Are you still looking for presents...?

As of today, I am completely done! With Christmas shopping, that is. I traipsed around Gamla Stan picking up the last of my presents (for other people and a few for myself). I usually never shop in Gamla Stan but that may change. Today was a fantastic shopping experience--great service, unique gifts, cold weather that sent me in search of something warm to drink--I love when shopping is fun!

Since I am now finished with my Christmas shopping, I thought I'd help the rest of you who are still searching for that special gift...or need to escape the stress of shopping, here are a few suggestions:

• Tindra Stockholm on Österlånggatan 41 in Gamla Stan for yummy smelling soaps, gorgeous linens and other wonderful knickknacks.
• Original Global Art on Österlånggatan 22 for unique art from around the world at affordable prices.
• Teahouse Chaikhana on Svartmangatan 23 when you need a little halcyon after a jam-packed day of shopping and stress.
• For the little ones, why not some great kids' books from Bokspindeln on Odengatan 102 in Vasastan?
• For your adult book lovers, check out my friend Margaret's wonderful bookshop, New York Stories, Odengatan 100.
• Once you leave NYS with a huge bag full of books, you can swing by Caffè Como on Odengatan 106 for a grilled ciabatta and a latte.
• Need some toys? Go to Kalika on Österlånggatan 18 in Gamla Stan for handmade toys, doll houses, finger puppets--you name it! This store is magical...
• Need a present for your friend who loves to be spoiled? Go to Kiehl's on Mäster Samuelsgatan 5 for luxurious soaps, creams, facial products--you name it! This place is heaven!
• Need a luxury basket for your foodie friend? Go to Delicatessen Chez Jean-Yves on Upplandsgatan 54 for scrumptious cheese, pâté, biscuits, marmalades, sausages....
• If you need an espresso to keep you going as you walk along Upplandsgatan, pop over to Primafila on Upplandsgatan 16 and, while you're at it, book a barista course for your picky friend who wants to learn how to make the perfect espresso or latte. Andrea will take good care of you!
• While you're on Upplandsgatan, don't forget to stop by Odette's on Upplandsgatan 36 for scented candles, goodies from Designers' Guild, sumptuous bath towels...this is definitely one of my favorite stores in Vasastan.

So those are just a few suggestions to help you if you are completely frazzled and you're ready to have a nervous breakdown. And I promise--no more shopping posts. :)

Christmas is coming, Christmas is coming...


...but in Stockholm there isn't a drop of snow, nothing to make you feel giddy and bubbly with Christmas spirit. Where the hell is the snow??? Outside, the sky is a dull shade of gray and the lack of sunlight--we've had two full days of rain in a row--is making me feel like a sleepwalker.

Slowly but surely Advent lights are turning up in people's windows and fairy lights strung round balcony railings. But where is the smell of glühwein and roasted potatoes and chestnuts...? Oh wait, I am thinking of Austria where the Christmas spirit is in full swing. What I wouldn't do for a steaming cup of apfelpunsch right now...

So this week I will continue my Christmas movie bonanza--what is the Christmas season without an overdose of corny Christmas movies that make you laugh or smile or even cry a little? Tord and I are both in the mood for Elf, which I bought when I was in the US but has since disappeared or at least gone MIA somewhere in our messy apartment. I saw Elf for the first time two years ago. I was in an awful mood (ill, depressed, probably a little grumpy) and its unadulterated silliness made me laugh so hard that I forgot about my sinus infection. Will Ferrell screaming, "Santa Claus is coming, Santa Claus is coming!" and all of his antics to make James Caan (his on-screen dad) love him kept a smile on my face for hours. It's brilliant--and I don't mean brilliant in a Wim Wenders Wings of Desire or a Cinema Paradiso kind of way. I mean brilliant in a laugh out loud I want to watch it every Christmas kind of way. I guess I will have to search for it at our local video store. Must have Elf, must have Elf!

Over the next few weeks my Christmas dosage of movies will include The Family Stone, The Preacher's Wife, The Bishop's Wife, Miracle on 34th Street and It's a Wonderful Life. I will probably drive Tord insane with all of my Christmas movies, but he's used to it by now.

I even made my own double disc compilation of my favorite Christmas songs...a third volume may soon join it... Ah....Christmas, well...okay, I can survive a little longer without snow....as long as I get to see Elf soon.

Oregano...or sage?

This post will be a quick-one: I am doing Nanowrimo again and I already lost two hours of writing to catch up with Sara and Levi, which is good because I haven't seen them in two weeks. But I am behind--I should have written roughly 30,000 words by now and I am only just closing in on 20,000. I hope I will actually finish on time this year.

