Sarcasmette

Ok, so I don't even know where to begin with this trip. I guess I'll start with the beginning.

While flying from Philadelphia to Dallas/Fort Worth, I sat next to a naval officer named Miguel. He told me that I would stick out like a sore thumb in Mexico City, which was no surprise to me. He also said that to really enjoy Mexico, I had to just immerse myself in the culture. Just take it as it was. Something I pretty much already knew, but it was good to have it reiterated. His words did stick with me while I was there.

My plane was delayed getting into Mexico City, which may have actually been better for me, because I ended up running into someone on the bus to Cuernavaca. I had found the bus when I saw a rather tough-looking woman standing there. I smiled at her, but kept to myself. She suddenly said, "you look familiar. Are you going to Alison's wedding?" It turned out to be Nina, a girl I knew back at school, and had totally forgotten about since she left junior year. She is a tough chick, but was looking extra tough after a car accident claimed her arm. There's no nice way to put that, is there? I never even mentioned it to her, which I feel incredibly guilty about. I wish I had just said, "What happened?" and acknowledged it. Sometimes I have no spine. I am not proud of this at all.

At any rate, it was nice to have someone to share a cab to the hotel with. We got in around 1, and then there was some crazy mess with the beds, that wasn't resolved for days. For a little while I was Caroline Sparks.

The first day I woke up early and wrestled with the worst bathroom ever. No, that's not true, apparently the worst bathroom ever is in Tepoztlan, but this one was comically bad. First of all, the door didn't lock. Which wouldn't have been a problem, but the door didn't shut, at all. So if you peed, you peed with your roommate listening. Not a huge deal, but still, I don't like anyone to know what kind of sounds my body makes. Who is with me? High five! …Gross.

The toilet was in the shower. They had attempted to mark some kind of separation, by putting in a curtain rod, but the curtain just happened to fall exactly over the toilet. It wasn't a big deal to push it out of the way but it added to the charm. And then, the toilet liked to break, often. The very first day it wouldn't stop flushing. After getting in so late, I was up early for no reason, Nina was sound asleep, and I wanted her to stay that way. So here I am with a runny toilet and the door won't shut. So I take off the top and drop it on the floor, making a colossal noise, of course. Luckily it wasn't on my foot. I go poking around in the toilet to see what's wrong. I see water keeps shooting out of one little tube. Is it supposed to go in that big tube? No. I'm pulling it gently, trying to get a good look of what's in the tank, when I pull the tube off completely, and whatever goes EVERYWHERE. I put the tube back on - keep in mind I've already had a shower, but now I've got toilet water all over me. Not that it matters, you can't drink the water in Mexico. I didn't feel much better about bathing in it, either. It's fine as long as you don't lick yourself dry, I guess.

 

So I figure out the toilet and go on my merry way. I don't remember if it was the night before or that morning, but I met my two main cohorts for most of the trip, Mary Ann and Eliot. Eliot is something else. Everyone got really excited when he told us how he met Al (short digression. Al is Alison, my friend getting married. We went to school together). We would all shout, "so YOU'RE the bus guy!" Alison is something else. She meets the most random people (and they all show up to her wedding in Mexico). She met Eliot on a bus from New York to Providence and they dated awhile. Eliot is from Nevada, originally. He grew up on a ranch. He knows how to rope cattle. And people. "If you hit their feet with the lasso they will pick them up instinctively," he says. "That's when you get them." Aside from being a cowboy, he is a super genius. He's been to Harvard and all other kinds of smarty schools and is currently in graduate school for Logical Philosophy. I would tell you what this is, and he told me a thousand times, but I still couldn't wrap my puny brain around it. We would be walking somewhere and he would start telling us about pidgin languages and all kinds of brilliant stuff.

Mary Ann was a ton of fun. Very sweet and saucy. Petite like me, even petiter. She stole the dance floor on New Year's Eve. I know I would've gotten a lot of attention if I busted out my six-step, which I threatened to do, but you know, everyone was having so much fun it would've been selfish of me to request they put the hip-hop back on. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Mary Ann is cool. She was good at drawing Eliot and I out. She is a sock designer. I liked meeting someone else who designs something else so specific, like me. She appreciated my need to photograph a certain "x" like she would photograph a certain sock.

Nina's usual cohorts for the trip were Scotty and Jessica, the funnest couple ever. I'd like to think I could achieve such huge levels of zaniness someday. Scotty and Jessica are the kind of people who thrive on attention, but not in an obnoxious way. They were very sweet. I wish I'd had more time with them, too, because it seemed like the real party was always revolving around them. Some other time, perhaps.

There were Sarah and Jeff. Sarah had a few different names but the one that stuck with me was Sarah. We hiked up to the Tepozteco with them. A very cute, very nice couple. There was also Caroline and Steve? Kevin? I'm starting to get lost here. Steve was a Red Sox fan. He proudly wore a Ramirez shirt the day I met him. Of course we got along immediately. When the Patriots won their 16th game, it was his table that I ran to to announce the news. There were other great people, oh like Alison's parents! How could I forget? They were awesome. She is very much like her mother.

