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.

Health and Happiness

Had a great night at Swedish language school last night. We had been given an assignment to find a newspaper article during the week, and then to present the article to another group of students for discussion. Now, being from a small town, there's not a lot of newsworthy happenings. So our local paper is usually padded out with stories of the weird and wonderful. Which suited me just fine for this exercise. Anyway, bottom line was that 7 of us sat around for an hour, discussing the news, and life in general. There we were, Lebanese, Polish, Estonian, Chinese, Kiwi, Vietnamese, and French. A veritable gathering of the United Nations ended up having a right royal bitch session about the shortcomings of the state run pharmacutical outlet, Apoteket. For anyone not familiar with the Swedish healthcare system, prescription pharmacies, all called Apoteket, are government owned and operated. Swedes are a bit paranoid when it comes to drugs, so pretty much anything stronger than an asprin requires a trip to the doctor (läkare), and a prescription (recept). There's the odd private doctor around the place, but, for the most part, doctors are employed by the state. They mostly work out of communal medical centres, known as vårdcentral. Which centre you go to is usually determined by your post code, but they are about to loosen up on that a bit so that you can pretty much go where you want. On a bizarre side note, Apoteket is also the outlet for all animal medicine. Feels a bit odd asking the chemist for laxatives for my cat. They look at you like "sure, for the cat. We believe you. You sicko". One thing they have done well, is their electronic system. Once the doctor (or vet) has typed your prescription into the computer, you can pick it up from any Apoteket in the country. No clumsy pieces of paper. Just flash your ID, and the drugs flow like water. If they have the drugs, that is. I've lost count of the number of times that my prescribed medication has been "out of stock". But the theory's good. So that was our evening. Seven of us from the far flung corners, stumbling around with our Swedish. I really enjoy those nights. They are good, intelligent people. There's no pretence at hierarchy. We're all bollocks, and we know it. And that's kind of a nice feeling. Knowing that when you strip away any home country advantage or status, and make life a true level playing field, that we are, all of us, just the same. There's no race, religion, or cultural distractions. It's a very unique experience, quite surreal. And definitely the highlight of my experiences so far.

God Fortsättning !

New Years Eve. Used to be my best (and usually only) chance of getting laid when I was a lad. Everything’s a hell of a good idea when your 18 and pissed. Funny how things are still a hell of a good idea when you’re 40 something and pissed. Difference is that I used to look forward to getting legless with the legless girl from down the street. These days I dread the aftermath. It gnaws away at me in the days leading up. I know I’m going to be found lying in the gutter somewhere. Yet I’m powerless to stop it. It’s the pure definition of watching the proverbial train wreck. Welcome to Nyårsafton !! For the second year we spent New Year’s Eve at the home of my brother in law. For 364 days of the year, the nicest guy in town. In the space of 6 hours in one evening, it all comes crashing down. At least, the bits of it that my protective brain allows me to remember. I’ll give him credit, you’d be hard pressed to find a more attentive host, this side of a brothel. A spread of food that the Queen Mum herself, God rest her, would have be proud to have rustled up. The purists would probably point out that it’s just the leftovers from Christmas, thawed out and rehashed. But I’m not going to have a bar of that. He put in the effort, and that’s alright in my books. Unfortunately, the same level of enthusiasm extends to the liquid refreshments. Which begin before the shoes come off, and finish long after the last house roof has been torched by the midnight fireworks. I had spent last year analysing the previous party. Trying to pinpoint the exact moment when things went horribly wrong. Call it a pre-emptive strike. I was fine with the pre dinner glögg. No worries with the dinner schnapps. Likewise with the dinner wine. The after dinner cognac seemed ok. Ditto for the various beers. That rather odd looking liquor that came from Hungary didn’t look the best, but seemed harmless enough. Nope, everything was fine until the champagne arrived at 1am. THAT’S when it all went a bit pear shaped. Having isolated the problem, the solution was easy. No champagne for me, thank you very much. I really don’t know what happened this year. Must have been a bad batch of Hungarian cough syrup. Going to have to rethink my strategy.

