Another night with the U.N.

Couldn't really be bothered going to school last night. Been feeling a bit off colour for a few days now. But, I'm glad that I did. We ended up having a combined class as one of the other teachers was away sick. Or couldn't be arsed turning up. As we were all working at different levels, the lesson plan was quickly chucked out the window. We got split up into groups for an hour of general chat in Swedish. A bit of a time waste, but I got paired up with 4 other people I hadn't met before. Turned out ok though. One of my goals here is to spent some time travelling Russia and the Ukraine. For no particular reason other than that it fascinates me. Ukraine is a bit tricky to get around, from the looks of things. Saint Petersburgh, on the other hand, is just a 90 minute flight from Stockholm. And one can ride a leg of the Trans Siberian railway to Moscow from there. I'm pretty keen on that. So, anyway. We do the standard introductions around our group, and I find out that I'll be spending the next 60 minutes with a guy from Saint Petersburg, 2 girls from Moscow, and a Ukranian grandmother. I couldn't believe my luck. And I couldn't believe that I was considering such a thing to be luck either. To sum up, 60 minutes turned into 2 hours of me quizzing them on their home country. In Swedish, of course. And gettting everything I needed from hotels to bus time tables. I now need to find a group of Egyptian students.

Another year crossed off.

It's my birthday on Saturday. Another year of waving 2 fingers at the grim reaper. Better luck next year, pal. It's also my grandmother's birthday on the same day, I should add. She'd be about 150 million years old I reckon. For the non Kiwis amongst you, Saturday is also New Zealand's national day. Known locally as Waitangi Day. Given Sweden's love of public holidays, I'm surprised that they haven't picked up on that one yet. It's got to be better than their own one, which they share with D-Day. Nice timing there, folks. The high point of having your birthday on a public holiday is that you get a day off work. Or a day from school when I was a lad. The downside to that is that restaurants and the like were usually shut. The good ones anyway. KFC and gas stations are still open, thankfully. Otherwise my birthdays would have been a total write off. Relevance ? Well, in a previous life, in the dark days before my Swedish saviour spirited me away, I was married to a Kiwi girl. I recall, after we'd been dating for a couple of weeks, her mother took me aside and told me that I could do so much better than date her daughter. A shocking thing to hear at the time, but hindsight showed her to be wise beyond her years. But I'm moving off track here. Now, I wouldn't say that she was deliberately uncaring or unthoughtful. Just a bit slow out of the blocks. She would remember my birthday, every year. Like clockwork. Problem was, that she would remember about an hour after she woke up. Sometime are lunchtime on the big day. Every year I'd hear the slam of the front door, followed by the squeeling of car tyres. She was usually back again in about 10 minutes. Which was about as long as it took to drive to the gas station up the hill and back. I amassed a rather impressive collection over the years. Several bags of firewood, a garden hose, a set of six BP glasses, a sparkplug spanner, and a number of "easy listening" CDs. Dinner was a romantic trip to KFC. Dining in, not drive through. It was a special day after all. The celebration of my birthday has improved considerably over the past 8 years. Due to the change in casting. It'a a lovely day, and I look forward to it again, just as when I was a kid. It's just a bit of a pisser that I now have to go out and buy my own firewood.

Body Language

They reckon that's your body is a temple. If that's the case, then I think my congregation need to start fund raising for a new roof. What I do know is that I am a walking weather station. As I've been reminded of over the past week as winter has closed in. Here's how it works for me. When the temperature hits EXACTLY -15 deg C, the hairs inside my nose start to freeze. I wasn't used to this during the first winter. The first day it happened I thought that something had flown up my nose and had gotten stuck there. I spent several days blowing my nose every time I went out, hoping to dislodge whatever gastly creature it was. It was only when I realised the thing wasn't there when I was inside, that I made the connection. I'm a bit slow that way. When the temperature gets below -18 deg C (18 itself is ok), my eyelashes start to freeze. Well, technically it's my breath that's freezing on my eyelashes. Have you ever tried blinking with rigid eyelashes ? Not as much fun as you think it's going to be. I was a bit worried at first that they might snap off if I wasn't careful, and I'd go through the rest of my life doing a very passable impression of a bullfrog. But no such worries. Once we get below -20 deg C, my ears will last about 2 minutes before screaming out in protest. I've never really been a hat person. Now I am. I'm also a thermal underwear person. I'm a thermal sock person. I understand the concept of dressing in layers. I buy shoes according to their thermal insulation rating. In my Fjäll Raven winter jacket, I've lost the ability to bend at the waist, or to rotate my head more than about 10 degrees from side to side. It's currently +24 degrees inside, and -24 degrees outside. Why the hell am I not on a beach somewhere ?