I met Marta in the bathroom during the wedding. She asked me, in Spanish, if I could help her with her dress. It was a funny exchange. She later told us a story we basically knew but deserved retelling; how Alison and Gerardo got together. Marta is Colombian, and Fred (Al's father) is American. Al grew up across the Potomac River from me in Maryland. Marta's father had always wished his grandchildren would become involved in their Latino heritage, which is what brought Al to Cuernavaca, which has excellent Spanish teaching schools. It was while there, in her last month, that Al met Gerardo. Their first date they decided to go to Oaxaca rather than bowling, and the rest is history.

The wedding was great. Perfect weather, good food, lovely ceremony. Al looked beautiful. They had us stand in a ring, everyone who came to the ceremony. They spoke about how everyone here was there to support them and they were a part of their marriage. They included Leonardo, Gerardo's son from a previous relationship, as a big part of the ceremony, giving him a necklace when they exchanged rings. Al has known Leo since he was 6 months old, so she has essentially always been a part of his life. They passed the rings around the circle of participants and encouraged people to share their thoughts on love if they so wished. It was really touching and I loved how they included us.

Later we partied down, there was a great mariachi band, and a blow-up slide for the kids. I went to the top of it, got a little scared, and was pushed down by a 5-year-old. It was pretty funny. Alison through the bouquet, Gerardo threw the garter. They picked him up and chanted like it was his funeral, all in good fun. Then we lit Chinese paper lantern balloons and watched them drift away into the sky. There was an afterparty, but I was too pooped for it. Also I was eaten alive by giant Mexican mosquitos. I still have scars from the bites, even though I managed not to scratch them.

 

The day after the wedding, we started to explore Cuernavaca. Down the street from the hotel, is the Jardin Borda. Which means "Embroidered Garden," I believe. It was gorgeous. It was really nice to see all these lush, green, tropical plants, after being in gloomy Massachusetts and Pennsylvania. We heard there was a lake where you could rent boats. The lake turned out to be more of a puddle. A really long puddle. But we got to see some aggressive geese and a turducken. Or something. It really looked like a turkey crossed with a duck and a chicken. Elliot said something about how they should take the idea of a turducken and expand it to something bigger. Like a goat and a sheep and a cow. Ok, it was funny at the time.

 

After that we headed down to the Salto de Anton, a waterfall. Salto means jump, I assume because the waterfall was so narrow that someone brave or stupid could jump over it. But getting there was something else. The Lonely Planet guide we had told us to take the #4 bus, and it would drive by the entrance. We forgot that the guide was from 2002, the year Alison moved to Mexico. So the bus route had changed. Or, as Alison had warned us, it just didn't go to the Salto. It went near the Salto. We ended up riding the bus to the very end of the line. Imagine a bus, albeit a small one, charging down a switchback. Chickens and dogs are running in the street. We go careening around corners, narrowly passing cars on their way up. It was like a rollercoaster. But I never felt at once afraid. I had complete faith the driver knew what he was doing. The scenery around the switchback was interesting - it was clear we were getting further away from the city, down into a valley, in one of the less prosperous parts of town. But I feel funny writing that. It seemed like such a foreign concept there, how much money someone has. It really didn't seem to matter there. More on that later.

Outside the final bus stop someone was frying up quesadillas. Just hanging out. The driver saw that we had missed our stop and told Mary Ann, whose spanish was pretty good, that he would let us off at the appropriate stop. That day we really experienced the kindness of Cuernavacans. He dropped us off as close to the Salto as possible and gave us directions how to get there. Along the way we thought maybe we were lost, so we stopped into a store to ask for directions. The store owner assured us we were on the correct path and even walked with us part of the way to make sure we were on the right track.

 

On the way to the Salto we passed our first coupling of passionate teenagers. I'm sort of surprised I hadn't seen more before then, because that was pretty much all I saw afterwards. I don't really mind seeing young people making out in public - it's kind of cute. But I always, always always want to yell, "get a room!" for fun. I think because the first time I was making out with a boy in public someone yelled that at us, and we laughed for a long time. There's no malice involved. So we tried to figure out the translation, and all we could come up with was "Necesitas una cuarto!" ("You need a room!") Oh man, I don't know how many people I accidentally told "you don't speak Spanish," because I conjugated "hablar" wrong. It's hablo, Sarcasmette. HablO.

So going to Tepozteco. The day started out kind of a mess. We were going to the big mercado over the highway with A's dad. At first it was just the 4 of us, but then it turned into pretty much everyone left in the hotel. So about 12 people in a crowded, insane market. This thing, it was like, a huge warehouse. And almost every inch of it was filled with stores. Although "stores" implies something larger, these were more like kiosks. Quioscos. Each one sold one thing and they sold every possible incarnation of it. Say I wanted a mug. Say I wanted it to be red. Fire engine red. And say I wanted one with a fireman on it. I bet the mug quiosco would have one. I could probably even choose the hair color and body type of the fireman. And it would be 50¢. So, anyway, with all these choices and colors and low low prices, I was completely overwhelmed. I didn't buy anything on that trip to bring home (except tequila). I didn't even buyh my parents a postcard because my senses were totally overloaded. The picture above of the market (with the hanging pretty things)? That was a better, nicer mercado, but imagine those colors times 6 billion and then in all sizes and shapes and... ok, moving on.

