictures from back home.

I would kill for a Timmy’s and a breakfast sammich.

People seem to get me wrong all the time though. I’m not miserable here. In fact I quite like it, but Sweden is not my favourite country. I see why Swedes love it: it’s beautiful, there is a system for everything, everyone and everything is taken care of, life is calm and smooth and pleasing. If you fit into the parameters of the system, that is; if you don’t, you’d better enjoy breaking trail.
I’m happy I came here. I’ve met some really amazing people, I’ve had some great life and work experiences, and I’ve seen parts of the world I probably never would have seen otherwise. But I’ve come to a point where I have to make my decision…

Should I stay or should I go?

It’s a tough decision. Personally, I have no life. Professionally, things are pretty solid for me here. Back home that equation stands right on its head. So the question is, does the happiness variable come out equally in both equations? I’ve been mulling it over for months, but now I have an official deadline: have to tell Greg in Mid March.

Another fave author of mine, Terry Pratchett, mused that “the trouble with having an open mind, of course, is that people will insist on coming along and trying to put things in it.” And that’s the obnoxious story of my decision, it seems.

I’m asked almost daily if I’ll stay. I understand the interest, but really… It’s a bit of a personal question, and it’s not something I plan to tell strangers (or anyone) before I tell my boss. But I guess that’s the thing with Expat communities: we throw away the formalities because we’re all breaking trail on the same mountain.

Over and over again I hear that I “have to stick it out at least two years. I cried for two years, then it started to get better. Sweden is a really great country, you know…” Uh huh. Sounds fun. The parts they forget to consider are great: I have NO Swedish spouse to tie me here, my country’s pretty darn good too, and I have a life—a good one at that—back home. I’m tired of people assuming Sweden is better than Canada and that I was yearning for a life I couldn’t find there.

Truth be told, I just wanted a job.

So remind me again why I want to cry for 2 years? A negligible increase on my maternity leave, a decreased pay, and less medical benefits?? Riiiight. Thanks for the input. I’ll make my decisions and you can stick to yours.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Seriously though, I do generally appreciate input. I am just really tired of the assumption that I came here fleeing from some lack of life or worse. I came because I wanted to teach. Now I have, and I wonder if that’s enough of a life to give up all I have at home for yet another year of my life.

I’m also sick of the guilt factor. I’m a teacher, so it’s a given that I care deeply about the kids. I’ve bonded with them, and of course I consider the fact that my mentor class has had a new co-mentor every year they’ve been there. I would love to see them through their final year at our school next year, and I would be proud to have stuck by them and supported them for as long as I could. But, just as I need to consider them, so too do I need to consider me—perhaps a little more heavily.

Yes, I am young.

But my life is finite, and I plan to spend some of it just enjoying—not just struggling and living for others.

I’ve been meditating on a Theodore Roosevelt quote daily for about a month now. “Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checked by failure, than to take rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much, because they live in the gray twilight that knows not victory or defeat. “

I know I appreciate it. I know that it represents how I’ve tried to live my life. But I can’t figure out how it weighs into this decision yet. More on that later, I suppose. For now I’ll be spending my vacation time balancing those equations, searching for that elusive happiness variable.

Wish me luck. I wish you love and light.

 

The pond’s freezin’ over, now where are my skates?!

I’ve received numerous requests for an update from across the pond, so here it is… But someone should have told you all to be careful what you wish for. Truth be told, life East of the Atlantic isn’t all that different from West: eat, sleep, work, repeat. There hasn’t been all too much to say.

But that makes it sound all so simple, and really it isn’t. As I’m not here for vacation, there’s been much paperwork: I had to get my visa, work and residence permits, bank account, you name it. And while some people might have you believe that everything in Europe is better, easier, and more friendly than back home; I’m here to tell you that’s a nasty little rumour. And shame on you liars who are spreading it!

It took months and much stress to get my visa and permits, but now I’ve been here over 2 months and I still can’t get my personal number, which I need to open a bank account, get a doctor, a phone, the internet, even to rent a movie. So I still can’t even cash my own paycheques. I’m like a child—a child that doesn’t exist.

But, even though I can’t access my own money, the government can still take a third my pay, then deny me any benefits (like healthcare) because I still don’t have a personal number, which they won’t give me. I’d like to call someone and demand they send all that tax money to Canada, where my benefits would gladly be provided, but I’ve noticed that most people only speak English if you have positive things to say and simple requests… Go figure.

Every country suffers from its own case of nationalism. I admit, I’m guilty of buying into the Canadian I AM mentality—it’s so reassuring to have a whole country standing behind you chanting the same mantra. But so far, I don’t appreciate having a whole country chanting another in my face. I don’t speak Swedish, I have different cultural expectations of people around me, and most of what is normal here in Sweden is down right rude to me.