Surviving the Silly Season

Survived my second Swedish Christmas. A little less traumatic than the previous year, due largely to the fact I knew what was coming. And could prepare accordingly. Christmas can be a great time in Sweden. One thing I'll give them is that they do take their festive seasons seriously. Apart from the obvious lure of pressies, Christmas was never a big deal for me growing up. Maybe that was because it was summer, rather than winter. Which meant that Christmas signalled the start of summer holidays. And got a bit overshadowed as a result. Sure, we had Chrsitmas dinner, and all that. But the day usually revolved around a strictly controlled timetable which included marching dutifully to each set of grandparents before packing up the car ready to launch forth on our annual summer vacation the next day. So not a lot of really fond festive memories there. Swedish Christmas ( and probably all northern hemisphere Christmases ) is a bit more special. And revolves around the occasion itself. Still a good old fashioned piss up, but you do feel a bit more connected to the people around you. At least, that's how it worked for me. If you happen to be working, most companies will finish work either on the 22nd, or midway through the 23rd. Some time shortly after lunch. Short, or half days, are quite common during the course of the working year in Sweden. Usually the day before a public holiday. I have to laugh about this, however. Maybe I just work with strange people, I don't know. But, in my working history, if we had a short day, everyone worked straight through until the designated finish time. Not so, it seems. if we are to finish at 2pm, everyone starts at 8am as usual. Come 11:30am, they all break for a one hour lunch. Come back for an hour and a half, and then wobble off home. Why not just work right through and then piss off home at 1pm, folks ??? Ok, so I've still got some things to learn here. But back to Christmas. Tradition plays a big part, at least in my Swedish family. The evening of the 23rd is the official time for wrapping Christmas presents. The television channels even run late night movies, especially for the occasion. Christmas itself is celebrated on the 24th, rather than the English 25th. But the day itself is a bit of a nothing day. Spent basically cooking and baking for the orgy to follow. Don't underestimate the power for the Swedish Julbord. Starve yourself for a week before Christmas, and wear your best eating pants. We gathered at around 4:30pm for battle ( that's half five in Swedish time). A cup of warm Glögg was thrust into the hand on arrival. Glögg is an ok drink. A bit sickly for me, but ok. The rest of the world calls it Mulled Wine. After the traditional welcoming shouts of God Jul, black slapping, hugging and handshaking, it's down to the business in hand. Swedish Christmas dinner (Julboard) consists of a number of courses. Pacing yourself is the key here, because they do get progressively tougher. The first course it an appetiser course, accompanied by a glass (or 3) of Schnapps. I'm not a big drinker of spirits, so this is an event I really need to prepare myself for. Somehow I always end up sitting next to the family member in charge of the alcohol distribution. No chance for rest there. Back to the battle. The first course consisted of a selection of little things. Usually small fish or fruit pies, and a strange little reindeer meat type pie in a a large glazed shell with a white sauce. Swedes are manic on fish so, if you don't like fish, well, you're basically screwed. Round two, and we're onto the cold dishes. Beer is the drink of the day for this course. Topped off with a selection of cold meats, egg slices, a variety of salads, and about 300 variations of salmon and herring. I don't mind this course too much, especially the beetroot salad, a personal favourite. Now is where the real eaters get sorted out from the amateurs. The warm food course. And the red wine appears on the table. Not that the beer has been removed of course. And the schnapps is continuously topped up by the resident drunk who takes great delight in shouting "skål" every 2 minutes. The warm course consists of freshly cooked ham, meat balls, sausages, boiled potatoes, more salads, and a rather unusual dish known affectionally as Jansonn's Temptation. Now, I don't know anything about this Jansonn bloke, but I would say that it didn't take a lot to tempt him. It's kind of a potato casserole thing, with anchovies added in. For some strange reason. Anyway, by this time you're starting to lose the will to live, so it doesn't really amtter what's getting forced down. Mercifully there is now a break from the eating torture. Of sorts. We adjourn to the lounge room (vardagsrum) and await the arrival of good old Tomten. At this point the eagle eyed amongst us will have spotted that one family member (typically the one most drunk) has disappeared. Apparently he simply HAD to duck out to buy the evening newspaper. And would you believe it, right at that moment, good old Santa arrives ! There's a Swedish custom of Tomten (Santa) arriving in person on Christmas Eve. Someone thought it was a great idea to sell a Santa type mask, which is a one piece item featuring a red hat, white beard, and a face resembling Freddy Kruger after a hard night out with the lads. Honestly, if I were a kid in Sweden, this guy would keep me in therapy for years. Anyway, for about the next 20 minutes a drunken homicidal maniac staggers around the lounge, handing out presents, and groping the kids. Fortunately everyone is so tanked up on schnapps, beer, glögg and wine, that it all appears to be perfectly normal. No rest for the wicked, and it's back to the table for dessert (efterrätt). This is a bit more recognisable for the outoftowners. Follwed up with selections of cheeses, coffees, and now brandy. By the time we staggered out the door shortly before midnight, my nerve senses had long since given up in disgust. Which made the walk home in minus 20 degrees rather pleasant. I reckon I was over the legal limit for driving until about New Years Eve. Which unfortunately is another festival to be endured. More about that disaster later.