So we went to the not-so-nice mercado, and decided to get breakfast there. I knew it was a bad idea from the start. 3 people deciding on breakfast, you can all pretty much agree on something and find somewhere nice, and get in quickly. But 12 of us? We ended up choosing the worst little bodega-nook-thing ever. The waitresses could not communicate. And I don't mean they didn't understand us, they didn't understand each other. They took our orders about 3 different times. We all ended up with some sketchy huevos rancheros. We ate them in the shadow of a bicycle shop. It wasn't the worst experience, more like just, weird. And bad in comparison to all the other lovely breakfasts I'd had so far.

 

We were bursting to get out of the cramped mercado after that, so M and E and I went with another couple, S and J, to Tepoztlan. Some of the other wedding guests had gone there yesterday and had a crazy time, so we wanted to give it a shot. I got some great shots of the graffiti on the cab ride over. Once we got there, we headed towards the temple. Now, mind you, we had no idea what we were getting into. We thought, a temple, ok, it's probably on the outskirts of town. Just follow the signs. Nestled into the hills. Hey, look at that lovely mountain range surrounding us...

So we follow the signs, through an open-air market (sooo much better than the one from that morning). More gorgeous colors and delicious food. We walked for awhile and finally it seemed we were on a path into the mountains that would take us to the temple. It inclined steadily, getting rockier and rockier. We saw a sign, assuming we were nearly there, only to find out it as just the beginning. It indicated that we were an hour away from our destination... and we'd be climbing. M and I had worn flip flops that day - when we got up, all we knew was, we're going to the market. Not, we're going to climb a mountain. But at this point, we were already there, and when would we be back? So we started hiking. We had been at it for about 15 minutes before S announced she needed a break. I was glad, I needed one, too, badly, but didn't want to admit it. We stopped a few more times on the way up - S at some points claiming she was going to turn around, but we encouraged her on. I pulled out my iPhone and started playing "Gonna Fly Now (The Theme from Rocky)" and that re-energized us all a bit. We finally made it to the top. It took way more than an hour, but I don't mind, I was just glad we got there. The views were amazing. Not only from the top, but on the trip up. It wasn't exactly a tropical jungle, but it was the closest to one I've ever been, and it was gorgeous. The temple was cool. It's so weird to think that we were on something that had been there for 500 years or so. That people had put those stones there centuries ago, had touched those rocks, had lived there, had performances there, and it was there underneath my fingertips and feet today (well, that day). It was nice to sit in the sun on the last day of the year, looking down on the world, reflecting on everything. I can see how it is a mystical spot.

The carvings on the temple were pretty interesting. People had laid down flowers on the makeshift altar. I wonder if their ancestors were Aztec, and they were paying homage to them, or if it was in reverence to someone they had known. There were people doing rituals there. A's local friends had dismissed them as hippies. I guess there are a lot of UFO sightings in Tepoztlan too. They seem to be met with as much skepticism as they are here.

 Before we headed back down we ran into a horde of white-nosed coatis. We didn't know what they were at the time, so we called them rodents of unusual size. They were adorable. They were also very friendly. Accustomed to humans - and their food. It was a little sad to see, but I think that's coming from an American perspective. Up here, you know, it's, "don't feed the bears! They won't find food in the winter and die," or something to that effect, but there, it's 85° every single day. There's an unending supply of tourists and their food. It's probably still sad in some way, but, que sera, sera.

 

The trip down seemed more treacherous than the trip up. M and I slipped several times, but luckily nothing remotely serious. We feasted on corn at the bottom, so hungry after the climb. The corn there, they grow it nice and big on the cob. After it's boiled, they slather mayonaisse on it. And then coat it in cheese, lime juice and chili powder. It sounds gross, but it's delicious. I preferred mine with less mayo and more chili. Good stuff. As we walked back to the center of town, we looked back into the mountains, to see if we could find the temple. Once we spotted it, our jaws dropped. Sure, it was only a 600 m climb, but still, seeing where we had been blew our minds. There was no way we would have started, had we known where the temple was beforehand. I'm kind of glad it worked out that way. It felt like a much bigger accomplishment.

 

I'm going to end it there, with a bang. Partly because I forget the rest, partly because it was like every goodbye ever after a trip like this: sad and awkward. No need to describe. I'd rather remember the end of my Mexican trip as the triumph we felt climbing that mountain. Wearing flip-flops. Ta-daa!

I'm home. I'm typing this at 10:00 on a Sunday morning, a time I would, four weeks ago, have been still asleep at. But I'm jetlagged and my body thinks it's 4 in the afternoon. My cat is lying on my right arm, her head tucked under her paw. It's cute. Sometimes she tries to stop me from typing by grabbing at my finger. This is what I missed.

So, the last few days in Stockholm and Malmö. Where was I. Oh yes, I'm sorry about my hastily sent last email. I didn't really edit it. I doubt you all mind. But I was about to write about the Kulturhusset.

It's a giant building in the middle of the city that is home to Sweden's... or maybe just Stockholm's, culture. It was like Christiania, a place where art is encouraged and explored, but on the different end of the spectrum - in a much more structured and refined manner. The two complement each other well. Kulturhusset has a comic book library, a bunch of great exhibits, a media library, several cafes, a design store, a bookstore, internet access to all... it was like a RISD alumni's wet dream. By design store I mean, it was a store like RISDworks and Oop! put together. But larger, cleaner, more efficient... like an IKEA. Oh man... there was a free bus to IKEA and I really wish I'd taken it. I wonder what the mothership of IKEA looks like. I bet it's something like the Christian Scientist center here in Boston. Mmm, I like typing that. "Here, in Boston."