The new story? A widow, a man with a tool belt, an old house in Vermont and a shared past...oooh! I will freely admit that I wasted my time writing literary fiction. I love love love pop fiction--love writing it, love reading it, almost love indulging in it as much as I love chocolate and shoes.

Anyway, this week's dilemma--what color should I paint my hallway? Tord and I have picked two shades we both agree on: oregano and sage, i.e. green. Both shades are nearly identical. One has a slightly grey undertone, the other feels a wee bit warmer. I have bought a test can of oregano. Will try it out this weekend. But...a third shade jumped out at me---asparagus. It was much lighter than the oregano and sage, but it could work too.

Ah well. I can't allow myself to be seduced by so many gorgeous colors. I have to focus.

Alright, that's it today. I told you it would be short.

I want to buy a new pair of shoes...

Normally, I don't write about shopping, there are already far too many blogs about shopping and what to wear/what not to wear. This post has nothing to do with dictating what you should buy. This post is all about what I want to buy.

I am in the mood to spoil myself. And when I spoil myself I usually want new shoes. Back in the old days (read: when I lived in Richmond) the bottom of my closet was lined with boxes upon boxes of shoes. Shoes I loved, shoes that went with just about every outfit I owned. New shoes, vintage shoes. Shoes. My favorite pair was a vintage pair of spectator pumps I found at a second-hand shop on Cary Street. They were in pristine condition despite being from the 1940s. I paid $15 for them. When I moved to Sweden, I couldn't afford to ship my collection of shoes. I gave some away to my roommate, took the most practical pairs (that could withstand Swedish weather and donated the rest to the Salvation Army thrift store. Somewhere in Richmond, someone got great pleasure (I hope) out of my pony skin clogs, my strappy sandals, my cute little mules.

So what shoes do I want? Well, when I was in Zürich a few weeks ago, I saw the cutest pair of red pony skin ballerina flats at Gallerie Andy Jllien. I yearned for them. I talked myself out of them and bought a more practical pair of plain black leather ballerina flats instead. Now I wish I'd bought both pair instead of just one. I have been looking for something similar in Stockholm but all I have found are pony skin driving moccasins, which aren't nearly as cute.

Today I thought I would look for a pair of brown leather boots while I was in Södermalm. I figured I may as well look since I was early for my class. I went in and out of several stores, but--alas--no boots tickled my fancy. I ended up going to Åhéns after class and treating myself to some facial products from Origins.

At least I bought a new pair of curling boots last week. It's good to be prepared for the winter. Last year, we had our first snowfall on All Saint's Day. You may remember how I described the chaos on the streets of Stockholm when drivers who hadn't switched to their winter tires slid backwards down Upplandsgatan, buses crashed near Norra Bantorget, I slid my way down the road like the Silver Surfer and--for a change--did not fall. Jack Frost really kicked Stockholm's butt that evening. I don't think the same thing will happen this year on All Saint's Day. It's been pretty mild the last two weeks. Perhaps I shouldn't speak too soon. The weather here can change at the drop of a hat.

But enough about weather. I want a new pair of shoes. I am off all day on Friday. Maybe I will look for a pair then. I have worked hard all week. I have earned a new pair of shoes. And shoes are my guilty pleasure...well, shoes, Sims 2, Days of Our Lives and chick lit novels. And I am not ashamed to admit it.

Speaking of Days of Our Lives, we are three years behind in Sweden. We're at the point of he storyline when the Salem Serial Killer has sent an eerie "message" to Caroline Brady. I know a few more people will die on the soap. I usually refer to Days of Our Lives as "the bad soap" but I love its campiness. I love that Marlena has been possessed by the devil, been kidnapped a gazillion times and been surrogate mother to genetically-engineered twins. It's a nice escape from reality.

Shoes and soaps...a little chocolate would be nice, too.

In every other country, pregnant women are goddesses...

...or so the author of a letter to Svenska Dagbladet's letters to the editor page wrote a few days ago. This woman, whose name I have sadly forgotten, complained bitterly at the injustices she suffers in Swedish society as a pregnant woman and made it sound as though pregnant women in Sweden are somehow mistreated and maligned. I read the letter three times, trying to figure out if this woman was serious or just being ironic. I am still not sure. I sincerely hope she was being ironic, else she surely has a lot to learn about the rest of the world and how good she has it in Sweden.

All I know is that when I read the article I found myself wanting to shake this woman by her shoulders and scream, a la Cher in Moonstruck sans the slap, "Snap out of it!"