Clothes maketh the man

Or so they say. I'm not sure what my clothes make me. My ex-wife would normally chime in about now with a pearl of wisdom. But anyway. Swedish fashion is pretty tough to pin down. I'm not sure if they are going for the "I'm going to grab all the items of clothing I can find on the floor, and stick them on me, in no particular order" look, or if that's just the way it ended up. It's all a bit of a mess, and doesn't seem to follow any pattern. Maybe it's different up here in the North. Maybe it starts out with good intentions but loses it's way somewhat when one looks at the winter weather. You know what it's like if you have bad heating in your house. You have a really nice duvet, which matches the sheets and pillow cases. But it's a bit cold, so you borrow the duvet from the bed in the spare room and throw that over. Still a bit nippy, so the rug from the lounge gets piled on top. Now you're really nice and comfy, but the bed looks like the sales bin at the local store. That pretty much describes fashion as I see it here. Swedes have this thing about being informal and comfortable. They don't really feel all that comfortable with hierachy. And that shows in their clothes. But it's hard to follow the rules. For me, at least. Everyone else seems to know exactly what to wear and when. Take, for example, my job. I work in a professional international consultancy firm. As I've also done in New Zealand. Dress code of the day was always semi formal. Dress shoes, shirt and pants. With a tie either worn or standing nearby at the ready. Probably a reflection of the good old Imperial England, where employment staus was ( and is) the measure of the man. Not so in Sweden. Checkered shirts, jeans and slippers are the standard office attaire. First time I've ever had to buy a pair of slippers to wear to work. No difference as you head up the office ladder. You can tell the boss, because he has a SLIGHTLY bigger office. But that's about it. So that was something new. Bit of a shock, but dressing down is easier to get used to than dressing up. Last month we were invited to attend the christening of the daughter of a friend of our's. At the local church. Being the avid churchgoers that we are, I had to look the place up on the map. Now, being the son of devoted Church of England parents, I knew exactly how this worked. So I dug out my best pants and tie, which hadn't seen light since my first day at work. And off we went. Big mistake. Standard church attaire it seems, follows office protocol. Jeans, open neck shirts, and casual footwear. At first I felt like a bit of a twat, but then I thought, "No, this is how I dress to show respect. So tough". Two weeks later we were invited to attend a birthday party for an adult friend. Same group of people. Despite my earlier stand against society, I decided to go with the flow. Nice pair of jeans, casual but trendy (for me) shirt, and good comfy shoes. Swedes do own suits and ties. Very nice ones too. Do you know when they wear those ? When they go to friends' birthday parties !!! I frickin give up. Next time I'm asked anywhere, if I'm asked anywhere, I'm wearing the duvets. All of them.

When in Rome...

Well, not quite Rome. But near enough. Last week we took a 4 day flying trip to Milan. Initially it was to see a football game. But the significance of that event quickly became overshadowed once it was discovered that Milan was the home of the odd fashion shop. Or two. Or 10. But that's a story for another day. This was my first real trip outside of Sweden since arriving in Sweden. I don't really count our trip to Iceland, as that was just a group of Swedes hanging around together. This was just the 2 of us, in a strange new world. And a world that embraced neither English nor Swedish as a language. And here's where I discovered something really interesting about my current destination in life. I had learnt, or tried to learn, a little Italian. Prior to our trip. Nothing too complicated or technical. Just so we could hail a cab, order a pizza, or check the price on something. When I arrived to Sweden I knew a few Swedish words and phrases. But I was very very selfconcious about my shortcomings, so was reluctant to try them out with any anger. Still am to an extent, but that's slowly fading with my sense of self respect. In Milan I discovered that, when you are crap at speaking one language, and you know that you are, and you accept that you are, and you've given up being polite........ you have no problem at all about being crap in another language. So I let those poor sods in Milan have it. Both barrels of tragic Italian. It was bollocks, they never understood a frickin word, and I couldn't have cared less. I consider that to be progress along my Swedish journey.

Språk Schmoke

Here's one for the "thanks for nothing" box. I live in the north, right. I go to language school in the north, right. So you would think they would include local dialect in the course, right. Wrong. Every now and then I hear something around town that sounds gammitically screwed up. So I tuck it away and ask my ever helpful evening class teachers. To which the reply comes out "Oh, that's local dialect. everyone up here says that". Sure, everyone except for me and the rest of us sitting here in your class, BECAUSE YOU NEVER TAUGHT US THAT. Thanks for nothing. And then, and then, they teach for the word for something. Brilliant, filled with confidence. Only to tell you a couple of months later that it's old Swedish, and no one really says that today. Thanks for nothing.

The Right Rule?