But I digress. There were some good exhibits. One comparing Sune Jonsson, a Swedish photographer, to Walker Evans. Very well done. Another on homosexuality, that was entirely in Swedish. There was this big machine that had lots of fun buttons to press - I will translate what they said later. Finally there was an exhibition of local artists, I think. A lot of the work was terrible, but there were a few pieces that caught my eye, like a bed made of sand.

So I got an email from Christian saying that apparently the days following our visits to the Oslo National Gallery and the Munch Museet, they recovered the stolen paintings. I'm a bit miffed that I came SO CLOSE and I missed the other painting, but there are 3 versions of it. I still saw the other 2. Which is more than any of you! I bet.

One nice day we rented a couple of bikes and toured Djurgården, which is one of the islands, but it's mostly a park. Riding bikes was great and the nature was all very nice and pretty. I think Tuesday I'm putting in an order with Bikes Not Bombs. I had made up my mind to do that, actually, before I left, but this just cemented it. Maybe after walking all over Scandinavia, being propelled easily by bike was heightened by the contrast. The weather helped, too, of course. I don't think I was there a day that it broke 80°. It felt like fall was already there, and returning to Boston I see it's here, too. Good. I hate the heat.

Another fascinating part of Stockholm is the Vasa Museum. Back in 1628, they launched a war ship. The designer of the ship died before it was completed, and the army at the time overloaded it with cannons. Minutes after it set sail, it sank in Stockholm's harbor, because it wasn't properly counterbalanced. Because the harbor has brackish waters, the ship was nearly perfectly preserved for some 300 years, and in 1961 they raised it out of the harbor. They documented it all on film. Watching it, you could see how very impressive it must have been. Even now, the idea of pulling out a warship from Boston Harbor? How cool would that be? Just seeing the ship itself is impressive. The lighting is very dramatic, and when you walk in and see it, looming towards you, everyone stops and says, "woah," like they're in a Keanu Reeves movie. Lisa and Stephen (And anyone else with Swedish relatives) I am insanely curious if anyone you know was around when the Vasa was raised, I'd want to hear more stories of what it was like.

I did get to here a little bit of some stories from some locals. Jason and I went out to visit the archipelago, and took a boat out to the island Vaxholm. We were hoping to get out further but it didn't seem like time would allow. There were some nature-y trails for us to wander there. At one point we stopped to look at a map, because it was getting near bathroom time. The trail we were on wound into a suburb, and while looking at the map, all I could think was, "I bet people here are so nice I could just walk up and ask to use their bathroom." Lo and behold, a woman came out of her house, and asked if we needed help. I jumped on it. "We're just looking for a bathroom," and she let us use hers. She was so kind, and had her personality nailed within a few minutes of meeting her, that I knew she was good folk. Eva was her name; she and her husband invited us to stay for a beer. What happened after that was a conversation fairly unremarkable. We talked about our trip, about how we were American but we didn't like George Bush, what we all did for our jobs (the husband, whose name I never caught, was a navy captain - and he told us a wee bit about the Vasa. See? I tied it together. Loosely.) But the fact that it was just a nice moment with total strangers felt really good. Up until then I'd been a bit of a crab on the trip - just not getting enough sleep, basically. I was having fun, but I know J must have had trouble putting up with me. But after meeting them I felt reinvigorated. Too bad we left the next day.
For Malmö, though. Although that was our last day. I can't say much about it, because the weather was kind of blah, J wanted to go look at some waterfront thing, and I just shopped. The next day we came back. After mild drama concerning the fact I might be spending the night in Iceland, we got back to Boston. We liberated my cat from 10 Moore, and all was as it should be.

I'd love to see you guys, if I haven't seen you already, to hang out and tell you more, but definitely earlier the evening (I'm stilled pretty jetlagged). My trip was great, but I'm so happy to be home.

I am writing this in a 7-11 in Stockholm. The world is CRAZY!
 
So, the last day in Oslo. The boys were hungover, so I pattered around the apartment a bit. Finally, we headed out to the National Gallery and I got to see the more colorful version The Scream. Now, I hate art. I know, that can't be true, I went to art school! Right? Well, I learned a lot about art and just like with my taste in live music, it is very particular. There are very few things that I enjoy in the world of art. Past and present. The Scream is at the top of the pile that I like.
 
My mother is a painter, she paints in a hyper-realist style. Like most of you other RISD kids you probably displayed some talent for realism in your youth. So pretty much all through grade and high school I was drawing and painting very realistically. I guess I just never thought to try anything different. But then, one day came, that I had some strange dream, and I went to Art 2 class the next day, thought about The Scream, and I started painting with those loose, bold strokes and vivid colors that Munch uses. And I finally got it. Something about the way I was moving the brush just felt so... free.
 
I have always enjoyed Edvard Munch's paintings. They are so full of emotion. In just one painting he can capture an entire story, he can make you recall a deep feeling. Remember a forgotten boyfriend, shudder at the recollection of how terrible adolesence was. The Scream in some ways, captures so much pain that I have felt at times... and at others made me laugh. I mean look at that guy. He's HILARIOUS!
 