I’ve been through this before, once moving to Montreal, again moving to the States, then a little again moving back to Canada… But this is the first time in my life that it’s offended me so much. I hate to say it, but at this point the Swedish language just sounds like rudeness to me.

Am I a glutton for punishment?? All signs point to YES. But we Canadians are friendly and trusting. We smile and say hello to people we don’t know, we assume the best of one another, and as I once read (excuse the approximated quote, please) ”Canadians actually seem to like each other.” Perhaps that’s why I run into other countries with open arms; I assume they feel the same way we do. Think again, naïve little Canuck.

Here in Sweden people don’t say hello to strangers. In fact, if you make eye contact with someone, they still won’t even acknowledge your presence. Here’s goofy old me, walking down the bike path, smiling at everyone I meet, only to be met with cold stares… people looking right through me. Where I come from, that’s the coldest of insults you can give—we don’t denounce each other’s existence. It’s been explained to me that here, people are calculating enough to worry that if they smile at me today they may have to say hello tomorrow, then next week we’re chatting about the weather, and suddenly they’re stuck with me. Such a commitment, all from one smile, oh my… I had no idea I was like a disease that could spread and infect all days and time to come. Sorry Swedes. I’ll keep my horrific smiles to myself.

It’s kind of tough to be a happy go lucky Canuck/Vermont wave gal in such a cold and moderate country, but I refuse to stop smiling. Even if people in town ignore me, people at work shrug me off as an immigrant, people at all the important offices refuse to help me or offer some helpful advice. Even then, I just keep reminding myself that the last thing I want is to lose my identity and humanity while I’m here and find myself back in Canada insulting people by ignoring them. So I keep smiling, even if I have to curse at people’s rudeness afterwards from time to time.

And keeping that smile on my face is proving to be no easy task as the light is fleeing to somewhere down in Antarctica. Enjoy it, d little penguins, I hope you really do need it more than I do right now.  Already we’re down to a little under 11 hours of light per day, and I hear that it will shrink to a measly 6 hours (or less) once real winter hits. Hoo boy.

And right now the ‘sunshine’ at work is really dwindling as well. The kids have really settled in and are testing their limits again (read: trying their hardest to make me crazy), assessments are piling up and need marking, and we’re in Sweden’s version of report card time—yup, I get to mark & write lengthy comments for all my 160 students. Ida and I have been joking about setting up bunkbeds in the office, but the joke is bordering on a twisted reality lately. At least it keeps me busy, I guess.

And while I’m busy dedicating my life to Swedish kids, the Swedish Board of Education is dedicating it’s time to a new push: cutting back on foreign teachers without Swedish certification. Thanks for another stab in the back, my new Nordic friends. How about I educate your kids while you stand behind me and kick my knees in, eh? Yeesh.

You’d think I could ignore this new push and go on with my marking since I have a contract, but the news at the staff meetings is that one of our company’s schools had to ‘let go’ 3 of their teachers, all of whom had some type of contract– one of which was a permanent contract. And, gulp, you guessed it, now they’re taking a much closer look at all of our company’s schools. YAY!

So today we had a meeting, and I was the only one in a desperate enough situation to ask the direct question “do I need to be concerned about my job?” Did I get a direct answer? Hell no. Did it even sound like an indirect no? No again. Am I irate, nervous, and one strong nudge away from buying a ticket back home? Oh hell yes. YES indeed.

No one else seemed all too concerned, but they’re here for good anyhow. They have wives, husbands, homes, other people to carry them through a job loss.  Me? I haven’t even enough in my bank account to get myself back home if the need should arise… Oh wait, that’s right, I don’t even HAVE a bank account. I miss making beer deliveries. Heck, I’d go back to teaching for free in Ontario right about now. In fact, I’m so sick of Sweden I’m happy Mats Sundin is off the Leafs. How Swede it’s NOT!

So, like I said, there’s the news and be careful what you wish for, my pretties. Today, I sat outside a colleague’s classroom for a minute just because I was happy to hear his (fading) Canadian accent, beautiful ehs, and wonderfully familiar pronunciation of the words out and about. Ah, my fellow Canadians.

But it isn’t all doom and gloom. As my sister would say, I only have five more sleeps until my first vacation, and I’m really excited to see Slovenia, maybe drive a car again (I miss driving!), and drink a Zlatarog (or two) for the Bezans back home.

And I confess, certain things really are better here: European fashion is phenomenal, and I indulged myself in some really great new digs this weekend. Nothing goes better with a fake smile than new sky high black leather boots, and a sweater dress, maybe another sweater, some jeans… you get the idea.

Next investment: a sun lamp. I’m going to carry this smile through the winter if it kills me, and who knows, maybe one day it’ll rub off. It’s worth a shot, eh? 

Pics from Sweden

Since I have nothing else to talk about now, here are some pics.

They’re randomly organized & I am too lazy to explain. Many from school, new ones from home, some from downtown & the park. Enjoy!