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.

Red Cross mission

"I once met a man who had no shoes, and I pitied him. Until I met the man who had to carry those shoes". Something like that anyway. Works for me today. Back from a flying holiday visit to Milan. Left Sweden on Thursday morning, back again on Sunday afternoon. The official reason for the trip ? A football match. Time for a quick maths lesson first. Time spent in Milan: 76 hours. Duration of a football game: 90 minutes. Ever wondered how many pairs of Italian shoes one can buy in 74 and a half hours ? Come around to my house some time and I'll show you. You'll know it, it's the one with the mountain of empty shoe boxes blocking traffic outside the front door. Why is it that there must always be 3 additional options when buying shoes ? No matter how many you are actually planning to purchase. Looking for one pair of shoes, there's always 4 pairs lined up to be compared against. When I foolishly suggested that we really should limit ourselves to just buying 3 pairs at this shop, there were 6 lined up to choose from. And "plum" coloured shoes. Who buys plum coloured shoes ? Actually, dumb question, that one. But you don't have any plum coloured clothes !! Mind you, I knew the moment I said that, I was in trouble. An easily fixed problem. Why do I never learn ? Now, I might be the bad southern cousin of the Grinch Who Stole Christmas. But who can say no when the tears well up in those eyes, the lip quivers, and the tiny voice whispers "but look at the heel". That's why we went with 2 extra suitcases. And why I like eating beans.

Evening musing

Still on the subject of school, I was back at language school last night. I must confess to having been a little derelict in my formal language study duties of late. But I had a major project to finish off at work, we'd moved house, I'd been sick. Yaddy yaddy yah. I remember one of my school masters telling me that one should never have an excuse, one should always have a "reason for". So, those were my reasons for. Anyway, I must have been away for a bit longer than I had realised. As I discovered last night, 2 of my classmates had gotten married, and 3 more were pregnant. I must have missed one hell of a party. I have missed them all, it should be said. Who would have thought, 18 months ago, that I would yearn for the company of a classroom full of people from every corner of the planet. It's rather surreal at times. The teachers are great, and that helps a lot. They treat you as an adult, and not as an idiot. Even though we all feel like idiots at times. My evening class runs twice a week. Which is obviously long enough for marriages and pregnancies. One night focuses purely on grammar. That can be a bit draining after a full day of work. But essential. The other night is spent practicing listening and spoken (uttal) skills. That's always been the hardest part for me, understanding what people are saying to me. So having 2 hours a week doing just that is invaluable. I read somewhere, that the SFI language school teaches to the equivalent level of a Swedish 6 year old. I have even heard the teaching staff say that. That's a bit of an unfair statement. What they mean is, that the number of words they teach you directly, the vocabulary, is about the same number that a 6 year old Swede knows. But we're not 6 years old. We're adults, and we've been speaking for 20+ years. Some of us more than that. So we know how to use language, how to look for the root of words, how to break apart compound words into their simple forms. I might suck at Playstation games, but I can beat a 6 year old any day at learning and applying grammatical rules. Give me a Swedish verb and I can tell you by looking at it what the other forms of that verb will be. Well, most of them. Being taught just one word, you can create another 5 from that word. So don't be fooled by that "dumbing down" of the course description. it does the staff and pupils a bit of a dis-service. Oh, and it's snowing a shitload right now. How cool is that.

