Every little thing he does is magic...

Every now and then my husband does or says something and it reminds me why I fell in love with him in the first place. Don't get me wrong--I adore Tord, love his slightly crooked nose, love that he actually enjoys washing dishes...I love that he calls his parents just to chat and that he sends me silly text messages when he's out having beers with his buddies. But these aren't the things that remind me of why I fell in love with him way back in 1993.

So what happened that ... It sounds so trite now but this morning he started reminiscing about all the trips we've taken together. He looked so cute this morning in his long-sleeved t-shirt and plaid flannel pyjama pants. His always messy hair was even messier thanks to bedhead. And his voice still sounded like it was caught in the land of dreams. But it was his smile that really did the trick. He looked so boyish--he looked exactly the same as when we first met, and I felt giddy inside because of it.

And then, when he realized I wasn't working from home today and had to teach a class, he looked so forlorn. It was worth missing the first commuter train just to give him an extra hug and kiss this morning.

I know it sounds sappy, but he is the only one for me.

Oh the joy of having strep throat!

Last weekend I had one of those Catch-22 moments that make you hate socialized medicine. Now, before anyone flames me and reminds me of how expensive healthcare in the States is and how I should count myself lucky that I live in a country with subsidized medical care, please note that most of the time I haven't got much to complain about when it comes to the Swedish healthcare system.

For the most part, my experiences with Swedish doctors and nurses have been quite good--my husläkare, Dr. Mohlin, is great. He's a first-rate doctor who listens to his patients and doesn't treat us like we're imbeciles. Ditto for the district nurse at Läkarhuset. I've only met her twice but both times I've really been pleased with the level of care and service she gives.

The same can't be said, however, for my experience with gynecologists in Stockholm, which has been less than stellar. Of the five I've tried, only two have been good. The best of the two retired and left me in the care of a replacement who had no bedside manner and made no eye contact with me during the two hours I was in her office. She also ignored the notes the first doctor had made regarding the cysts on my ovaries and refused to give me the medicine I needed to continue the prescribed treatment, claiming that I didn't really need the medicine. It wasn't until I was forced to return to her office on three more occasions because of problems related to the cysts that she finally relented and extended my prescription. She was the worst of the three really awful gynecologists--the other two...well, let's just say it was like being in an office with cardboard cutouts who didn't seem to understand what PCOS (Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome) was and didn't care.

But I digress. I was talking about last weekend and socialized medicine.

On Saturday, I woke up unable to swallow and covered in sweat. I had a very high fever and my throat felt like it was crammed full of barbed wire and glass. I thought, Christ, this feels like strep throat. I wasn't sure immediately so I figured I'd see how it went the rest of the day. Well, I was feverish--with my fever peaking at around 39.3C--and my throat worsened. I called Närakuten at the neighborhood hospital. You see, if it's not a serious emergency, you can't just drop in at the weekends. You have to make an appointment. And, since my husläkare isn't on duty at the weekends, I have to follow Närakuten's protocol. I spoke to a male nurse and gave him all the necessary information regarding my illness. Here's the spirit of what was said after I told him how ill I was:

Him: You have a cold.
Me: My tonsils don't normally swell when I have a cold.
Him: You should drink plenty of water and eat some yoghurt if you can't swallow.
Me: Can I come in for a throat culture?
Him: No, because I think you only have a cold.
Me: Even with this high of a fever, you think it's only a cold?
Him: Yes. Drink plenty of water, eat some yoghurt and call back tomorrow if you still think there is something wrong with your throat.
Me: So I can't come in even for an examination?
Him: No,because I think it's just a cold. It will go over in a few days.

What could I do? I couldn't go to another Närakuten. I had to go to the one in my neighborhood. And they wouldn't let me come in. So I waited until Sunday morning. My throat was even worse. My fever was high again (and had been for most of the night). I called at 8:00 a.m. and spoke to a female nurse this time. I told her about my throat, yada yada and she said....

Her: I think you have a cold.
Me: I don't think it's a cold. I've had strep throat before and this feels exactly the same as the last time I had it.
Her: Your throat can feel like that if you have a cold, too.
Me: I'd feel better if someone would at least examine me.
Her: I can hear that you have a cold.
Me: Uh...how exactly can you hear that?
Her: You sound nasally.
Me: I always sound nasally, I'm from the East Coast of the US.
Her: What?
Me: Nevermind, look, couldn't I come in for a throat culture? I'm pretty certain this is strep throat.
Her: No, call your husläkare tomorrow. I don't think there is anything wrong with you other than a cold.

So I gave up. I called my doctor this morning before I went to work and told him all about my symptoms. And what did he say? "It sounds like you have strep throat. You'd better come in for a throat culture."

I went to his office this afternoon. He took a swab of my tonsils and a few minutes later he confirmed that I had strep throat. Now I am on penicillin for the next ten days.