Her main complaints seemed to focus on her feeling that people do not treat pregnant women like they are special enough. According to her, no one in Sweden ever offers their subway or bus seat to pregnant women (definitely not true--I have witnessed on countless occasions men and women offering their seats to pregnant women), that people in Sweden only view children as noisy and annoying (some are, but then again, so are loads of adults), that people behave as though pregnant women brought their pregnancies upon themselves and so have no right to complain.... Well, technically, they and their partner decided to have a baby so--in a way--they did bring it upon themselves but why should that stop them from complaining?

But what made me chuckle was her statement that everywhere else in the world pregnant women are treated like goddesses. Hmm... I don't know many other countries as generous as Sweden when it comes to maternity leave + maternity leave benefits, prenatal and postnatal care--there are even special movie showings called "Baby Bio" so mothers on maternity leave can still see a movie and not have to leave their babies with a childminder.

Sweden is not perfect but it is a country that is far from treating its pregnant citizens like dirt. I am suddenly reminded of an article I read in Vanity Fair around five or six years ago. The article dealt with the civil war in Sierra Leone and featured a macabre pictorial of the consequences of this war. One of the pictures was a pregnant woman who'd been raped and mutilated, her body left by the roadside. The caption for the picture informed the reader that the woman's baby had been cut from her body and kicked around like a football by soldiers stoned out of their minds. Here was a pregnant woman whose life should have been valued and cherished--she was carrying the future in her womb. She should have been treated like a goddess instead of having to run for her life, only to lose it at the hands of men so stoned they probably didn't remember killing her later.

So before anyone, pregnant or not, complains about not being treated like a goddess, they can think about that dead woman by the roadside and count themselves lucky they aren't a casualty of war.

Summer moved on...

Well, autumn has definitely arrived in Stockholm. Already the days are shorter and chillier. Evenings of sitting outside and enjoying a glass of wine are fewer and fewer as the autumn chill creeps in.

The tenants' association for the building I live in hosted an autumn garden party at the weekend. I managed an hour of sitting outside before I began to shiver and had to bail. It was just too chilly for me, and I was a wee bit too tired after a day of translating to focus on speaking Swedish without feeling like my mouth and brain weren't always connecting.

I usually love autumn in Stockholm, but this year it's a bit depressing. After such a wet summer, it would have been nice with a more gradual shift into autumn. But already at the end of August it was getting to chilly to sit outside. And the rain we suffered through in June and July has hung in there for September. We normally tell our friends that September is the best time to visit Stockholm--usually it's quite sunny and dry, though not as warm as it can be in August. But this year we haven't advised anyone to come here. The damp air we've had lately doesn't feel the least bit welcoming. I've already seen people donning winter coats, thought it's nowhere near cold enough for a parka yet!

But it's soon time to prepare for the winter darkness. I've stocked up on candles, renewed my Friskis och Svettis card, bought new sweaters to keep me warm, got loads of romantic comedies to cheer me up should the winter blues wear me down.

I shouldn't even say the "w" word...but there was a picture in the paper today of men playing golf in Dalarna and there was snow on the ground! Snow! And it's only the 16th of September. Luckily it will be a while before we Stockholmers get any snow. Last year, we had our first snow fall on 1 November. Traffic chaos abounded. Luckily, I had on my curling boots and my duffel coat. I hardly noticed the snow--but I did notice all the accidents on the road. I was glad I was walking then! Didn't have to worry about changing tires or sliding on ice...

Brrrr! Just thinking about ice and snow is making me cold... I'm just going to sit at my desk and channel images of Umbria in the summer sun for a while...

On that morning flight to Philly...

On Tuesday morning I am going to Philadelphia. People keep saying how nice it is that I am going on vacation or how lucky I am that I can just pop on a flight over to the US to escape the rather dismal summer weather we've been having in Sweden. When I tell them I am not going there on vacation--that I am going to see my family (which doesn't, in my eyes, count as vacation) and see how my dad is doing following his surgery, those very same people behave as though I am being ungrateful--to them, going to Philadelphia when it is 92C (and probably way too humid) is holiday. But going home to the States never feels like a vacation/holiday. I wish it did, but it never does.

As much as I love my hometown, going there usually reminds me of how long I've been away. I don't instantly recognize places and people any longer. Most of my old friends have moved away (just as I did) or we simply lost touch. Of course, this is what happens when you get older. Especially if you chose to move away. I knew even when I was younger I couldn't spend the rest of my life in Philadelphia. It had nothing to do with hating the city--though I was sure it was due to that when I was a teenager--and everything to do with realizing that if I stayed there I would never really know what I was capable of doing. I felt smothered by what other people expected of me, and I couldn't seem to get enough leeway to have a life that felt like my own.