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.

Driving Permit debriefing

If you are one of those lucky bastards who have come to Sweden from an European Union country, then you need only to apply to have your driving permit transferred to a Swedish permit. If you're like the rest of us, you have to do the lot. You can drive on your home country permit for your first year in Sweden, so that buys you a little time. My advice is to start as soon as possible with your training. A year can fly by, and the stuff does take a while to learn. Three ways of going about this. First up, enroll with a driving school. Some merits with this, as you get everything organised from the ground up. And there's help on tap for the tricky rules that exist for Swedish roads. Of course it costs the most. Allow between 9,000 and 10,000kr for a full school experience. Alternatively, do the whole thing yourself. A bit more of a gamble, but obviously the cheapest option. I understand you can get away with about 4,000kr. The third option, which I went through, was a mix of private learning, and traffic school. This has set me back about 7,5000kr all up. Here's how it panned out for me. There are 4 parts to gaining a Swedish driving permit; 2 risk training courses (riskutbildning), a theory (kunskapsprov) test, and then the pratical (körprov) driving test. The riskutbildning courses must be completed before you can sit your theory and practical tests. You can book the tests in advance of the riskutbildning dates, which I did. There was a 3 week delay between when I booked, and the actual date of my test. It might be longer in other towns. The first riskutbildning is pure theory, and must be booked through a driving school. 3 hours of sitting in a classroom listening to an instructor, and watching videos. The topics are alcohol, drugs, medicines, stress and fatigue. Which was pretty much how I prepared myself for the course. But the point of the exercise is to understand how those factors influence driving, and the consequences thereof. Pretty common sense stuff if you're not one of the 18 year olds in the course, but I must confess that I did take some points of interest away from the day. The cost for the experience ? 650 kr. The requirement to pass this course is, basically, to turn up. There is no formal test or exam. The other riskutbildning course is skid training. That's a bucketload of fun. It's 90% practical, so wear your best fighting trousers. You don't have to book through a driving school, but I could see it would be a bit of a hassle to do it privately. My advice is to use a school. We had to travel about an hour and a half to the skid track, and then spent about 3 hours there. So it's pretty much a whole day booked out. I paid 1300kr directly to the track operators on arrival, and then another 800kr to the traffic school for the transport to and from, and also for the driving school instructor's time in helping us around the course. That helped a lot, firstly because he spoke English, and secondly because he knew us. Worth the extra money in reduced stress, in my opinion. The skid training itself involved about 25 minutes practicing straight line braking and cornering on both a dry and slippery course with a front wheel drive car. And then 25 minutes cornering on a slippery course with a rear wheeled drive car. The instructor sat up in a control tower and gave instructions over a radio. It was pretty straight forward. You can't really fail the course, but you do have to stay in the car until you get the exercise sort of right. I say "sort of", because parts of the track are designed so that you will slide out under speed. The object of the exercise is really to show how it will all go wrong if you drive too fast for the conditions. So nothing really to panic over. The final part of the skid training course was to sit in a suspended car inside a garage, and then have them flip the car upside down. The object is to learn how to get out of a car when it's upside down. No worries if you are an 18 year old, 40kg anorexic Swede who can fold themself in half, but a bit more complicated when you're a 45 year old 90+kg Kiwi attempting to navigate from the back seat to the front seat in an upturned Volvo. Personally, I think the instructor just decided to have a bit of fun. Overall, it was a good learning experience. First thing on the list for the theory section was to buy the books. No shortcuts, you need the books. There were 3 official books, sold as a package. They sell them in various languages. Even English. The book package cost 600kr. Now, here's where Swedes come into their own. No Swede is really comfortable in telling someone else what to do. So the rules are, well, they're more of a guide. Take, for example, the speed for driving past a bus. In New Zealand, it's 30kph. Nice and simple, no arguments. In Sweden it's "sufficient speed to be able to stop if necessary". What the fek is that all about ? Basically about half of the road rules are like that. Which makes learning them extremely time consuming. You have to know pretty much every line on every page. And you have to understand it completely. Questions can come from the strangest places, where it looks like no one would EVER ask a dumb question like that. Being as the rules can be somewhat open to interpretation ( god bless them ), this is where a relationship with a traffic school (trafikskola) comes in handy. I paid about 200kr as a "joining fee". I then paid another 600kr to have access to their online computer training. You can buy traffic school programmes in shops, but the one I purchased from the traffic school was almost identical to the one used in the final test. So money very well spent. I used that a lot, and it paid off. If you can answer every question on the traffic school data programme, you be able to answer every exam question. I found this to be vital, as not all the information you need is found in the books. Don't ask me why, I didn't write them. The theory exam itself takes place using a computer at a Vägverket office. There is a time limit of 50 minutes, to get at least 50 of the 70 multichoice questions correct. The cost of the exercise was 400kr. The practical side, I was pretty comfortable with. After 20 years of driving. However, I was aware that I now had 20 years of bad driving habits also. And there's a few things that Swedes are rather picky on. Like environmentally friendly driving, for example. So here I used the traffic school again. I booked 2 one hour driving sessions with them, so they could show me what the examiners are going to be looking for. One trip was around town, the other was on open roads. Well worth the 1600kr total cost, as many of the points raised came up during the practical test, and I was also familiar with the test driving route. There's a requirement for a compulsary eyesight test and health declaration prior to sitting your tests. The driving schools will also not permit you to drive with them until you have those also. So get them out of the way first. Cost me 200kr at the local optician. Ok, the practical test itself. The final hurdle. I went a few minutes early, so I could cruise the car park and check out the examination cars. I had chosen to hire one of their cars for the exam, which cost 400kr. Traffic schools hire their cars for the same cost. You can't use your car from home. The actual test cost 700kr and lasted all of about 15 minutes. A few minutes in a residential area to show that you know the right hand rule. A few minutes on an open road, to show you know how to get on and off of one. And a few minutes negotiating traffic in the middle of town. I found the time spent driving with the traffic school to be invaluable here. So there it is. Stressful as hell, and expensive to boot. But also unavoidable. The system does try and help you along the way. Somewhat. Their intention is for you to be a good driver, not to try and make you fail. Accept that it's hard work, and you'll be just fine.