I'm going to have a real good grizzle here about another dumb Swedish rule. Which, for me, typifies ( is that a word ? ) the obsession that Sweden has for reinventing everything. Whether it needs reinventing or not. Today, it's the "Right Hand Rule". This is one of the basic traffic rules which says that you have to give way to vehicles coming from your right. Sounds fair enough. I'm quite relaxed about that. The Right Hand rule co-exists alongside the "Priority Road" rule. Which says that if you are driving on a Priority Road, you don't have to give way to anyone. A Priority Road is indicated as such by a large yellow diamond shaped signpost on the side of the road. All seems simple enough. If you are driving along a road with a yellow diamond sign, you're driving on a Priority Road, and you don't have to give way to crossing traffic. If there's no yellow diamond sign, then it's not a Priority Road, and you have to give way according to the Right Hand Rule. Here's where it all gets a bit messy. The same road can change status as you drive along. Numerous times. From Right Hand to Priority, back to Right Hand, back to Priority again. And so on. Which makes the constant peering for that yellow diamond damn near a fulltime job. Maybe I missed it, maybe it was behind those tree branches back there, maybe someone has knicked it. What the frick do I do now at this intersection ? There's a road running through the middle of my town, which is maybe 20 blocks long. For around 17 of those blocks, the road is a Priority Road. No giving way needed. But for THREE of those insections ( and not 3 consecutive intersections ), the road ceases being a Priority Road, Just for that intersection, then it's back to being a Priority Road again. I may have come from a primitive culture. But when I drove on a straight road and a car came from a side road, they had to give way to me. Always. Town, country, day, night. One rule. No wonder everyone takes the bus or rides a bicycle.

King of IKEA

Big day for our marriage on Sunday. Even bigger than last Sunday. Which was our wedding anniversary. Which I forgot. But was saved due to the fact that I wasn't the only one who forgot. Actually, for some reason that didn't save me. But we'll get back to that some other time. Most of you have probably seen that movie, starring Robin Williams, where the priest gives a series of tasks to a couple. To see if they are really ready to be married. Sweden has it's own version of the marriage test. It's called the "IKEA asembly" test. We needed some new furniture. No way around that. As a bare minimum was somewhere to store the 300 pairs of shoes that apparently one simply has to have. And we picked IKEA. The nearest IKEA store is in Haparanda, on the Finnish border. About an hour and a half away. It's a day trip, fighting with 17 million Finns. Or thereabouts. And the hire of a trailer for a day. If anyone ever wants to start up their own business in Sweden, hire trailers. You'll be the richest guy in town within a month. But we're moving offtrack here. So, after studying the online IKEA website ( which is pretty good, I have to say ) we discovered that some of the furniture (möbler) we wanted, was out of stock at our local branch. As a bit of a joke, we checked out what it would cost to buy the stuff online, and have it delivered. Turned out that it was actually about 200kr cheaper than going to the store. And, they had everything we needed. Ok, so I missed out on the thrill of shopping trolley wars. But one learns to live with sacrifice. 10 days later, 2 burly chaps arrived at the door of our second floor apartment, in the snow, with about 200kg of IKEA boxes. Bless their little socks. Don't know if they were looking for a tip or not, but I did give them advance warning to leg it before our senile cocker spaniel woke up. I think they appreciated the gesture. Anyway, back to Sunday. First up, we had "the talk". You know the one. "This is IKEA furniture. There's going to be moments when we think that the world as we know it is about to devour us. There's going to be times when one of us will wish the the world devours the other one of us. Just remember that, I love you. And that our wills are in the bank vault". 3 hours later we had a bedroom dresser ( byrå). It looked pretty much like the picture in the catalogue. And apart from a backwards drawer that needed pulling apart and reassembled, and a nail that got away from me ( only to be rescued by our trusty canine ), our marriage is still relatively intact. Tonight, it's wardrobes (garderober). I'm not expecting the same merciful ride. But at leat I now know where my will is.

Winter wonderland

The first snow arrived the other day. About frickin time. Did I just say that ? I guess I've been here too long when I miss the snow. But it's all a matter of perspectives, I think. For the last few weeks it's been a good old fashion New Zealand winter. Cold, wet, and generally yucky. Nothing to write home about. Problem being is that it's about 10 degrees colder than in NZ. So that means ice. Every frickin where. Now, I don't know if there exists some kind of ice walking gene. But, if there is, it's clearly skipped a generation. We've all seen those cutesy videos of ducks slipping and sliding their way across the ice. It's a dream of mine to be that well co-ordinated. Nope, with me, I'm resigned to spending most of my autumn outdoor winter time steering upwards at the stars, with one leg wrapped around the back of my neck. "You can see that I can't walk on ice, stop messing with me already !!" Which is turn explains a few things about Swedes. They all look exactly the same. In Sweden. BUT, take one of those northern Swedes out of Sweden, and watch them walk. Northern Swedes walk everywhere like they are ankle deep in cow poo. Funniest thing that you every saw. Until you happen to be in the north of Sweden come the annual ice age. Then it's the cleverest thing that you ever saw. I've tried, God knows I've tried. I guess that I'm just not an ice guy. Actually, I recall my ex wife saying something very similar. Snow, snow I can do. Snow sits on the ice. It doesn't move. Usually. Snow is kind. Snow knows my limitations. Snow understands. I hope it snows tonight. Even if it ruins the moment of unbridled hilarity exhibited by my colleagues at the bus stop. I'm convinced they are all arriving early now. Just to see my duck arse slide across the road. I hate them.