Ramblings from Sweden Part 2

WE CLEAN BEFORE WE FEAST

In case you weren’t already aware, my last post was written on Saturday while waiting for an internet hookup, which I still don’t really have. I arrived in Sweden on Friday afternoon, not yesterday… Though the difference, to me, is negligible.

 I’m not one for mass postings or group emails, but as you can imagine things are pretty hectic, and as I’m using Ida’s internet to post, I’m trying to minimize my time.  I figured this was a good solution. Plus, writing gives me something to do in my barren apartment when I’m bored & lonely.  I have to get a personnummer  before I can get a phone, internet, or bank account, so it might be a bit before any of those things happen.

            

As I mentioned before, my school’s facility was not intended for academia. Nej, it was once a textile factory and had lived many lives before becoming Internationella Engelska Skolan 5 years ago. It’s an interesting building in a very convenient location, and really it looks quite impressive from the outside—very large and brick… in fact, they’re those sepia-toned bricks you see quite often in Southern Ontario, which is comfy for me.

However, the inside is a different story altogether. There are… 4 floors… I think. There are 3 staircases, though only two go from top to bottom, and they’re on the far ends of the building… And the second floor creates a huge dilemma because it is not accessible from all sides. What I mean by this is that it’s got a quad of classrooms right in the middle of the floor, blocking access from one side to another. So, quite often, if you need to get from one side of the floor to the other, you need to hike up or down the stairs, cross over that floor, then go back up/down and around again. This may sound only mildly annoying, but what you need to know is that there are 1 or 2 staircases that only go up one floor (and not the right one), the hallways are like labyrinths that are nearly innavigable (not a word, but it works), and the whole process is a nightmare, even once you’ve finally figured out the snarl of halls and stairs that we call home.  Which I have not, as you may have inferred.

And, of course, you guessed it—I’m split between two departments, and their offices are on opposite sides of the second floor. And yes, you nailed it again; my schedule includes room changes that follow this stinkin route quite often… One more for the team, Ebie… One more.  At least I should build a nice set of stems, just getting between offices and classrooms… I’ll have to try not to raise my arms to write on the board… (“Why does Ms. Bingham always stink?”)

All that aside, the facility is quite nice. (Apart from that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the show?) As I mentioned, the lunchroom is really quite amazing, and the food is really good! The classrooms are adequately furnished, bright, and clean, but no SMARTboards like back home in Ontario (no internet-based lessons for Ms. B… boohoo). My office is in the math and sciences department, which is great for me because it seems larger, brighter, and a little more lively than the English department. 

School is somewhat different here in Sweden, as our school is the equivalent of the Canadian “intermediate” or the US “junior high,” but the grades are 6-9. The kids seem to have a lot more freedom (which means we do too); for example they don’t have to come in until their first class (which may be as late as 10:30), and they can leave as soon as they are finished (as early as 1:30).  This also means that I have a lot more freedom with my schedule—namely, I can LEAVE in the middle of the day if I am free. Take THAT, Ontario.

Given I’m in Europe, there seem to be far less rules regarding physical contact, which is challenging for me… I never know whether to pull the boys off the girls in the halls or just let them go… On the other hand, they seem a far more intimate and less self-conscious culture, which may be attributable to this difference.  I find it sweet that grade 8 girls will still walk down the hall holding hands, and boys are unafraid to hug or throw an arm around each other– which is very European and seems so innocent & nice. There’s so much less of that typical North American awkwardness surrounding sex, sexual identity, and intimacy. It’s quite inspiring to see kids more comfortable in their own skin and comfortable with each other.

On the flipside of that, they are (perhaps) a bit too comfortable questioning authority for my liking. The kids are raised to expect explanations and to question authority, which I think is great… but (so far) they lack a basic respect for authority that I feel is necessary for a productive learning environment. I know, I never thought I’d say that either, but the old teacher snarl and stink eye just don’t work on these kids– and sometimes I just wish they’d poop their little britches and hop –to!! I prefer to teach, not discipline, and I fear there may be too much of that here… Perhaps it’s just a start of the year thing, but I’m finding it a bit of a struggle thus far…

As for the basics, the union agreement maxes us out at 35 hours a week, and I have a number of breaks throughout the day with which to plan—which makes my schedule seem quite nice (so far).  We have a really great system called SchoolSoft, which allows us to post homework, class notes, lesson plans, etc., all online—and it’s the kids’ responsibility to check every day and make sure they are up to date. What that means is that I don’t have to type those obnoxious Ontario lesson (etc) plans, I don’t have to write down homework on the board, and no one can ever say “I forgot my agenda,” or “I didn’t know it was due,” etc. They have more responsibility, which means less work for me.

HAHA, kiddies, HAHA.

