“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.
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.” Portlandoperator: “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.
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.
I’ve spent the first quarter of my life desperate; desperately seeking the right thing to do, obligingly leaping through academic hoops to prove myself, complaisantly following prescribed directions towards where I should be, and making some disgracefully huge mistakes along the way. And now, armed with 2 degrees at the end of my academic career, I wonder who or what it is that I’m preparing to battle against—and for what, precisely, I’m desperate.
Ah, the infamous quarterlife crisis: you’ve found me at last, you obtrusive little wretch. Like just about everyone else caught in the grips of this crisis, I am acutely aware of missing out on something; though what that something is, I haven’t the foggiest. There’s an undeniable sense that everyone’s on to something I’m not, and since I hit mid-twenties I’ve been cultivating a budding sense of falling behind as though it were my cash crop on the edge of a dust bowl.
You know the story: everyone around me is getting married, having children, and high school cohorts are rumored to be divorcing already. There aren’t jobs for me, though both my degrees are professional and versatile. I haven’t the experience to land positions in my field, at least not any I’ve found to date. I’m too educated for menial labour and am quickly passed over for less educated compatriots, though I’ve shamelessly scrubbed toilets throughout my 6 years in University and have the calluses to prove it.
I’ve come to a point where I’d better jump on the career track or just lie down and wait for the 2:10 to carry me off to the great railyard in the sky. Sure, life is a journey, but it seems as though most everyone has arrived. Every morning I rise my mood is marked with urgency, slathered in it reality, and showered in desperation.
They say that wherever you go, there you are. It’s one of the most horribly abused clichés, and I have a certain amount of pity for it; its medical bills must be pretty high. It seems that most assume it to mean that people who move around are attempting to flee some subconscious scene of torment or humiliation, to run from some Freudian father figure, to disappear from some Oedipal nightmare with a twist of bourbon…
But I wonder why it’s consistently used to support arguments of staying in place, urges to remain stagnant. If the cliché is true, could it not just as easily be used as a defence for moving? For finding a place in which you find peace in order to support your growth and acceptance of self? You’ll still be there, but at least the scenery will give you some solace as you delve into whatever it is that makes your you-ness so unbearable…
To date I’ve been a small scale nomad, moving eastward in jerks and shrugs from Ontario to New England as a child in her parents’ tow, then later in shimmies and lurches across New Hampshire and Vermont as a confused adult. Now I find myself back in the Canadian plains of my youth, desperate for some sense of place or stability… To what end though, I wonder. Life seems to be hurdling me through some warp speed vortex deeper and thicker into adulthood, whatever that might be. Perhaps I just want a handhold in this vessel… Perhaps settling down seems the easiest answer– to find one constant in a problem with far too many variables.
I’ve just been offered a teaching position is Sweden. Therein lies the thing to throw the Queen off her haunches and hurdling into the confused crowd. All my life I’ve dreamed of wandering the world with my backpack, some ever-faithful dog in tow. And here it is, the melding of my wanderlust and my professional aspirations, laid out on a platter with a sufficient salary and a free plane ticket. And there he is, my ever-faithful dog Sam, waiting at my feet for the command: pack the crate, boy, we’re headed for the Arctic Circle. But there too is that ever-growing quarterlife fear of failure and falling behind.
In the past the decision to move has been simple: lease is up, better head on down the road. More recently the move back North of the border has been trying, to say the least. Medical problems that threatened to end my academic career, at least temporarily, plagued me, putting me out of the social scene for months. The familiarity of the Green Mountains has been hiding some 600 miles away, and I found myself crying an inordinate amount for quite a spell.
The adult in me cringes in fear of making the wrong decision. I’ve grown so obsessed with recognizing the difference between right and wrong. Like I said, these decisions used to be so compulsive and easy… But like the Waterboys said, “That was the river, this is the sea.”
“Now I can see you wavering/ As you try to decide
You’ve got a war in your head/ And it’s tearing you up inside
You’re trying to make sense/ Of something that you just can’t see
Trying to make sense now/ And you know you once held the key
But that was the river/ And this is the sea”
This is the Sea, The Waterboys.