Now when I go home (yup, I still call it home even though my home is in Stockholm), I have to fight to keep from sliding into the old patterns. I have to remind myself that I don't have to do things just because it is expected of me, I don't have to justify why I made choices that other people either don't understand or don't like.

But even if there are certain elements that aren't always nice about being back in Philly (ridiculous arguments with my sister, missing Tord when I am there, just to name a few), once I've been there a few days I start remembering all of the things I like about Philadelphia: cheese steaks, walking around University of Pennsylvania's campus, the Reading Terminal, sitting on the front porch and reading the newspaper, walking into Center City from West Philly, etc). And I think about people I miss when I am in Stockholm, like my mom and my great-aunt and my nieces and my brother and even (sometimes) my sister.

Being there never makes me feel like I want to move back to Philadelphia.

It's just nice knowing I can go there a few times a year.

What's Up With All the Visible Butt Cracks?


I don't normally think of myself as being prudish. Nudity doesn't bother me--I've taken enough life drawing classes and been to enough clothing-optional beaches in Greece not be disturbed by wobbly bits on display.

But lately I have seen more than enough butt cracks emerging from the tops of jeans, shorts etc. So I have to ask the question: Who decided this was acceptable?

Tonight Tord and I were having dinner at Primo Ciao Ciao on Odengatan when a young woman sitting diagonally across from us bent forward to sample her date's food. What did she treat us to? Her posterial divide on display.

Yesterday, I was in Kronobergspark with Sara. Another set of posterial divides on display--one of which was nearly the entire posterior on display her jeans were so low-slung.

Maybe it's a sign of age that this is getting on my nerves. I mean, I still don't understand why fashions from the 70s and 80s are making comebacks when it seemed that it was universally decided that these were fashion mistakes never to be repeated again.

But if I have to decide between jeans so low-slung that I'd need a Brazilian wax just to go out in them and those hideous high-waisted jeans that make me look like my mom still dresses me, then I choose those fugly high-waisted jeans.

You see, I just don't think that certain body parts should be on display in certain situations. Regardless of whether I am sitting in an outdoor bar or cafe, I think men should wear shirts. I do not want to be presented with their hairy/scrawny/pot-bellied/sweaty etc torsos when I am eating or enjoying a glass of wine. Just as I would prefer not to have anyone's (male or female) butt crack in my line of vision when I am having dinner. Surely there must be an entry in Emily Post's book of etiquette on proper occasions to display the posterial divide (and I am fairly certain she'd advise against displaying it and its companions--the cups-running-over blouse and the skirt-that-leaves-nothing-to-the-imagination--in restaurants and classrooms and probably even museums).

But Stockholmers are intent on wearing low-waisted jeans and showing off their butts, especially since it is summer (even if it is damp and cold and not very summer-like today). And I have at least eight more weeks of being subjected to butt cracks and thongs on display.

Good thing I have plenty of good books to read...

Wish I were back in Umbria...

Well, it's nearly a month now since we returned from Italy, and I sooooo wish we were still there. The trip was amazing--and not in a "we-did-so-many-exciting-things" way. I think it was more the mood that was amazing. It's been a long time since Tord and I felt so relaxed and so happy to simply "be". Coming home to Stockholm was very difficult. Stockholm feels so drab and cold in comparison. This could, of course, be due to it raining nearly every single day since we returned home.

Let me tell you why it was so wonderful to be in Italy...

After a hectic and sticky day in Rome, we boarded a train bound for Spoleto and arrived in a beautiful Umbrian hill town that just felt magical. From the balcony of our hotel room, we had a spectacular view of the verdant hillside and were lulled by the heady scent of bird cherry everyday. We drank far too much red wine, ate too much parmesan cheese and sausage spiced with truffles, climbed the steep and narrow streets of the city and stumbled on so many gorgeous sights.... I could have easily spent another two or three days there.

But we had another place to visit...Assisi. And Assisi was lovely, even with so many tourists milling around and all the hubbub with the Pope's imminent arrival, Assisi was a city that charmed the pants off us. We trudged up the steep Pilgrim's Way (sweating, swearing, and dying of thirst) only to be dazzled by the sight of the Basilica of San Francesco. Like Spoleto, Assisi was full of narrow lanes and surprising vistas. The food was delicious...our hotel room at the bottom of the hill--modern, comfortable and overlooking a piazza that seemed to host a block party every night.

And then there was Perugia...yet another hill town, this one with a population of around 160,000. It took us a while to find our hotel and the air was thick and syrupy. Our hotel, just outside the old city walls and positioned with an outstanding view of Assisi in the distance, gave us a well-deserved respite with its rooftop pool and terrace. We overdosed on Umbrian art, sampled local cuisine and took la passegiata every evening.