Planes, Trains and Automobiles

Every day for the past year I've taken the same 7:10am bus to work. A 30 minute chance to gather myself for the battle ahead. Of course I don't share in this journey alone. There are about 50 other hardy souls who trip the light fantastic with me. Come rain, shine, snow, and ice. 50 condemned souls, each with their unique quirks and traits, which I've come to know and love. First up, there's Buddha. A fitting enough description which requires no further physical discussion. Where Buddha comes from, and where he goes to, is a mystery to most of us. He's always on the bus when it arrives, and always still on it when I get off. Maybe he's just always been there. Buddha lives in the single front seat, next to the driver. Dame Edna sunglasses always in place, headphones plugged into the overhead radio socket. The only sign of life from Buddha comes as we pass the 70kph speed sign, 20 minutes into our journey. At precisely that moment, Buddha removes his headphones and stows them into his jacket pocket. Why , and why then, who could say. Aside for that ritual, it wouldn't take too much to have Buddha declared legally dead. Scalp Scratcher is an interesting character. Well, maybe not so interesting, as he has only one visible trait. Scalp scratching. What impresses me about SS is that, after a 30 minute trip, 5 days a week, 50 weeks a year, there is still no sign of any bleeding. I'm convinced that he must surely have scratched his way down to bone by now. On the positive side, SS usually has a seat all to himself. Not a lot of people choose to sit behind him either. Whatever he's selling, we're not buying. Girlfriend is the unwitting clown of the troupe. GF has possibly discovered the speed dating of the future. Bus dating. The exciting part is to try and predetermine who her next candidate will be. The victim usually tries to fight GF off for a couple of weeks, before resigning himself to his fate and either taking an earlier bus, choosing to walk the 50km to town, or leaving the country. Either way, we never see them again. We only hope that they have found peace somewhere. Chaos Woman is my absolute favourite. My bus route has 6 "pick up" stops. ( I think that's where GF's confusion stems from ) I get on at stop number 3. Chaos Woman must live upstream from me, as some days she is already seated by the time I get on. This, however, is a rarity. Like GF, CW brings the element of chance and excitement into an otherwise dull and dreary early morning. Like being part of a crowd scene role in an Indiana Jones movie. You see, CW doesn't often make it to those early stops. Some days you'll see her in the distance, glasses tilted, hair to the winds. Legging it down the street like Flo Jo. The bus straining at the seams trying to keep pace with her as the approach the bus stop. It's a photo finish, but she makes it. Just. Some days there's no CW. Then the fun begins. Money changing hands over which of the remaining 3 bus stops CW will make it to. We start keeping an eye out for that silver Saab, cornering on 2 wheels. Driven by CW's husband, who is being whipped along from the passenger's seat like a chariot horse in Ben Hur. Some days it's Stop 4, some days the car has collapsed from exhaustion beside Stop 5. Once we pass Stop 5, the game is on. That silver Saab takes on a life of it's on. Like Seabiscuit round the final bend, it slowly draws alongside of the bus. Creeping agonisingly slowly past, it's a race like no other. The first to make it to Stop 6 basks in the glory of victory. There is no second prize. Some days there's no CW. On those days we all pause for a while, and take a moment to give thanks. To give thanks that we are not a witness to the atmosphere inside that silver Saab right now. Somewhere out there there's probably a blog about a perverted, bus riding, peeping tom, Kiwi.