I’m teaching 3 math  (grades 8 &9) and 3 English classes (grades 7 & 9), but I only have to plan for 2 math and 2 English because some of the classes are repeats. And really, I don’t have a whole lot of planning anyhow. Unlike in Ontario, the English department here has pretty much given me lessons in a can. We all do the same thing at the same time in basically the same way—which is bad for creativity and my level of excitement/challenge, but really good for my personal life and sanity. Math is basically mapped out, but I have the freedom to teach it how I like… and since math is fun & easy anyhow (another thing I never thought I’d say), the planning should really be quite easy.

Aside from those classes, I have what is called a mentor class. It’s a grade 8 class of 31 kids that a woman named Barbara Lundin & I share. We meet with these kids twice a week, their parents at least bi-weekly, and basically serve as their advisors. They seem a pretty good lot; though they’re talkative to an extreme and one of the girls is so histrionic and self-absorbed I’d like to smack her already.  I know that’s awful to say, but we’ve just spent the full two day orientation with them, and I’ve already seen some behaviour from her (towards Mrs. Lundin) that I will NOT tolerate—even for an instant. I have no patience for little girls who talk back and storm out. (Isn’t that a little hypocritical, you say? BAH! I say!)

If you take one thing away from this, it should be that teaching in a school where the kids speak another language is very, very strange. They say things to you sometimes, and you’re not sure they’re speaking English, thanks to the accents. They say things that are obviously about you, and you have no idea what they’re saying… In co-taught classes, they talk to the other teacher in Swedish, and you are left clueless… Everywhere I go I have no idea what is being said around me… It’s strange, but I’m getting used to having a dumb smile plastered on my face & saying “engelska..?” often.

But enough of the teacher babble… Very few of you are interested in it, I’m sure, but it’s my life & I’m trying to tell you about my life here.

On the other side of life, Ida has given me a number of things for my apartment, so now I have sheets for my tiny little IKEA bed and curtains for my windows. She also gave me some towels, candles, matches, etc… It was a really thoughtful little package she put together, really. She is super nice & has shown me the ropes here in town. Her office is with mine, and she lives next door, so I think we ought to be friends. In fact, I am headed over to her place to use the internet and talk about math in just a few minutes.  Also, Barbara has offered me a set of leather furniture (sectional couch, recliner, ottoman), and Mousafa (the school custodian) is going to drop it off this weekend sometime. So, by this time next week I should be fully furnished for next to nothing!  No more echoes in my apartment! Woo!

I’ve rambled too much, so I’ll sign off for now. I’ve been far too busy to take any pictures, really, but I’ll go on a hike around the city this weekend and snap some to post– so hopefully I’ll have some good ones soon.

I hope you are all well, as I know many of you are traveling across countries yourself, and I hope that this post hasn’t bored you to death. They should be shorter & more interesting from now on. I miss you all very much, and I hope to actually SPEAK to some of you relatively soon. You’re all in my heart (if not my continent) always.

Ebie!

First Ramblings from Sweden

I have arrived. The Brickebacken moped mafia told me so. They said more, but when I shrugged, put my hands up, and sheepishly explained “English,” that was the response I got: “You are here,” with some smiles and not wholly unfriendly laughter.

Brickebacken (pr: Brickyabacken) is my neighbourhood in Orebro, Sweden. It’s a wooded area on the one hill in the city, just 5k from downtown. The university is up here, and apart from that there isn’t much but strange architecture, bike paths, huge slugs, and trees. Many, many, many large trees.  I quite like it so far, as it has a hodge-podgy international vibe, full of wanderlust, activity, and interest.

Brickebacken seems the student and immigrant mecca, which might explain the atmosphere: we’ve all chosen to uproot ourselves, we’re all learning, we’re all exploring.  Last night, as I meandered the bike paths, everyone was young or foreign and smiling, and they all gave me the Swedish “Hej Hej!”

Lena, who took me shopping and dropped me off, said that most Swedes don’t care to live up here. I don’t understand that. Up here, the roads give way to pedestrian and bike paths, and the inexpensive architecture is quirky and captivating. Just down the path from my building is the strangest little cluster of housing– built from storage units (yes, really). It was built years ago to accommodate an influx of University students and was meant to be temporary, but as the growth continued, they stuck and are now just super cheap, super strange apartments that look something like piles of multi-coloured shoeboxes with stairs.

I feel I’m living in some international hub in the woods. Everyone has a different skin colour, different attire, and even the smells are a feast unto themselves. I’m pretty sure most people I pass are speaking another language entirely—though my green ears may just not recognize Swedish on different tongues yet. Time will tell. Either way, it makes for interesting fare and keeps me feeling part of some international festival—which is far better than feeling a lone stranger in a strange land.