So upon seeing The Scream, I was completely filled with joy. I could have cried. Seriously. It is a very fulfilling thing, to have gone so far and seen something you've admired for so long. Oh yeah, there were some Picassos and Monets, but they didn't move me at all.
 
I forget what else happened that day, because it was obliterated by the extreme joy between seeing the Scream and eating dinner. Oh,we saw the boat that went to the Antarctic or something. Anyway, dinner was a delight. Christian's parents wanted to meet us and cook us a traditional Norweigan dinner. It was fantastic. They made these pork-meatballs in a heavenly gravy. The pork was just so perfectly tender. The gravy was also drizzled over cauliflower (a vegetable most people could forget, but I happen to love) and boiled potatoes. The lingonberries on the side were very tart. Altogether they made quite a taste explosion on your mouth. But the gravy alone, I could have drunk a liter of it right then and there. In fact, I want to be buried in a vat of it. Because that is how I will die. Drowning in Mrs. von Schack's gravy.
 
Speaking of which, I then did something that was the most womanly thing I've ever done. I asked her for the recipe. I've spent most of my life being an overgrown tomboy, occasionally exploring my feminine side. But this, for some reason, made me feel extra womanish. Maybe because it was cross-cultural.
 
After dinner we took a leisurely walk down to the beach. It was cold and a thunderstorm blew up. There is something about cold beaches that I love. I think it's that contrast thing again - being someplace traditionally associated with warmth, sun, and lots of half naked people, but instead it's chilly, cloudy, and we're all alone. And half-naked. No, of course not. I like the solitude of a cold beach, it's perfect for contemplation.
 
That night we boarded our sleeper train to Stockholm. If sleeping on the boat was perfection, then sleeping on the train was the exact opposite. We were in a cabin with 4 other people, who were the loseriest losers on the train. Everyone else was up, chatting, and watching the towns go by. Our cabin was asleep at 10. I went to explore the train car, but felt much guilt returning, because of course they stuck me on the top of the 3 bunks. So when I finally tried to go to sleep, the train engineer decided it was time to lean on the horn every 10 minutes. The arrythmic rocking of the train didn't bother me as much as the sound of the wheels did. At least they were loud enough to drown out everyone's snoring. I put in my earplugs and eventually got accustomed to the noise, but I'm still pretty sure I only got about 15 minutes of sleep.
 
We arrived in Stockholm too early to check into our hostel, so I got out my friend Stephen's itinerary. He spent 6 months, I think, in Sweden, and got very excited when I told him I was going. It was really nice to have someone I know send me a guide to the city - it made me feel like I was connected to it, somehow, through him. First, he recommended a boat tour, so we went on one that circled the city. The tour was pre-recorded, on headphones that you could listen to in whatever language you selected and set to music. So within 3 hours of arriving in Sweden I heard my first ABBA song, "Waterloo," which has been stuck in my head ever since.
 
The boat tour was great; it went all around the city. They call Stockholm "The Venice of the North." I haven't been there yet, so I can't compare, but I can see where the name comes from. It does seem that the city is built mostly on islands. Our hostel is on the original island of Stockholm, called Gamla Stad. Its feeling is the closest to Italy. Or old Europe, I should probably say. Lots of tiny cobblestone streets and leaning buildings and crazy alleyways that will make their way into the portfolios of photo students.
 
Stephen also recommended I go up to Montalisevägen, a cliff that I totally misspelled, overlooking the city from Södermalm. Södermalm is an island full of young, bohemian artist-types. I'll get into their galleries in a bit. The cliff view was really spectacular. I sat down and contemplated life (this whole trip has been about contemplating life... I haven't come up with any conclusions, either) and thought how funny it was to be somewhere Stephen had been, so far away from where either of us lives now. It was probably like the plot of some crappy Hollywood movie.
 
I went to City Hall, which has the best tower for viewing, only to find it was closed. But that didn't stop me from going up in some kind of tower. I went up in the Katarinahissen, which is the ugliest elevator in the world.
 
So back to the artists. The galleries in Södermalm were pretty good, but nothing we RISD kids couldn't do. I've been really impressed with the way Scandinavia handles its artists. They really seem to have a lot of freedom here to express themselves. And they establish a lot of communities and collectives. Ohh! Argh! The person behind the counter at 7-11 just told us they're closing soon. So my next email I will tell you about what I was about to segue into, which was the Kulturhusset. Which was freaking amazing.
 
That is, if I have time, before I come home.
 
Hug each other extra tight for me.

Thursday I did some sleeping in. It was nice to rest, have a shower, and finally pluck my eyebrows. We made breakfast at Christian's apartment. My father and coworker encouraged me to try pickled herring while I was here, and I was surprised - it is good. Christian had us try something called brown cheese. Basically, it's brown cheese. It packed quite a punch. A little sweet, but basically impossible to describe. Peanut butter is the closest taste I can think of, but it's still far off. We also had something called cloudberry jam, which is crunchy. There's a lack of crunchy jams in this world. We also had some good ol' Philadelphia cream cheese with salmon on Norsk fjellbrød (Norweigan mountainbread, with a strapping [although beardless - and therefore less manly] Viking, cross-country skiing on it). They are really into skiing here. No surprise as it must snow all the time.