And everyday I dreamed of how it must be to rent a house in Italy and spend an entire summer there. One day I hope I can do that. I am so tired of wet and uninspiring Swedish summers, especially when I've already had to suffer through a long, dark and even less inspiring Swedish winter.

By the way, the picture above is mine. It's a view of Perugia from our hotel's rooftop terrace. I wish I were there now...

I love Umbria...

La Dolce Vita

In two weeks Tord and I are going to Italy--again. I am not complaining--I love Italy, I could easily imagine Tord and I selling everything we own, waving goodbye to all our friends and settling down in some hilltown in Italy. I have been dreaming of living there since I was a kid. All things Italian spark my interest--food, design, art, music (well, not so much Eurodisco--ick!), but you name it--I love Italy. I guess you could call me an Italophile--if that is even a word.

So why are we going to Italy? Tord wants to celebrate his birthday someplace where he can savor pasta with white truffle sauce--and that is not something we can do in Stockholm. I think he's also hankering for a change of scenery. We usually take weekend trips during the spring but we haven't gone anywhere since we returned from the US in February. We talked about going to Ireland but never found any airline tickets at a good price, ditto Belgium. For a while, we tossed around the idea of going to France, but that evaporated. Besides, we always have a great time in Italy and last year's train adventure through Umbria and Tuscany was a huge success. This year will be something of a repeat--we're going to Rome and then Umbria, but skipping Tuscany. So far, we have decided we'll visit Spoleto, Norcia and Assisi. I think we are going to Perugia as well.

Next summer, I want to rent a house in Italy and stay there at least two weeks. I have this dream of finding some lovely town with a train station (great for excursions + returning to the airport), a trattoria that serves the best food, and a little house where Tord and I can be lazy and soak up the sun and eat loads of ice cream. If we don't feel like cooking, we can walk (or ride our bikes) to the trattoria or osteria. We can fill our baskets with salsiccia, parmesan cheese, tomatoes, smoked mozzarella, proscuitto....oh boy....now I'm getting hungry...and the sun will kiss our skin and make us feel alive.

Everyone in Sweden says summer is the best time to be in Stockholm and they wonder why we go away for ten days every summer. Well, it's like this--Swedish summer weather is fickle. You never know what you're going to get. One summer can be warm and beautiful and make you think you're in the tropics. The next summer can be damp, cold and rainy and you'll go weeks without ever seeing the sun.

One summer in particular stands out in my mind: it started out swimmingly--May was lovely and warm, then June arrived and with it came clouds that didn't seem to disappear until the end of August. That summer it rained nearly every day. There were very few days when the temperature was above 16C. I was miserable. I didn't wear shorts that entire summer. I was still wearing winter sweaters in July. My sandals went unworn because the ground was far too wet. My hair was in a permanent state of frizziness. I'd never been so depressed before in my entire life. I understood then the old stereotype of suicidal Swedes. That summer I hated Sweden and everything Swedish. And all because there was no sun, just big fat droplets of rain, rain and more rain.

If the weather is good this summer, I will make the most of it. If today is anything to go by, then we're in for a good summer in Stockholm. But who knows what tomorrow will bring... it's rained nearly every day this week and they say there's more rain on the way either Sunday or Monday. I hope they're wrong.

But now I am going to sit on my balcony and soak up some sun. Even though I was born with a perfect tan, I still like to turn into a sun worshipper every now and then.

Changes...


On Saturday, I had lunch with some of my girlfriends and it occurred to me how much we've changed over the years. Sara is in medical school and has a nine-month-old son named Levy who is adorable--even when he has an ear infection. Nadia is now married and pregnant with her first child. Fia is married, has a lovely son named Ville and is pregnant with her second child. I am married and will be celebrating my eighth anniversary soon, no kids and waiting to hear from a literary agent who is reading the first four chapters of my novel. Missing from the group was Maitechu, who is in Saudi Arabia with her husband and two-year-old son until July.

At some point, we talked about how things have changed, though we didn't really use ourselves as examples. We talked about some of our male friends and how their lives have changed. Fredrik married Ulrika and they are awaiting the birth of their first child (a boy they will probably name Sixten). Chris and Julie had a baby girl named Holly, left Södermalm and moved to Gröndal. (And we thought Chris would never ever leave Södermalm, but Gröndal is still close to Södermalm...) And Brian has sold his apartment and will be moving to the UK at the end of the month to live with his girlfriend.