The things we do for Love

It seems like a lifetime ago now. But it was in fact just 3 years ago this November since we were married on that lovely beach in Vanuatu. In many ways I guess that was a lifetime ago. For the both of us. Both of us casting out the misery of our previous lives. The day itself was everything we had hoped for. No family around us, but that was the way of things, with everyone scattered to the corners of the globe. Our guests were people we had met a few days earlier on holiday, our witness was the local village chief. But we were there, and frankly, no one else mattered. For our first anniversary we flew to Sydney, Australia, and had a wonderful week there just exploring the sights together. The next year, being last year, was a little more difficult, having just arrived to Sweden. The date coincided with a family gathering out of town, so we called that our celebration also. This year we have decided to take ourselves off for 5 days to Milan. Because we can. Nothing to do with the potential to restock the shoe closet, I'm sure. Anyway, my dearly beloved, lord bless her, has decided to gift me ( us ) with 2 tickets to view a football match at the magnificant San Siro stadium in Milan. She really is too sweet. The tickets cost her 600 kronor, which I felt rather guilty about. 600kr works out to around 50 British pounds, 85 US dollars, 60 Euros, or 125 NZ dollars. Not a bad pressie, if I may say so myself. Now being trapped like a rat, as I was, I found myself saying "and what would you like to go and see while we are in Milan ?". Yes, know what you're all going to tell me, that was my first mistake. As it happened, the love of my life rather fancied the idea of attending a concert at La Scala theatre. I must confess that I did think it was rather cool at the time also. So, just to reinforce that I truely was the man of her dreams, and nothing was too good for my sweetness, I vowed to move heaven and earth to get us two kick arse tickets to the ballet at La Scala. On reflection, I should have known better than to challenge heaven and earth. I put this down to hormones. There's a saying that one can buy anything, for a price. I think that saying was coined in Milan. We have two tickets to the ballet at La Scala. Oh yes we do. In fact, I thnk that I may have just bought the place. Two tickets for a 2 hour performance of something I suspect I will not understand, are mine for the princely sum of 300 Euros. In real money terms, that is 3100 SEK, 430 US dollars, 260 British pounds, and 630 Kiwi bucks. I didn't pay that much for my first car !! By my reckoning, I now own those two gold plated, jewel encrusted, limited edition, theatre seats. So the first things going into the suitcase is a long handled screw driver and a pair of pliers. Those chairs are coming home with me.

Simple Minds

It's funny how, when facing challenges at every corner, the smallest of victories can take on monumental proportions. Things that we took for granted as part of our every day former lives are now viewed as glittering gold stars to be fought for and won. While sitting with my rag tag band of fugitives in Swedish language school on Monday evening, it was noted that one of our merry band had, in recent days, passed his driving test. Given that we're all in our 30s and 40s, this should not have been worthy of more than a passing comment and an obligatory compliment. And then we should have all moved on. After all, we had all been driving for 20 years. So no big deal. But then the rules of our former lives no longer apply here. What this event signified to us was that one of us, one of our own, had triumphed. One of us had dared to cross that line between old and new, and he had won ! It wasn't just a victory for him, it was a victory for us all. He knew it, we knew it. At that moment, as we gazed in wonderment at his freshly procured körkort, we were one. A true band of brothers. It was a soul defining moment. Those of us left behind in his wake of triumph and euphoria dreamed together of how it would be. Of the day when we too would take that step closer to being who we once were. Amir had driven a few times with the driving school instructor, so he was rolling. I had sat through the compulsary lecture on drugs and alcohol. Although I'm thinking of asking for a refund there, as I'm none the wiser as to where one goes to buy the really good shit. But we're there, we're on our way. And we have the strength of Chong now, to inspire us and give us the strength for the treacherous road ahead.

Travel Etiquette

When taking public transport, watch out for the seat hoggers. There are two varieties of these. They are a curse on society, and both are to be tormented at any and every opportunity. The first group will take the seat nearest to the aisle, placing any bag that they may have, or jacket, on the window seat. Ensuring that no one can sit next to them. They are further distinguishable by the fact that they immediately fasten their seatbelt and tighten it with such vigour that they are expecting the bus to enter light speed at any moment. They are intensely serious people, staring straight ahead, and will avoid any and all eye conctact. They know they are wrong, but you'll have to pry that empty seat from their cold dead hand. The second variety are less of a challenged, but still require an education in manners. This group also place their belongings on the spare seat, but with themselves in the window seat. They really don't want anyone sitting next to them, but they feel guilty about it as well. Generally you find them staring out the window when you arrive alongside ( or pretending to be asleep ), hoping, praying, that you'll move pass them. Don't. Not under any circumstances. Stand up to these seat bullies. One crisp, sharp "URSÄKTA" is usually enough to put the fear of their parents into them. In a sufficiently loud voice so that they know the rest of the bus is now watching them. Daring them. Even if there are other empty seats on the bus, target these leaches of society. And when you do force them into submission, be sure to take up more than your share of the seat. Just because. They obviously have learnt nothing of manners, so it's time to fight fire with fire. And you'll earn the undying adoration of your fellow passengers.