For example, we went to the Holmenkollen ski jump. It's just this giant manmade structure sticking out of the mountain. It looked like an abandoned highway from the fjord when we came in. The thing is crazy, just crazy, that anyone would attempt to use it. It was huge and long and scary as hell. I can't believe it's not even considered that big.

We ended up at a couple of art museums. I still think most contemporary art is pretentious, boring crap. More notable was Damien Hirst's bisected cows, and the giant pile of wrapped mint candy that you could take as much as you wanted. I considered asking them if I could roll around in it. A lot of this trip is my inner child wanting to do things desperately and my outer adult not letting it. My outer adult needs to drink more, I believe.

And Norway is the place to do it. Maybe because I have friends here, and we can get a more direct link to the social scene. Which includes excessive drinking that puts Boston to shame. They have little parties called forspiels and nachtspiels, loosely translated to "before game," and "after game." A more direct translation might be "foreplay," but I will avoid that association at this moment. Anyhow, the nachtspiel is actually going out, and the forspiel is the same as pre-partying. Except it lasts from dinner until 12:30 and THEN they go out. This may be because alcohol is much more expensive here, so everyone gets totally smashed and then goes for that one drink outside. Which also may have something to do with the fact the bars close much later. But I think it really comes down to people here drink a lot. More. Than you.

I didn't know the pre-partying lasted so late, so I wanted to keep my own pace, and not compete with giant Norweigans. But by the time they were ready to leave, I was out like a light. We'd gone out the night before so I got a taste of the nightlife - it's really no different than anywhere else in America. Crowded bars, long lines for the ladies' bathroom, and that one guy who is trying to get laid by talking to every woman in the room.

Norweigan weekends seem to be no different from a Boston pub-crawl, except I don't understand what people are shouting belligerently. Well, I guess lots of belligerent people make no sense, either. Christian's Scottish friend Mark was a bit too grabby, too. I didn't want the whole night slapping him away. I'd been duly warned, but pretty much all the lack of sleep I've been getting caught up with me.

So Oslo has been nice, it seems more homey, maybe because we've had a native to guide us the whole time, and show us the side of a city tourists wouldn't see. But those kinds of events aren't really worth writing about. Other than that, Munch museums and forts and so forth. Oh, there was one museum we stumbled into, that had an exhibit on base-jumping. It awoke my inner urban explorer. I wish I'd researched a little on that in the cities I've been to... I wonder what I could've seen. Shoot. The basejumping was fun, though, they had the space set up so you had to jump around the gallery. I made it most of the way, but at the very end there were a couple that just weren't gelling with my fear of heights. Definitely a nice little gallery. The people there were so nice, and just getting it off the ground; if they didn't have a cool logo already, I would have offered to make them one for free.

Today I hope to see the more colorful Scream (the non-stolen one) and the Viking ship museum. And then tonight we take a night train to Stockholm. A few days there, then Malmo, and then home.

Well I hope everyone is doing well stateside. I hope the cats are cuddling and that the tubing is good. You guys better have a few barbecues left in you when I get back, because I am not done with my American summer. I'll be home in time for a cookout on Labor Day.

Did anyone see that episode of Conan O'Brien? The Boat Show? I think it was from his second season. Back when he had no idea what he was doing and no audience. So he started just doing crazy things. The Boat Show was terrible. Which is weird, because I've decided EVERYTHING on a boat is better. A jacuzzi, by itself, is great. But on a boat? HOLY SHIT! A piano bar with a guy singing cheesy songs? Maybe not for everyone, but for me, heaven. But on a boat? I'm undead. And oh my god... sleeping on a boat. I will never sleep so well again.

Now maybe it's because only had a few hours' sleep at the hostel the night before, but I really think the gentlest rocking of the boat (you really couldn't feel it, though, the thing was huge: 11 decks) made sleep so incredibly perfect. There's nothing I love more than a good nap. And these naps... these naps were the shesha of naps. And the boat was the hookah. Like shesha, the smoke is so smooth you hardly know you're inhaling something, other than knowing it's good and delicious. On the boat, I literally laid down and the next thing I knew I was being woken up to go to the jacuzzi. Which I declined in favor of more fabulous napping. Usually I take a few minutes to descend into sleep, but this was just instantaneous. And so refreshing... I can't stop thinking about that nap. Seriously! Part of me wishes I hadn't been dancing until 2 AM (and up at 7 to look at the fjord) just so I could have more of that precious, perfect sleep.

After my nap, I explored the boat a little bit. First I went to the top deck. The sky was incredible. I think there is a Crayola crayon called Norweigan Blue, and I understand why. The way the light from the sun hits the clouds that late just creates the most magical color. We surmised it had something to do with the angle that the earth is tilted towards the sun at that latitude. Looking up at the way it came through the clouds, I really got that sense that I'm a tiny speck in the universe. On a tiny boat in a tiny sea on a tiny planet. I tried to take a picture, but the light was so subtle, that I doubt it will come out.

After some more exploration, I settled in the piano bar for a drink. There was equally cheesy music being played by a band in the cocktail lounge next door, but I do so love the piano. The pianist was from Georgia, and only knew American songs, to the dismay of the Irish guys. He played his own version of Piano Man. With some rather risqué lyrics, for instance, instead of "I'm sure that I could be a movie star/If I could get out of this place," was "I'm sure that I could be a porno star/and have some broad sit on my face." J unloaded the last Danish kroner he had and requested something for me. I wanted the Cheers theme - I miss Boston! And it's where everybody knows your name! - that wasn't happening, but I said the magic words Neil Diamond (which made some cute old lesbians at the bar light up like Christmas trees) and the pianist played Sweet Caroline. Which was better than the Cheers theme. We taught the 7 remaining people in the bar the
Boston version. So good, so good, so good.