There was a time when we all used to see each other on an almost daily basis. We'd have brunch on Sundays, coffee on Saturday, drink far too much beer at Lion Bar--at least during the summer--on Fridays. Monday through Thursday anything could happen. We might end up at the cafe in Kulturhuset or the espresso bar on Horsngatan. Or, more often than not, we were at Blåbär on Upplandsgatan consuming salads and cheesecake and copious cups of coffee.

These days, we're all so busy with other things, or maybe we just don't take the time to meet as often as we used to for various reasons. One thing is certain, we're all getting older--some are more adverse to this than others.

I started noticing gray hairs around my 29th birthday. I don't remember if this bothered me very much though it probably did--at least for a few minutes. Tord has had gray hair since we met--though we like to joke that I am the cause of his loss of his blond hair. Neither of us seems bothered by the fact that we are getting older. The only thing I really miss from being younger is the ability to bounce back quickly from just about anything.

Drank too much last night? No problem...you're twenty-one, you eat a huge breakfast and take a shower and--voila!--you're as fresh as a daisy.

Do the same when you are thirty-seven and you still feel like a zombie two days later.

So I don't care that more gray hairs are sprouting out of my scalp. If it ever bothers me, I'll go to Roddy (who usually cuts my hair when I remember to make an appointment) and ask him to color it for me. But I do miss the energy and the enthusiasm for just about anything that I used to have. And I miss the unbridled optimism I had when I was a teenager. There are moments now when I still have it, but usually I find myself looking for cons when I should be concentrating on pros.

But the inner-child in me is alive and well. She makes an appearance when I least expect it. And even if my appearance is not what it used to be, I am happy.

And that's what matters most.

Slowed Down By Acute Bronchitis, Oh Joy!

As I write this, the spring rains have finally arrived in Stockholm. I woke this morning to the sound of rain splattering on my windowpanes and, instead of being annoyed by it, I was actually glad. We need the rain--and not just for the usual reasons like spring flowers growing, etc. We need it to wash away all the dust and grit left over from the winter.

For the last ten days I have been ill. It started off as my usual spring battle with pollen allergies. This commenced just before Easter. I thought I had it under control. The nasal spray my doctor prescribed was working like a charm, I could breathe and my head didn't feel like the size of a pumpkin. No worries for me! Then on Easter Monday, I woke with a fever and my throat was raw. At first, I thought it was another bout of strep throat. But I realized that it didn't feel like glass in my throat this time. It wasn't even my throat that was the biggest problem--it was this weird burning sensation under my breastplate. Then the coughing fits started. And the wheezing...and another fever...and it occurred to me that I could have bronchitis.

I consulted my favorite site for health info--the Mayo Clinic (www.mayoclinic.com) and looked for information on bronchitis. There was a list of thirteen symptoms, and I had all of them. I called my doctor, he told me to come in for an examination and sure enough--I had acute bronchitis, which he thought could be attributed to the copious amounts of pollen dust in the air. Since it was viral and not bacterial, no antibiotics were prescribed. Just rest, plenty of liquids and the strict order to "allow" myself to cough--"That's the only way you'll get rid of it," my doctor said. "Get rid of the phlegm, cough it up."

So after five days of fevers, coughing, feeling like a zombie and hating the world, I am finally able to sleep at night without being awakened by coughing fits. I can actually walk up a flight of stairs without wheezing. I still feel a bit weak, and my brain feels like it's in the wrong gear but they say this should pass by Friday or Saturday. Maybe I will jumpstart it with a bit of sudoku or a crossword puzzle.

One nice thing about being at home ill is getting to lie on the sofa and watch loads of dvds. I found a new favorite film, Something New with Sanaa Lathan and Simon Baker. Also saw Imagine Me and You with Piper Perabo and Matthew Goode.

I bought a book to keep me occupied called Special Topics in Calamity Physics by Marisha Pessl. So far, I am spellbound. If you haven't read it yet, go out and buy it.

Time to start writing again...

I want...something.


Ever have that feeling that you want something but you have no clue exactly what that something is? Well, that is my dilemma today. I don't really know what I want but I have this feeling that once I find it I'll be pleased beyond belief.

The last time I had this feeling I spent an entire day browsing various shoe stores in Stockholm until I found the perfect pair of cute sandals for the summer. I ended up finding them at Jerns on Sveavägen, and this guilty pleasure only cost me 299 kronor--not a bad price for a pair of leather sandals I wore nearly every day of my vacation in Italy last summer and they looked good with everything from shorts to dresses to skirts to jeans. And despite my wearing them so often, they still look great.

I don't think that what I want at the moment is something I can buy. It could be something I can do. I've been thinking a lot lately about taking art classes again, so it could be that the inner artist in me wants an outlet. It could also be the writer in me that is simply reminding me to get to work today instead of blogging.