Reasons to be Cheerful

Ok, so this is probably about the third time this has happened in the past 2 weeks. Someone is going to get a smack shortly. Every day I take the 7am bus from my hometown to the city where I work. There are 3 buses that arrive at my bus stop at exactly the same time, every day. They all have big "can't miss" signs on the front saying where they are going to. The first to arrive says "university", the second says "hospital", and the third says " direct to city". So I'm waiting at the bus stop, with a group of people. And you know how it is, you can just tell when someone is likely to be a problem. They have this air of eagerness and excitement about them, which translates into not having a clue in the world. About anything. The 3 buses roll into view, in their usual order. The problem with my bus stop is that there's only space for 2 buses at one time. So if there is a third bus, it has to wait back. Not usually a problem because nearly everyone uses a prepaid bus card, so it doesn't take long to load and move off. Not today. I spotted these three hopefuls, gleefully lining up for the first bus. Which had a huge yellow "university" sign scrawled right across the front. They were the first 3 of about 10 people lined up for that bus. After about 2 minues, with everyone else still waiting outside, the 3 pile off the bus again. Clearly they only discovered that the bus was going to the university when they went to pay the driver. And clearly that wasn't where they wanted to go to. They wander down to the second bus, labelled "hospital". Stare at it for some time, then step away from the queue of people trying to get on. The University bus has now finally left, but the "city direct" bus is now stuck behind the university bus, and isn't going anwhere. So the rest of us just generally mill around, waiting. Finally our bus gets a spot at the kerb. The 3 wandering gypsies seize the day and spring to the kerb, ensuring they are the first to get onto the bus. I'm about 6th back in the queue. You can picture my delight when I hear the first person say to the driver, "we would all like to got to the hospital, please". "the hospital ?", "yes please", "the same hospital that the bus with HOSPITAL written all over it goes to ?", "yup, that's the one", "like the bus that's just left ?", "yes, to the hospital", "then, you'll need to take the hospital bus", "not this one ?", "no, not this one". Ah yes, there's nothing that sets the mood for the day better than enjoying a 15 minute performance of the Court Jester and the Village Idiots. Again.

Not in Kansas

It's hard to explain the subtle differences between Sweden and, well, pretty much the rest of the planet. But, today, while cruising through a local town fair, I came across the following sign outside a tent: "Kom och prata om fiskar" or "Come and talk about fish" I don't think there needs to be anything more said.

All Man's Rights

Allemansrätten. There's a law in New Zealand that says it's perfectly legal to urinate against the rear wheel of your horse drawn wagon in the middle of town, if you are travelling to the gold fields. Now I'm not sure why this was felt worth of legal status, and there hasn't been a gold rush in NZ for about 150 years. But the law's there, a handy thing to know. Allemansrätten is equally odd it stature. To me, anyway. The literal English translation is "All Man's Rights". Essentially it says that anyone has the right to go pretty much anywhere in Sweden, regardless of land ownership. It's not a true law, but you can't be prosecuted for exercising the right. Unless you're an idiot. As a good socialist state, it allowed for the right of people to gather firewood and food. If they had no other means. And it's kind of hung around since then. It also recognises the love ( aka obsession ) that native Swedes have for being out in nature. So how does it work in practice ? Well, basically you have the right to go for a walk in the countryside, where ever your fancy takes you. Which is why you don't see a lot of fences out in the country. A Swedish landowner cannot build a fence that resricts access through their land. Obviously the exception is land that is clearly being farmed. You can't do anything that might damage the land, or disturb in anyway the normal activity on that land. So you can't go stomping through a field of wheat. You are allowed to gather firewood, and pick flowers or pluck berries. You can light a cooking fire, so long as you take care of it. You can also stop for one night and camp, if you wish. In all cases you usually need not seek out the owner of the land and ask permission. Although I personally think it's polite and reasonable to at least tell them that you are there. You must also respect the privacy of the landowner, by staying away from where they live or places that are obvious they use for themselves. Other exceptions are no brainers. It's foot traffic only, so leave your dirtbike at home. Nobody likes those. You're not supposed to hunt or to take eggs from nests. You can swim, but not fish. Without a permit. Now, it's not that I don't like nature, don't get me wrong there. I just don't have the same Call of the Wild obsession level that most native Swedes appear to have. It will come. But today I don't see the big deal in having the right to go where you want. In NZ I managed to wander around outside quite happily by keeping to the publically owned land. That was enough for me. What I do like about this is that everyone has a sense of ownership of the land. It's nothing in law, just something they have all grown up with. And as such, they tend to look after the land. If you see a candy wrapper discarded in the countryside, you can pretty much guarantee that it wasn't a Swede who left it there. In that respect, peer pressure is changing some of my "less desireable" habits. Like picking up after myself. There's a feel good factor in walking through a countryside unblighted by waste and rubbish. On the downside I've seen a lot of people, and sadly I'm talking about out of towners here, going into the forests to pluck berries in such quantities that can only be for commercial purposes. And that's just plain wrong. I wonder when the day will come when this forces a restriction on the rights. I understand there is now legislation in place preventing foreign commercial tour operators from operating large scale camping tours, using Allemansrätten to avoid camping charges. What the hell is wrong with you people ? Stay at home and abuse your own system. You know who you are. One thing 'm not sure about is the responsibility of the landowner, should there be any accident or injury to someone passing over the land. In New Zealand, the landowner is always responsible for anything that happens on the land, regardless of how dumb the other person might have been. So access was usually denied. I don't know how it works here, but it would seem a bit unfair to the landowner, if they have little control over who goes where. I might have to dig into that a little further. So it's a quirky little right, in a land of quirky people and quirky things. Oddly enough it seems to work. Probably because of the genetic personality traits of the people. They can be such plonkers at times, but this part I like.