Why the hell does it have to be so difficult sometimes just to get an exam? I had all the classic symptoms of strep throat--and not a cold--and yet these nurses at the hospital refused to listen to me.

Sadly, this is a story I often hear from friends and colleagues.

Ah well, thank God Dr. Mohlin is there when you need him.

Celebrating Rejection

Karin, who is my SWG writing buddy, and I made a pact a few weeks ago: to send five query letters pitching our novels to agents in the States and the UK. We aren't naive--we know agents receive hundreds of queries every week from people just like us--all asking the same thing: read my novel!

We knew the chances of getting a request for more straight off the bat were slim-to-nil so we decided we'd celebrate every rejection letter we received. How shall we do that? Glad that you asked--the first one to receive a rejection letter buys the first round of drinks at Belgo Bar, the first one to receive a rejection letter with positive feedback stands for the snacks. Sounds like a good deal, huh?

Well, this week we both receive rejection letters. Karin received hers first (on Monday, I think); mine turned up yesterday. At first, I was a little dismayed to receive a rejection letter but that spurt of negativity only lasted all of five minutes. Then I thought, Wait, now I have even more time to revise! Yay! Besides, right now I am testing the waters to see if any interest could be there for my novel while I finish revising it and start writing my new book.

So we celebrated our joint rejection with Chimay beer (for me) and white wine (for Karin). We then discussed what is our next plan of action. We still have four letters floating around out there. I have already found another agent to pitch my novel (working title: Second Skin), as has Karin. Neither of us is remotely depressed--we're keyed up--ready to send out even more letters. We're also looking into attending some writers' conferences. Until then, we have our writers' retreat in October.

A toast to rejection letters! Bring on the Belgian beer! Stir those martinis, baby!

A little bookstore across from Vasaparken...

All summer I've been scoping out various new enterprises in Vasastan and Birkastan. One of them is Xoco on Rörstrandsgatan, a luxury dessert café located in Dalpojken's former premises. I tried it out yesterday and enjoyed my caffè latte and dark chocolate brownie. Dunno if I agree with the owner re: France having the world's best chocolate desserts...I have had to-die-for chocolate desserts in Brussels but was very disappointed when I was in Paris. Well, I haven't been everywhere in France so maybe I will have to travel around that country more and try out more desserts (more F & S for you, Kim!) before I give a definitive answer.

The other venue I've spent the entire summer watching is New York Stories, an English-language bookshop on Odengatan, just across from Vasaparken--my neighborhood patch o' green. The bookstore finally opened today, and I dragged Tord there to check it out with me. I was so glad to find it was a real New Yorker who'd opened the store and not one of these trendoid types you often find here in Stockholm--you know the ones I mean: the namedropping, I've-been-to-New-York-twice-and-I-think-I-am-an-expert-on-all-things-American type, the look-at-me-as-I-curse-in-English-because-it's-so-much-cooler-than-cursing-in-Swedish type, the too-perfectly dressed to truly be Bohemian...enough of that rant--there are plenty of these trendoids in Stockholm and they drive me up a wall.

So when I walked into New York Stories and heard the dulcet tones of a New Yorker--my heart leapt with joy. I am not a New Yorker and would never claim to be an expert on the city (hell, I am a transplanted Philadelphian and proud of it) but it's always nice to meet another East Coaster--especially one who loves books just as much as (if not more so than) I do. I found a place where I can buy a cute journal, where I can buy the sort of short story anthologies I rarely find at other bookstores here in Stockholm unless I special order them--and I can walk there, pick up a book (as I did today) and then head to Robert E's further down Odengatan for a cup of hot chocolate, or head to Kharazmi for latte and baklava...mmmm!

Yes, I think I have found my new hangout for the long dark Swedish winter (besides my favorite café, Kharazmi where I'll be writing nearly every day).

Thank you for opening New York Stories--it reminded me so much of the independent bookstore I used to shop in when I lived in Philly!

I shall live on the euphoria of this for a while...

Last year, after more than ten years of not having a bike (if you don't count the one I had but never rode which was stolen from my storage unit a few years ago), I bought a bike--a gorgeous dark purple bike I christened Huckleberry. I love my bike--I may not ride him as often as I should(yes, I decided my bike was male) but I love him. He gets me from the gym in Solna back to my apartment in Vasastan in less than 15 minutes. We tool along Nörr Mälarstrand together from time to time. I even ride him to work when the weather is nice.

The only problem is that I am not a confident bicyclist. I know all the traffic rules, etc but I don't trust the other people on the road. It takes all of my courage not to get too frightened when I am biking and the bicycle lane ends. I usually keep my cool but inside I am nervous when on the road. Other bicyclists probably think I bike too slowly for their tastes--I don't care. I pace myself based on the rest of the traffic around me and on if I have to be somewhere in a hurry. Sometimes a bike ride is just for pleasure.