Which brings me to the journey. That stupid cliché reminds us that life is a journey, not a destination, and to me that has been the most important part of my move. It is now Saturday evening in Orebro, and I am thinking back to Thursday morning in Vermont. My poor mother bore witness to my inevitable breakdown as I prepared to head out the door, and I made her vow not to tell anyone of it– but now I will. Looking at my hugely overweight bag ( I won’t even admit the true weight of the thing) and thinking ahead to the trip, the beginning of school with no planning, and all of the inevitable changes and fears, I fell apart. I sat down on my parents’ kitchen floor and bawled, head in hands. “I can’t do this… I can’t do this…” It turned into my mantra. I cried much of the drive to Boston. I cried all through the airport, where they took me aside for “additional security screening.” I was terrified. I wanted to back out.

But traveling is good for that. Anyone who’s traveled overseas knows the timeless, surreal quality of a long journey in the hands of airlines, trains, and busses. I was removed from reality for a little over 24 hours, focused on nothing but the next step.  That helps you to forget. Dazed and clueless, the only reality I had was rushing from one point to the next. It began with the ridiculous security screening in Boston, where they stuck me in some chamber and puffed air all over me, swabbed all of my belongings and tested them for heaven knows what, and made me turn on my computer to prove it wasn’t some type of explosive. That was followed by delay after delay, leaving me with impossibly short moments between each leg of the trip. Somehow I managed to make each change, and in the end the trip was a miraculous success. It really shouldn’t have been, but for once luck was on my side.

By the time the reality hit again, I was squinting out the window of a 747 at 41,000 feet. Below me were the mountains of Norway, reaching up with rocky crags and snow caps, full of glacial lakes that looked more like spilled teal paint than water. Shortly I found myself in Stockholm, removed from the fear and ready to explore a new life in a new land… If only my train ticket and all the signs had been willing to help me with a little English… But I found my way eventually, just as the train was leaving. There’s still some residual fear for my first teaching days, but most of it has been replaced with excitement.

If nothing else, the journey is good for redirecting your mindset. I have to assume the vast differences help as well. When I moved to Ontario last year, I believe my expectations were a little skewed… I had some sense that I was going home, and I didn’t expect to feel so lost and out of place. Here, I can’t help but feel totally lost, as I can’t even buy milk without investigating the package and guessing at its contents. On the other hand, the landscape looks hauntingly familiar… Ontario, with funny architecture.

So far I’m trying to settle in, but most of last night was spent wandering, searching for a payphone. With no real sleep in 48 hours, I walked about 8 miles (yes, really) before I gave up my search. My boss had actually given me a mobile, but it had some Swedish message I didn’t understand and wouldn’t work. I stopped into a gas station near my apartment and the girl working there ( a Kurdish immigrant herself) helped to “fix” the phone, and I finally called home. Today one of my fellow teachers (and neighbour!), Ida (pr: EEda),  took me into the city and helped me spend all my money on power adaptors, bus cards, and other necessities.

The city is beautiful. Old and cobblestoned like most of Europe, the center is mostly pedestrian streets dominated by a Castle, rambling black river, and an enormous and beautiful park with elaborate gardens. Ida explained much to me today and kept me laughing. She’s Swedish by birth but was raised in Papua New Guinea and returned here 10 years ago. She’s been teaching in a refugee camp here for 4.5 years, and she’s lived in Orebro for 10 and seems to know everyone. I’d very much like to get to know her, as she seems very interesting and nice—besides, she does great stuff like mushroom and berry picking with friends then makes a feast of the loot. Today she gave up a crayfishing expedition to show me around, but tonight she’s headed to the crayfish party, which she says is pretty common and involves much cooking, drinking, and music… Me, I’ll be unpacking and sleeping. I ought to do that at some point, I guess.

I barely remember the wine and cheese party at the school, but I met about 30 people and promptly forgot their names. The school is large, housed in what was once a factory, then a bowling alley. I’ve only seen the lunchroom, but it’s quite beautiful, with a 150 gallon fish tank full of African Cichlids… We have a lunch cook who will apparently make me vegetarian meals, and all of the staff is quite young. In fact, I think my Mathematics Department Head may be younger than I. Either way, it seems a great international staff, and I’m really excited to get teaching and get to know them all.

And finally, the moped mafia. As I mentioned, we have mostly bike paths up here in Brickebacken, and they seem ruled by what my new friend Ida (pr: Eeda, by the way) called the moped mafia. Mostly Middle Eastern boys, they look a little rough and live a little loud, but their smiles betray their appearance. The teens mostly live at home but work, Ida told me, so they’re proud to ride their expensive Ferrari mopeds, and the younger ones (7 or 8 years, I’d say) drive the smaller, louder hand-me-downs. They race each other up and down the paths, stopping only for the cutest of teenage girls, or to tease their male friends relegated to (ugh) pedal bikes or (gasp) foot. They are adorable in their self-importance, and so far they make me smile.