Soon after the bar closed (I was hoping for Closing Time or any Tom Waits, but he ended with What a Wonderful World), and we still had watery drinks so we went to the discoteque. Eventually some other youngish people (there must have been about 30 people under 30 on the boat, everyone else was pensioners) wandered in and we danced. And danced. I'd had enough overpriced gin and after some salsa dancing with some English-Irish-Norweigian dude, I broke out my six-step. I don't think the DJ expected a tiny American girl to breakdance that night, either. He stopped us to talk and it turns out he is from Boston, too - the original Boston in England.

I got up at 7 AM to see the fjord. I'd missed the jacuzzi the night before, so I was eager to try it in the morning. It was a great experience, letting the jets massage my aching feet, while drifting down the cold Oslofjord. Lots of houses were placed into the mountainside, and I didn't see any switchbacks for them to get around. I'm sure they were there, but I like to think that if you wanted to get anywhere, you'd either have to scale the cliffs, or drop down to the water and boat away.

But not everything is perfect. I broke two laundry machines trying to get my laundry done yesterday, and lost 60 Kroner (I think that's about $10) in the process. I also neglected to put soap in the machine, but twice the amount of fabric softener. Ah, my clothes got washed and they're very cozy. So that's that.

Seeing Christian again has been awesome, just as awesome as the ass on the waiter we had tonight. Don't get me wrong, I never check out guy's butts - but this one was fantastic. Leave it to me to spread the objectification of men across the globe. But I digress. It's as though 4 years haven't passed since we graduated. But we still spend lots of time reminiscing. Marley, Olivia, Sara, remember that potluck we had that erupted in a chocolate food fight?

Thanks for the kind words about the emails. A special shout out to Dan B: later I kinda regretted my trademark sarcastic reply, although I'm certain you took no offense - but I wanted to thank you more sincerely in front of all these other recipients for your email.

Monday was official Danish food day. I started off with a pastry. The bakery was completely infested by bees, which is apparently normal. The guidebooks suggest Wienerbrød, (Vienna bread - which I guess is technically Austrian, but they say the Danes perfected it) but I instead opted for Fransk Sneglt. Not only because I got to say "sneglt" but because it looked more exciting. It was tasty - basically it's sugar, fried in sugar, dipped in chocolate and then coated in sugar. Really. Okay, maybe there was some pastry bread in there, but you couldn't taste it. The secret ingredient: Love. You thought I was going to type sugar, didn't you?

For lunch we were in Christiana, which is probably one of the craziest places in the western world. If you count Denmark as the west. Basically it's a part of town that used to be a military zone, with ramparts and all, that the military abandoned in 1971. And then the hippies/derelicts took over. Think of Fort Thunder, only it's outside and there's a lot more of it. What the people have done there is interesting and beautiful. I wish I could have taken more photos but they frown upon that. There is graffiti everywhere. It's like a big melting pot of hippies, Olneyville-esque artists (basically, RISD grads that are revitalizing the west side of Providence OR have no ambition to do anything with their lives), hipsters, drunks, stoners, communists, socialists, anarchists... check it out on Wikipedia for more info. We were lucky enough to watch someone get arrested. He went away peacefully, though, no face down in the dirt.

As goofy as it may sound, I think I could have lived there, once, in another lifetime. And not a past life, I mean, if my life had led in a different direction, I could see myself living there. I like the idea of constructing my own little yurt out of found objects, painting signs for food, having a big dog to guard me, and generally living by my wits. It's like camping, forever. But I like my life too much the way it is now to leave it. 3 weeks is enough.

Back to the food. We had smørrebrød, Danish open-faced sandwiches. Basically it's rye bread with butter on it and then you go nuts putting whatever toppings on it. We had some really basic stuff, like roast beef with onions, but also very fancy, with shrimp, caviar, mayonaisse and arugula.

And ooh, the hot chocolate. It rained off and on, while I was shopping on Strøget (the longest pedestrian mall in the world), so varm chokolade was perfect. I don't know if this is specifically Danish or just at Baresso (the Danish Starbucks) but here you dip hard chocolate on a stick in steamed milk. Then you can control its chocolatiness. You can suck on the warm gooey chocolate stick after it's been sitting in the milk awhile. I considered taking a nap right there, in the middle of the cafe.

Oh my god, what is with the Red Sox? This is because I left. It's my fault. I'm sorry. There were a few Sox fans in the hostel. I spotted one wearing a cap... from Florence. Sox fans in Italy? The world really is a small place. I talked to another from South Carolina. We formed a small support group. They served pretty decent beer in the hostel, which certainly helped.

Speaking of the Red Sox, they have an answer to the Friendly Fenway Frank here as well. Apparently a big, red, foot-long hot dog with everything on it - including fried onions, which are crunchy and sweet - are also a popular item. I thought they were just cheap food at hot dog stands, like you'd have in America.

Anyway, I have tons of things to say about the boat to Oslo. Oh my god, the boat. The boat was amazing. But I'll save that for the next email.