But wait, there's more !

At first I thought this was just my wife. Whom I love and cherish, I should point out. We're about to head out somewhere. We've written a list. We've packed everything on the list. We've packed a few more things that we had forgotten to put on the list. We've put everything in the car. We've come back into the house. We stand in the middle of the hall. Is that everything ? Yes. Are you sure ? Yes. What about.... ? No, I don't need that. Are you sure ? Yes. Really? Because we have to leave now. Yes. Ok, we're leaving now, nothing else ? No. We lock the house. We get into the car. We drive, maybe a metre. Wait ! Just one thing!! Bit of a raw nerve, this one. But then, I started looking around. And this all seems to be perfectly normal. This morning I watched a woman get on to the bus. She was about 6th in the queue. She waited until she was right with the driver. Then put down her bags and started looking for her purse. Found her bus card in her purse after about 2 minutes and swipped it through. Then proceeded to pack everything up again. Only another 6 people waiting to get onto the bus. She takes about 3 steps. Just enough to excite the next person, who had given up any hope of ever getting onto the bus. She stops, turns around and goes back to the driver. Why ? To top up her bus card. Which of course involved the mandatory unloading and loading of all her bags again. Sheeeesuss !!!! You had 10 minutes to wait for the bus. You had another 2 minutes while the people in front of you found all their bus tickets. One at a time. And now, NOW, you start to think about what you might want to do. How about wanting me to get to my job some time today ? How about wanting that to happen ? Supermarkets, banks, buses, there's a plague of panic and indecision. Maybe it's genetic. Maybe there's something in the water. Maybe it's a government conspiracy designed to keep the masses confused. Maybe I should just get drunk more often.

On the Credit side

I've been guilty of being slightly negative again. So here's a short dose of Swedish positives. Just to keep the books balanced. There' not a great risk of being mugged here. Unless it's by another Kiwi, or maybe an Irishman. In fact, to be fair, I think that most of the locals are a little frightened of me. That's a nice change. There's comfort in being able to walk the streets at night. If you want to. In New Zealand one does not always have the freedom of choice, to go where you will, when you will. That has a lot of value to me. Road rage hasn't been invented in Sweden. Certainly not in the north. If someone seems a bit grumpy behind the wheel then they are most likely a Kiwi or an Australian. Interest rates are a non event. When borrowing. Looking at 3% mortgage rates when coming from a 12%+ mortgage rate country is a real luxury. As is the ability to claim those interest payments back as tax rebates every year. At the other end, you do have to pay tax on the profit you make when selling your house. Which is new for me. But you can offset that by deducting the costs for any work you have done to the property. So save all the paint tin receipts. Fuel is expensive. But that's only to get people off the roads, and on to the excellent public transport system. And it works a treat. It's pretty hard to buy real grease filled, artery clogging, deep fried, fast food. That's a good thing. God but I miss them. The health care system is a true one stop shop. They believe in preventative medicine, which in turn saves everyone time and money later on. It costs a bit for the first consultation, but then it's all smooth sailing from there. And generally quick. The kids in Sweden leave school with a level of education that many adults in other countries will never achieve. Don't even attempt to come here and work in a qualified industry without bringing a top shelf formal qualification with you. These kids will outshine you every time. I see a lot of immigrant kids who have been here for 4, 5, years. They are so well integrated and I can't help think about how lucky they are. They will have opportunities most other First World kids will never have. Alcohol is not that easy or cheap to buy. And that's good. Buying alcohol should be a conscious effort, and not the result of supermarket impulse buying. That being said, when they drink, they drink a lot. Houses are warm !!! Central heating is a dirty word in NZ. God knows why, maybe ignorance is bliss. I'll take this method any day. You can buy fruit and vegetables all year round. And not just when they are being grown in your own country. Sounds rather obvious, but a novel experience for me. The government accepts that immigrants need help to integrate fully into Swedish society, and begin to pay the obscenely high tax rates. And so they help. A lot. Again it sounds an obvious ploy. But sadly lacking in so many other lands. They speak English !!! It's a bit tougher up here in the north. One needs the language to live a semi normal life. But it's so nice to know that you can converse in English. If you need to. Without it being viewed as an inconvenience or nuisance.