So, there be the 1636 good words for the day. If you’ve read all the way to the bottom, you must either be a true friend or truly, truly bored. No really, thanks. I love you all.

God natt och lycka till, USA och Kanada. 

Descendants of ABBA

“Ahh…music, a magic far beyond all we do here.” – Albus Dumbledore

I’m a firm believer that you can’t know a place until you’ve experienced its art, so I’ve been busy scouring the net for some free music out of Sweden; desperately seeking the descendants of ABBA, so to speak. And, Mama Mia, there’s actually a fair amount of pretty decent bands & free music! So check out my Sweden playlist, with a track from Soundtrack of Our Lives (is that Swedish the announcer is speaking?) and, of course, a tribute to Sweden’s next biggest name after IKEA and Volvo.

Likewise, I’m convinced that you cannot truly understand a person until you’ve walked a mile with her iPod, so in honour of filling the void feel free to check out my personal playlist as well. It’s kind of an evolving (read: disorganized) mess, but it’s got some great tunes like This is The Sea– and positively no ABBA.

Allmansrätten, Aurora, and Me

I am Canadian. I don’t say “aboot” or live in an igloo, but I do love hockey and say “eh” on a pretty regular basis. I am also an American; one who isn’t illiterate, obese or rude, though I do love baseball and can be pretty loud when the time is right. Short of taking up a collection to fund the counseling needed to sort out the Canada vs. USA argument in my head, there isn’t much I can do about these stereotypes. All I know is that it’s pretty rare to find a stereotype that’s universally accurate (save Canadians saying eh), and it’s also near impossible to find one that isn’t at least loosely based on fact.

FYI: for all you non-Canadians, it’s spelled eh. Aye is what a pirate says.

So I wracked my brain for a Swedish stereotype to get an idea of the culture. It took a while, but the first thing I thought of was this:

But is this really a stereotype, and if so what does it say about Swedish culture? No, and not much, I can guess. Wracking my brain, all I can come up with is an image of Vikings who switch their v’s and w’s, say yah frequently, and eat creamy meatballs without utensils… And aren’t they neutral, with a pretty good social welfare system? Hmmm…

Officially, it’s The Kingdom of Sweden, though they run on a parliamentary system like we do here in Canada and the monarch has no actual authority. As a part of Scandinavia, it borders Norway and Finland, nabbing the title of fifth largest country in Europe. The capital is Stockholm, and the population density is low at only 20 people per square kilometer. Twenty-five provinces or landskap (landscapes) make up the country, though they’re only based on culture, geography and history and serve no political or administrative purpose… go figure.

Sverige is about the size of California, though the weather is pretty dissimilar to the state, as about 15% of the country lies north of the Arctic Circle. Surprisingly though, the climate is relatively temperate in Sweden, thanks to the Gulf Stream, which passes off the coast. The average temperatures in central Sweden range from –5 to -15 degrees Celsius in the winter and 16-22 in the summer months. The gulf stream can’t do much for the sun though, which never rises in the far north come winter and slices through the night in the summer, never setting. Even in more southern Stockholm it’s light enough in the middle of the shortest summer nights to read a newspaper, and in the short days of winter the sun only graces the ground for a mere 5.5 hours… Is a light box included in the social welfare program, I wonder?

Speaking of, WOW: I thought we had it good here in Canada. Free healthcare is standard, but it’s only the start. Starting at birth, Sweden’s social welfare system allots every parent a child allowance, a loan for their university studies, including adults who wish to return. On top of this, one parent (or a split between the two) is given fifteen months pay to use any time during the first eight years of the child’s life for parental leave. If that isn’t enough, parents are also afforded three paid months off per year for childcare or sickness, education is fully funded, and childcare is guaranteed up to age six. Basic pension covers everyone, and workers receive a supplementary pension based on previously earned income.

Sweden’s infant mortality rate is the fifth lowest in the world, beating Canada by about 16 places and the US by about 24. It’s ranked the 3rd safest country in the world, based on reported homicide rates, and the Global Peace Index– which studies countries based on 24 indicators including military spending, ease of access to ‘weapons of minor destruction,’ corruption and respect for human rights—ranked Sweden as the 7th safest country in the world. Global Peace Index placed Canada at the number 8 spot, and the good ol’ USA was placed in slot 97, just below Yemen and above Iran. Tough break.

I’m sure there’s more that I have yet to discover, but I think it’s pretty clear why Sweden has the 8th highest life expectancy in the world, with men living an average of 77.2 years and women living 82.0 years. By comparison, Canada falls in the 11th spot, the US in 53rd, and Andorra takes 1st.

The statistics are enough to make me dizzy. Starstruck, but dizzy… And speaking of starstruck…

They aren’t stars, but hey….

Aurora Borealis. The Northern Lights. Foxfire. Whatever you call them, I thought I knew a fair amount about the phenomenon, but I picked up some pretty interesting tidbits about the auroras thanks to a little Googling.