Basic House Dictionary

After travelling down the slippery slope of property ownership, yet again, I've decided to start jotting down a few things I've learnt about Swedish property along the way. I must admit that, sitting back in New Zealand, it all looked pretty simple on the property websites. But some of the subtle differences have caught me offguard. There are 3 major types of accomodation you can purchase as a home. The first is a villa, or enfamiljshus. This is your run of the mill, standard house. You buy the house, and the plot of land it sits on. You pay rates to the kommun for roads, rubbish collection, water use, and sometimes for heating use. The second type is a rådhus, or "row house". It's essentially the same as a villa, but your neighbours' houses join to the two sides of your house. They are also generally smaller than a villa. Again, you generally get a bit of grass. And a fence if you are lucky. The 3rd type is known as bostadsrätt. This usually applies to apartments (lägenhet), but can also include a villa or rådhus. Bostadsrätt ("right to live") properties are generally much cheaper to purchase, because you're only buying the right to live there, and not the roof, windows, front door, or gardens. You pay a fixed monthly fee to a Body Corporate who maintain the building itself and the land. These fees can vary greatly so you need to add the monthly fee to the purchase price of the apartment, to get a true price comparison. Check on what is included, or excluded, in the monthly fee. A very cheap fee might exlude heating costs. Sometimes it might be cheaper long term to buy a house. If that's your thing. Sitting outside of this group of properties is the fritidshus. This is a holiday house, or stuga, and there are bucketloads of them scattered around the Swedish countryside. As a rule, you can only live in these properties on a temporary basis. For weekends or holidays. Not full time. I say, as a rule, because, depending on the circumstances, the local kommun may grant permission for a holiday house to be used as a home. If there is infrastructure in place, and it falls in line with the council's zoning plans etc. But it's not a right to do so. This is where Sweden differs from many othe countries. In NZ, a house is a house is a house. I would be perfectly entitled to move myself, my wife, children, my mother in law, and her 3 goats, into my beach front holiday home. And live there forever. Without exception. Not so in Sweden. Many fritidshus are classified as seasonal occupation only. So check that one out thoroughly before investing.

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.

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.

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%.