I still want...something.

On another note, this is a remarkably slow work week for me. I don't have any classes until Thursday and I have plenty of time for writing (always a nice change). I have figured out how I want my novel to end (just need to write those last few chapters) but I haven't figured out what happens after chapter twelve. So today, my little writing exercise for the day will be plotting out the last five chapters (or more, if need be).

It's still March Madness time, and we chicas in SWG are still writing writing writing away, trying to keep ourselves motivated so we can all go to Italy in September and charm a few agents.

Something...something...something.

Maybe all I want is a walk (again) along Norr Mälarstrand. Right...I'm off.

Has spring sprung?

As I write this, I am sitting by my balcony door, listening to birds sing and enjoying the bit of warmth on my arm from the slant of sunshine streaming in. In the courtyard below, tulips are pushing through the soil. My clematis is already showing signs of awakening. It's March 14th and already Stockholm feels like it's in the throes of spring.

But should I trust it? Swedish weather is not something that ought to be trusted--at least when it comes to spring and the first days of summer. Just when you think you can bid adieu to your winter coat and scarf and pull out your lightweight jacket, a cold spell appears out of nowhere and throws you for a loop. I should know--it's happened to me plenty of times. And in Stockholm, you could go weeks without snow in March and April, have loads of warm sunny days and then suddenly--on Walpurgis (known to Swedes as "Valborg") it snows!

Tord has already taken off his winter coat and begun wearing a lighter coat. He's brave. I just don't trust this weather. The only step I've taken towards admitting it may be spring is that my curling boots have been replaced with a cute pair of shoes I bought while I was in the US. But if I see so much as a snow flurry, the curling boots are coming out of the closet again.

Today I took a walk along Odengatan and saw three teenagers stride past clad in super tiny miniskirts--sans tights or leggings--and sandals. I think it's a little early for sandals. But this is one sure sign of spring in Stockholm--when teenage girls stop wearing jeans and switch to minis and no tights. Even women my age begin doing the same thing. The temperature may drop to zero at some point during the evening, but they will refuse to put on so much as a scarf because--hey, it's spring! Then they get sick and blame their sniffles on their colleagues and cast murderous glares at those of us whose sneezes are due to allergies and not colds or anything remotely contagious.

But I can't wait for warmer weather. I want to sit on my balcony in the evenings and enjoy a glass of wine, a plate of cheese and strawberries...read a book or listen to music and just relish in the art of simply "being".

It may be a while until that sort of weather makes its appearance in Stockholm, but it's coming. And I won't waste a minute of it.

I miss summer...

It's been a long time since my last post, and there is a reason for my absence: I was in the US visiting family and my Internet connection was veeeeerrrrryyyy slow.

There were two reasons for going to the States: I missed my mom and my brother-in-law was getting married. The only problem was that I couldn't be away as long as I would have liked. Ideally, I'd rather have at least a month when I make the "trek" across the pond. This gives me time to meet my friends and family in Philly, see my relatives in Smithfield and do things that I want to do--like shopping, going to museums, seeing a few movies months before they're released in Sweden. But this time I only had two weeks and I divided them by spending the first week in Philadelphia and the second week in West Palm Beach, where my brother-in-law and his new wife live.

It was colder in Philadelphia than it was in Stockholm--something no Swede ever believes when I tell them. In fact, the entire time I was in Philadelphia the temperatures were below freezing--there were a few days when the wind chill factor made it feel like it was below zero Fahrenheit. I didn't mind the weather--the sun was shining, and there was plenty of hot chocolate to be had.

Since I knew all of this in advance, I had to pack loads of winter clothing--or at least a week's worth. But since I was going to West Palm Beach I also needed spring or summer clothing, plus my outfit for the wedding.

My suitcase was not full--in fact, it was only half-full, but I had to pay Continental Airlines $25 because it was three pounds too heavy. I only packed one bag. If I'd packed two suitcases, I could have checked in 50 pounds per bag. I'd figured it would be easier to travel with just one suitcase and my bag for my laptop. Ah well. I bought a duffel bag and stuffed half of my suitcase's contents into it so I wouldn't need to pay that fee again.

Anyway, when I arrived in West Palm Beach, it was cloudy and 65 Fahrenheit. Ditto the next day. But then the temperature rose and the sun returned and suddenly it was summer, or at least it felt like it. And the longer I was in the sun, the happier I felt. The blue funk I've been feeling since September lifted and I felt like a human being again and not an icicle. It was enough (I think) of a taste of summer to get me through the remaining months of Swedish winter.