Given its northern clime, Sweden is a prime spot for light gazing, and the aurora tends to grace the night skies often during prime months in fall and spring. All the scientific jargon aside, what it boils down to is that scientists have decided the energy source for auroras are like giant “Magnetic Ropes,” streams of charged particles from the sun that twist up and connect the earth’s upper atmosphere and the sun. Solar winds and other phenomenon abruptly release the charged particles, which dance across the polar skies in shimmering displays of light. An exceptionally intense solar flare on September 1, 1859 created the “great geomagnetic storm” of September 2, 1859—the most spectacular aurora ever witnessed in recorded history.

This particular aurora was so dramatic and widespread that it was recorded in ship’s logs and newspapers throughout the northern world. It was the first time the auroras were clearly linked to electricity, due in part to the fact that nearly 125,000 miles of telegraph lines were significantly disrupted for hours. More interestingly, some of those telegraph lines were the appropriate length and orientation to allow the current from the aurora to be induced into them—and were actually used for communication based solely on this power source.

A nearly two-hour conversation between two American Telegraph Line operators was supported purely by the current induced by the aurora, and was reported in the Boston Traveler as follows:

Boston operator: “Please cut off your battery [power source] entirely for fifteen minutes.”
Portland operator: “Will do so. It is now disconnected.”
Boston: “Mine is disconnected, and we are working with the auroral current. How do you receive my writing?”
Portland: “Better than with our batteries on. – Current comes and goes gradually.”
Boston: “My current is very strong at times, and we can work better without the batteries, as the aurora seems to neutralize and augment our batteries alternately, making current too strong at times for our relay magnets. Suppose we work without batteries while we are affected by this trouble.”
Portland: “Very well. Shall I go ahead with business?”
Boston: “Yes. Go ahead.”

Pretty eerie. It’s certainly one of those phenomenon that ancient cultures felt required explanation. One of the old Scandinavian names for the aurora translates roughly to “herring flash,” as it was believed they were the glittering of large schools of herring reflected in the sky. The Sami people (one of the largest indigenous nations in Europe, whose lands included parts of Sweden) believed the auroras demanded respect and solemn silence. Mocking or singing about the northern lights was exceptionally dangerous and could cause them to swoop down and kill the antagonist. Perhaps the Sami people had already proved the electric connection long before modern scientists…

Clearly, these myths reflect the attitude held by most Swedes in respect to the natural world. Allmansrätten, otherwise known as “Every Man’s Right,” is an integral part of Swedish culture and affords every person access to the country’s plentiful wilderness. With 25 national parks that cover more than 6,000 square kilmotres, Sweden is hardly hurting for places to enjoy nature. Even so, under loose guidelines such as “do not disturb, do not destroy,” one may travel on just about any land, including privately owned property thanks to Allmansrätten. In fact, landowners are actually forbidden to post no trespass signs on private land and roadways. While there are no prescribed distances, people are asked to use common sense and not disturb private residences, unique and fragile habitats, or agricultural land.

Pretty darned amazing, if you ask me. I can travel to a country with rocky coasts, sandy beaches, arctic tundras, 6,000 foot mountains, and lake-laden plains and walk and camp just about anywhere I want, so long as I don’t disturb any ecosystems or agricultural land and use common sense in terms of protecting flora and fauna.

I’m officially in heaven, and I haven’t even begun to touch on the musical language, interesting holidays and customs, or the women who wear candles on their heads… But methinks the splendour of maypoles and fermented herring deserves its own posting. Besides, I’ve rambled myself to sleep already without even cracking my newly purchased Lonely Planet guide to Sweden.

In case you haven’t guessed it already, barring some nasty surprises in the contract (which is in the mail!!), I’ve decided to go to Sweden. Sleep on that. I’m about to.

Dancing in the void

I’ve fallen in love with Planet Earth. Yes, of course, our location, but moreover the BBC series narrated by David Attenborough. I revel in recognizing parallels between the human and animal worlds and drawing conclusions from basic biology, and Planet Earth affords me so much material to dissect. People are frequently insulted by my comparisons of humans and animals, and to them I say lighten up! Admittedly, animals may be left more receptive to their biological predispositions than humans, who have the capacity for rational and critical thought, but I believe that we are far too quick to assume these callings ineffectual in our lives– I find this assumption rather audacious and ignorant.

Watch this Birds of Paradise clip from the series, if for nothing more than to wet your pants laughing at these ridiculous animals, which may well be the abomination of the ever-purposeful natural world.

Attenborough tells us that these animals live in a world so bountiful they’ve evolved these eccentric mating rituals to pass the time. He alludes to the fact that there’s a hierarchy in animal needs: the birds have food and safety covered, so now they’re free to focus on and obsess over sex. Maybe I’m too much of a cynic and it’s really about finding that special connection, but that’s pretty doubtful. Here or there, the male’s egoistic display is undeniably piteous and questionably futile, especially the poor chap who’s left to dance alone, with no audience to gauge and accept him.