Yesterday I was riding my bike along Olof Palmes Gata when I saw a lorry closing in on me. I was in the far-right lane and figured he had enough space to pass me. Apparently, he didn't agree. He veered into my lane, cutting me off --- next thing I knew I slammed into the curb and nearly flew off Huckleberry. Luckily, I regained my composure and control of my bike fairly quickly. The lorry driver was already speeding away, now back in the left lane. And all I could think as I continued the rest of the way home was, Bastard! BAS-TARD! BASTARD!!! I have to fix the handlebar on my bike now. It's nothing serious. I think I just need to tighten a screw, but it's pretty loose at the moment. I'll fix it tomorrow.

I don't have a driver's license. I never saw the point in one until now. I, like a lot of Stockholmers, have fallen in love with the Mini. I already know what color I want mine to be: charcoal gray with white racing stripes. I can already envision myself behind the wheel, tooling around Stockholm and environs while Audioslave blasts through the car speakers. Beside me, Tord will read the map but I'll know where I'm going.

Now I just have to learn how to drive. I should have learned in high school but I had a bike and a bus card so I didn't care about driving. Besides, car insurance costs in Philly were astronomical and my parents had already decided that if we wanted to learn to drive we had to pay for everything associated with it ourselves I became a frequent patron of SEPTA and taxis. And here in Stockholm I am still a patron of SL (Stockholm's version of SEPTA) and taxis.

When I first moved here, I told myself I'd learn to drive. But back then getting a driver's license in Sweden was so expensive I decided investing in SL was a better idea. I could have happily gone on not caring about a driver's license if it weren't for the relaunch of the Mini and a long-standing wish to spend an entire summer in Italy. I figure, if I have my license, I can rent a car while in Umbria and drive around until I can't stand the beauty of that province any longer--as if that would happen!

So I just have to work up the nerve. I've already got my friends Sara and Grace hounding me about getting a license. Plus I know Tord is dreaming of roadtripping our way across the US, which I think sounds like a mighty fine idea. Much as I love Philadelphia, I don't want to spend every waking moment of my vacations in the US in the City of Brotherly Love.

I'm getting closer to going to driving school--I've actually made a list of three I am considering. One is conveniently located just 200 meters from my apartment. My main criterion is that I want to learn to drive an automatic, not manual car. I don't give two hoots about changing gears and remembering to release the clutch. Let the car do that. I just want to drive.

If I'm lucky, I'll have actually taken a course, passed the written test and the road test by December or January.

Let's see what happens next.

By the way, I finished writing my short story. I spent six hours writing today. I think I deserve a cocktail now.

The answer to that question is, of course, yes.
I had it all planned out: I was going to eat lunch with my writing chicas, go to the bank and find out what happened to my new Visa card (which seems to have mysteriously disappeared in the mail) and sit on my balcony and write for a while.

The first two items I took care of with ease. It's never a problem to go to Kharazmi, my favorite café in Stockholm, and eat lunch with my SWG (Stockholm Writers Group) chicas. Going to the bank is usually something I avoid--I hate the queues, I hate having to take a number and just sit and wait wait wait while the person ahead of me blathers on about not understanding how to use a Bankomat. But I was lucky today--I only had to wait five minutes, ordering a new card took less than five minutes--which should have left me with plenty of time to write...

And then I saw something I had to have (or at least try): a patterned silk blouse at Indiska on Odenplan.

Okay, I didn't actually see it from the street--I'd scoped it out a few days ago--but I had to try it on, didn't I?
Now this little detour only took ten minutes. I tried on the blouse, I fell in love with it, I bought it.
The next detour was actually necessary: I had to go to the pharmacy to pick up nasal spray. And since I can't use regular nasal spray--it makes my nasal passages swell instead ofdecreasee in size--I had to discuss alternatives with the pharmacist. This didn't take long--we found a good over-the-counter spray, and I was out of the pharmacy in a matter of minutes.

I came home with still plenty of time to write but then something awful happened: my husband turned on the TV and I became mesmerized by Oprah Winfrey.

Lately, I've been watching Oprah all the time. I never used to watch Oprah. I think the last time I watched her show on a regular basis was back in 1987-88 when I was a freshman in college and my friends and I would watch Oprah while avoiding studying. The only thing I can think of that has led to this Oprah coma is that I am still hanging on to the idleness of this summer--a pretty damned good summer by Swedish standards, and watching Oprah lets me pretend I am still on vacation.
So now Oprah is off and Tord is playing Halo 2 so why aren't I writing now?

That's a good question. I told myself if I blogged I could say I was writing. I know it's a cop-out so I am going to sign off soon.

But to answer my question--why aren't I writing? There are a lot of answers. The project I'm working on feels like it's hit a brick wall. I'm revising the first draft of a novel it took me a billion years to write and I'm a little more interested in it than my ghost story-weird Edinburgh story. But mostly I think I am not writing because I just feel like I need a break. Catherine from SWG would probably thump me on the head and order me back to my laptop but sometimes a break is a good thing.

Besides, I've already started writing a short story I really like. That's not so bad, is it?