As I write this, I can see my snow-covered balcony and the trees in the courtyard of my apartment building are heavy with wet clumps of snow. The sky is a dull gray and they say the temperature is around 34F. None of this is very tempting, but I should go out for a walk. I need the fresh air. I have been translating documents all morning and I'm restless.

I also have to remember to work on my new writing project (well, not so new, I am still working on my unfinished Nanowrimo novel). It's March Madness with SWG and it will be interesting to see how much I manage to write this month.

But before I sit down to do any writing, I need to get out of this apartment for a while.
I will try to imagine myself in West Palm Beach again as I try not to slip on ice and dodge icicles falling from drains and rooftops.

I miss summer... I'll just have to hold on a few months until it's here again.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow...

Interesting... all through December I longed for snow to brighten the winter darkness and bring a bit more Christmas spirit to Stockholm--but snow eluded me. Instead, I was bombarded with rain, cloud cover and a general feeling of malaise. My Christmas spirit was diluted by rain and rude behavior.

And then on Saturday the air began to smell like snow. It's hard to describe the scent of snow, the way the air smells just before snowfall... but the feeling it gives you makes you feel alive. You revert to childhood and the giddy anticipation of snow and sledding and hot chocolate and all the things that made you happy when you were a kid.

I love snow. I love how it transforms Stockholm and blankets it and makes people slow down just a bit. I love watching the ice-skaters in Vasaparken as I sit in my favorite café and write. I love taking evening walks and hearing the snow crunch under my feet. All those things remind me of why I love Stockholm.

What I hate is the aftermath of snow--slush, ice, delayed commuter trains, falling. Yesterday when I was on my way home from another celebration of rejection at Belgobar, I sprained my ankle when I slid on a patch of ice. Last night, my ankle was swollen and painful, and the Ace bandage I'd inexpertly wrapped around it wasn't helping much in the way of support.

I spent a good part of the evening, mentally ranting and bitching about ice, snow removal, and stupid people who bump into you (which was partly why I slid on the ice in the first place) and just general nasty thoughts about winters in Stockholm. My mental rant included haphazard plans to "fly south for the winter" and escape the chaos that is Stockholm after snowfall. Let's be honest here--it snows every year here--for thousands of years snow has fallen every winter in Sweden, and yet without fail the city of Stockholm always seems unprepared for it. But that's a bit of a digression...we're talking about my ankle here.

And it's the same ankle I sprained back in 1997 during a trip to Vienna. The same ankle that has plagued me since then--which the evil nurse at Vårdcentralen told me was nothing serious. (And in the grand scheme of things, she's right--a sprained ankle is nothing compared to cancer, gun-shot wounds, stabbings, etc.)

So I suppose I can't complain too much. Having this sprained ankle is forcing me to slow down. It's forcing me to do things like look out my window and muse over how lovely it is to see snow coating the pine boughs and fairy lights on my balcony railings.

And it makes me wish I were still a child, with a sled and a snowsuit and making snow angels in the park.

I hate being slowed down by my ankle. I don't mind being slowed down by snow.

Where did December go?

At the end of November, I thought I would have plenty of time in December to do all the things I put off all autumn. I'd spent most of November trying to grade student papers and complete Nanowrimo (missed it by around 11,000 words BTW) and was desperate for time off to do (mostly) nothing but also maybe go to a museum, treat myself to a manicure/pedicure, paint my hallway, indulge in a little retail therapy...and prepare for Christmas.

I ended up spending most of December running around like a chicken with no head. First, I was grading my students' final portfolios, then I had to prepare for a reading at New York Stories (which went well, BTW), then Tord and I went to Copenhagen and so on. Add in to all of this I had other classes to teach, Christmas presents to buy, Christmas parties to attend, and then all of the sudden it was Christmas Eve and I was exhausted.

My hallway is still that horrid shade of yellow I painted it on a whim a few years ago.
My nails and toenails are still in need of manicuring and pedicuring.
The only museum I have been near was one I walked past in Copenhagen.
The only retail therapy I indulged in was buying Christmas presents for other people.

But I have indulged in long mornings of sleeping in, which is always a good thing.

Yesterday was my birthday. I still haven't bought a birthday present for myself. Maybe I will do that today.

But the most important thing for me to do today is get back to work on my writing. I also need to send out more query letters so Karin and I know when we can have a celebration of acceptance instead of just celebrations of rejection.

So today, besides updating this blog, I will spend at least two hours working on my unfinished Nanowrimo novel. I will also renew my Friskis och Svettis card. Time to start yoga and Core again.

And maybe I will go to a museum. Who knows?