I can’t help but wonder just how far off from this vain display we, as the human species, really are. With technological advances, we can accomplish more than ever. For many of us, while we may struggle from paycheque to paycheque, the threat of homelessness or real hunger is pretty distant. We grumble through our days, punching in and out of work, of diets, of relationships. And then, finally, we come home to our eternal friend and confidante: our computers. And thus begins our own futile dance and display ritual.

We boot up, we log in, we game, we search for that perfect 10 on lavalife or match.com, we bid on useless items for a bang and a buck, and then we post every aspect of our trivial little lives on facebook, myspace, and personal blogs. Perhaps I’m just a twinge jaded, but these photo-peppered, playlist-laden pages seem a Bird of Paradise dance of their own rite.

But if the Birds of Paradise have a hierarchy of needs, what makes the cut to our list? And how far down it can we travel, ticking off boxes?

I struggle to define every aspect of my life; it’s a symptom of lonely, educated, comfortable lives everywhere. When I log in to any of the social networking sites with which I’m affiliated, I’m bombarded with information I wasn’t seeking and don’t necessarily want: Someone is doing homework and his mood is bored, Another is suffering from her menstrual cycle and is damning all men, Another is lamenting the loss of her third “love” this month and needs to whine at someone. I can’t help but ask myself from time to time why do I care? Why can’t you just keep it to yourself and trudge on like the rest of us? It seems that people used to stand more readily on their own two feet and be far less needy. Where, oh where, has my perfect little line between public and private lives gone?

Ten years ago Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks worked on a movie called You’ve Got Mail. Horrifically inane and clichéd otherwise, the movie did touch on two points of personal interest: public versus private lives and the propensity for humans to journal and share their experiences of the human condition. The extent of the movie’s depth seems to come in one scene, during which Ryan recognizes her need to throw a line out into the void between human interactions. She writes to Hanks:

Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life. Well, not small, but valuable. And sometimes I wonder: do I do it because I like it, or because I haven’t been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn’t it be the other way around? I don’t really want an answer. I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void. So good night, Dear Void.

Many, more literary, allusions can be made to our need to immortalize our existence and bridge the gap between one mind and another. One of my favourite poems is Joyce’s “Sailing to Byzantium,” in which (among other things) he admits his earnest desire to immortalize his life and work. Journalism, in which I have a vested interest, is based on the notion of bearing witness.

There is no question that the need to chronicle personal experience is as entrenched in the human condition as a gnat locked in amber.

I find no fault in this aspect of our intricate existence. What I find troubling is the notion of drawing a line between our public and private lives. Don’t get me wrong, I think there should be one; I just don’t know where to draw it anymore. In journalism, we’re constantly faced with the problem of right to privacy versus the right to a free press, and it’s commonly accepted that those in the public eye have a lesser right to privacy than the everyday people next door. As a journalist you’re aware: cross over the line and you’ll either find yourself slapped with a libel suit or working for a sleazy rag like Star or The National Enquirer.

So if it’s a question of ethics, I have to ask myself why so many people out there are defaming themselves with overly personal information and tired old emo poetry about how miserable and different they are. Why are they acting like the glitterati, bombarding their friends with flashbulbs and endless online postings every time they hit the town for a Saturday night pint? And why on earth am I humiliating myself by publicly posting these boring personal ramblings? Are we all really that desperate for attention? Should we sue ourselves for libel?

Like I’ve said, this masturbatory habit isn’t new. We’ve had columnists, musicians, writers, and artists since the dawn of time. Expressive language and self-awareness is what sets us apart from the rest of the animal kingdom, aside from thumbs. The trouble is that we’ve always had filters for our metacognition. Now, in the age of self-publishing blogs and social networking sites like Myspace, those rosy filters are gone and our histrionic tendencies are unleashed on the unsuspecting public.

Suffice it to say, I don’t like to watch my generation slander itself.

But here I am blogging, throwing myself into the public eye, so to speak, and thus casting my right to certain privacies to the wind. One of my excuses is that documenting my decision-making process might be helpful to some, should they be faced with similar options and happen to find these convoluted pages. But perhaps the honest truth is that I’m just grappling with the same problem everyone else is: how are we supposed to make meaningful connections in this time of technology-generated isolation?

Really the point of this blog won’t come across until I find myself in Sweden, desperate for a way to document my experience for those back home. I’ll try to avoid the melodramatic intricacies of my inner, private life on these pages. But I guess the Internet era poses a new problem for our species: the right to post versus the right to ignore. The ethics of this problem are far from my grasp at the present. This is just my own little Bird of Paradise dance, my attempt to fill the void. Watch and judge or leave and laugh, the choice is yours.