Not so Clean and Green

This blog is about the trials and tribulations of a new life. But I'm going to have a good grizzle about the life I left behind. The image that the world has of New Zealand is one of a clean, green paradise, where people dance around all day singing Kum Ba Yah. They think this mainly because that's what the marketing spin doctors in NZ have told them. But you know, if that was truely the case, then I wouldn't be one of the 70,000 people out of a population of 4 million who choose to permanently leave the country every year. That's the metric equivalent of 5 million people leaving the US every year. Forever. It's always been a standing joke that Sydney, Australia, is actually New Zealand's fifth largest city. Why is this ? Well, there are a number of reasons. But one only needs to look at the events of recent days to get a feel for the society as it exists today. The subject of child abuse is an emotive one world wide. Everyone hates it, no one condones it. Well, almost no one. But we'll get to that. First, a short history lesson. In 2003 Unicef published a report on child abuse in "rich nations". New Zealand was placed third on the Worst Offenders list, supassed only by Belgium and the Czech Republic. Those countries in the top 5 had child abuse rates that were 5 times higher than the average for the 30+ countries surveyed. If that's not enough to make you leave. New Zealand has good laws to protect adults from violence from other adults. There exists also laws to protect children from violence. With one exception. There existed a loophole in the law allowing for parents to use physical force against their children, in any form, as part of "parental correction". Not a lot of people, myself included, knew that there was such a provision in our laws. Until a close family member of mine was arrested in 2005 and charged for beating her 9 year old son with a riding crop. Her lawyer successfully applied the defence of "parental correction" and the case was dismissed. The outrage, as you can imagine, was swift and intense. In early 2007, the law was amended, removing the defence of justifiable violence against children by anyone, for any reason. As is often the case with career criminals, my family member was arrested again, after this time hog tying and beating her son. This time she was rightly convicted and jailed. Common sense, and sign of a progressive society. I wish. Last week, a national referendum was held as to whether or not the "parental correction" defence for violence against children should be reinstated. 80% of those who responded, voted in favour of reinstating the defence. New Zealand now a place in world infamy as being the only country in the world that has voted specifically to reinstate violence in society. It truely does defy belief. Nothing can help those poor kids in New Zealand who have been horse whipped, hog tied, hung from washing lines, and forced into clothes driers. But I do hope that the 70,000 people who have chosen a different path this year will have helped to secure a better life for their children. Today, I am ashamed of my roots.

Report card

Today it is officially one year since I stepped off the plane at Arlanda. With a song, with a smile, and with hope in my heart. 12 months on, it's time for a report card. It's probably fair to say that I haven't been won over by my lifestyle change. Not yet. Not today. Anyone who thinks that emmigrating is all about excitement and adventure needs to stop smoking that stuff. The reality is stark and raw. In many ways, being so far from good old New Zealand has saved me. Had I come from England, I would have chucked this in long ago and taken the 3 hour flight back to contentment and familiarity. Hell, I would have driven there. But the spectre of a 40 hour plus flight for people, pets, and belongings, has forced me to stick this out. As much of a nightmare as it has been at times. Let's look at the then and now. My plan when I arrived was to slot straight into a Swedish way of life, get a job, buy a house, and live the good life. That was the plan. Today, I have a job, and I own a house. So I guess that's a 50% pass rate. And, to be fair, I don't have a crap life, so maybe we can up that to about 60%. Still a ways short of the 100% I expected to have achieved, with no trouble. Unrealistic ? Absolutely. The biggest mistake I have made, and I see many others also, was in assuming that there would be no cultural differences. After all, I'm european, Sweden is european. It all looks the same from a distance. Wrong. I was totally under prepared for the differences in society. And I'm not just talking about language here. Although obviously that's a biggie. Just the way they do things. Often it's nothing tangible. It's nothing you can really describe. It's just, well, foreign. 9 million people believe that black is really red. And you can scream your lungs out, you won't change a thing. The only solution, the only way to survive, is for you to accept that black is now red. And forget what you may have known in a previous life. Fight it, and you will die here. That's the hardest thing. I'll admit, I fought it. A lot. And I still do from time to time. Some things I will just never accept. Not without losing a part of who I have become over the past 40 plus years. There's a very good reason why Swedes mostly live in Sweden. But for the most part, acceptance is slowly but surely creeping over me. I guess I've probably felt a bit more at peace in the last 2 months or so. Which is a promising sign. I had friends in New Zealand who had emigrated from England. They all told me that it took 18 months before a new land felt like home. And if you could last that 18 months, you would be ok. Frankly, after the first couple of months here, I was convinced that I wouldn't last 6 months. Now I've done 12 months. That gives me just more 6 months to hang in there. And to maybe find that missing 40%.