I hope you are all well.

This morning I was woken up by a Danish fire alarm. If you don't know about my addiction to the show "Rescue Me" before I left... this is a wonderful fix. Nothing like hunky Danish firemen first thing in the morning. And a bunch of Germans in their tighty-whities running around the halls, confused. It's interesting to see the underwear choice by nationality. So far the Italians are winning the World Cup of Underwear with some very colorful choices.

So, more on yesterday. We picked the perfect day to come to Copenhagen because it was the annual Gay Pride festival. And I gotta say... we do gay pride way better in America. Maybe because people are more oppressed there, so they have to shout it louder. Here it seems that homosexuality is so welcome that the people's need to dress up in pink speedoes with "ABBA" sprayed on their chests in silver isn't as strong. Although, guys, why don't you dress like that more often? I mean, really. Come on.

The festival made an appearance in my dream - I've been having lots of strange dreams - I dreamt my brother made a movie about a vampire who could only suck his *own* blood type. It was named "Homodracual." Ho, ho, ho.

So here's a little story for you. It was like something out of a movie:

A young man and a young woman met early in the day. They were from different countries, but he spoke excellent English. He had a deliciously deep voice. They rented bikes and toured the city. While exploring the gardens by the Rosenborg castle,  they got caught in a rainshower. They ran under a tree for cover. As the outer leaves became saturated and began to drip, they got closer and closer together to the trunk, huddling for warmth. The woman finally remembered she had an umbrella. As they cuddled under it, it was the perfect moment for their first kiss.

But it didn't happen because another young woman was also standing under the tree, looking at them expectantly, like she deserved a spot under that umbrella, too. That woman was Sarcasmette L. Sullivan: Mood Killer. I thought about singing "Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head" too. No, really, I just awkwardly walked to the other side of the tree and tried to give them some privacy, but I don't think the magic happened. Maybe because the guy had also just admitted that his job was to be part of some secret experiment, which is either bullshit or scary, and I don't blame the chick for not making out with him. I do think I'll make up some business cards that say "Killing Moments since 1980."

After that I met an Asian tourist who spoke no English, but as much German as I do, and I helped her find her way to the Rundetårn. It's amazing how much of it comes back, even after not using it for awhile. Wunderbar!

I'm waiting to go dancing tonight in Copenhagen, but my friend J is talking about free energy or something like that with some dude from Stuttgart. I apologize if my typing is a little weird, but not only are Danish keyboards different, this one is broken.

Reykjavik was nice. Iceland is a crazy place. I can see how Björk and Sigur Ros can come from there.

It's right below the arctic circle, but it has approximately 80 volcanoes. Most of them aren't very big, I guess. I never went up close to one, but I did climb Mt. Vesuvius already, so that's no loss. I did, however, get to go up close to a geyser. You would think a bunch of water shooting out of the ground intermittently wouldn't be all that, but I have to say, it was pretty cool. We took a tour around southwestern Iceland. It's gorgeous. We also spent a day at the Blue Lagoon, which is this amazing geothermal spa. You walk around in 80 degree water and it's this crazy milky-blue color. Very relaxing.

Now we're in Copenhagen, and this city is nuts. It's like a party all the time. Groups of people randomly start up singing on the street corners, and we saw a huge mass of rollerbladers going by. They were like SCUL times 50. Without the crazy bikes and getups, though, so not as fun. Still weird. Oh, speaking of SCUL - you bike enthusiasts would LOVE it here. There are bicycles everywhere.

People leave them lying around all over the place. I may be wrong, but I think it's perfectly legitimate to just take a bike lying around anywhere and drop it off elsewhere in the city. I guess anarchy is big here; tomorrow I'll go to Christiana, which I think is one big anarchic hippie commune.

Oh fantastic, J's getting another beer with Herman the German. I better intervene.

I intervened and we went out. The club was great. The exact atmosphere you would see in a movie. And white people really can't dance. I considered busting out some breakdancing moves, but I decided I was too out of practice for them to be decent. My guess is the Danes are not so familiar with breakdancing, so they'd probably just think I was weird or having a seizure. Anyway, the club had great music and was chock full of hipsters. Usually I'd be annoyed, but somehow, Danes lack all pretention. They weren't mooning around like the world owes them something or acting like their lives are so freaking tragic. They're more excited about beer and foosball. And their mullets. Oh, are there mullets here. And it is like they just never threw out their clothes from the 80's. Or their parents' clothes, anyway.

Danes, by the way, are all at least 6 feet tall. Even children. And blond. You tall-man-loving ladies would be in heaven. J and I stick out like tourists here. Which we are. I think today I'll walk around with the Italian guys from my dorm, who are also short and brunette, but they are very excited! About everything! Even waking me up from a nap! Bonjourno! I didn't mind, actually, because Italians look great! With their shirts off! Wow, out of context that could sound pretty bizarre... but if you've never been to a hostel, it's pretty often that people are napping at the same time strangers are changing clothes next to them.

This is just going to keep getting longer, so I'll try to keep it short and then send it off. Today was similarly insane: I ran into a random street festival and then a big ol' gay pride parade.

Write me back, I do get a bit homesick and your emails are nice. I want to hear about Dan A's birthday and North Carolina and every mundane detail about everything else.