While I don't especially care for the Beatles' final album (they pretty much lost it sometime shortly after Sergeant Pepper, I figure), the song title does seem appropriate. I'm penning -- well, keyboarding -- this at Denver International Airport, where I've been for about five hours now. "What, is he stuck in a blizzard? Or did Lotta just have an unwholesome influence on his sense of timing back in London?", you ask. No, no, nothing that bad. While the snow has been coming down for an hour or two, it looks like DIA can handle it. A good thing, too, with half of the US population travelling today. No, I'm simply a victim of the complete absence of public transport in the West. Laramie sports exactly two ways of leaving town: driving or flying. Flying from Laramie to Denver is a fast, stupid and expensive option, and I don't own a car, so this means I'm at the mercy of the circumstances when it comes to going to the airport. The good news were that I was able to catch a lift with my last advisor Alex and his lovely wife Amy. The bad news were that they left town at 7.30 AM this morning. The very bad news are that my flight doesn't leave until 5.30 PM tonight. So I began my already extended journey -- 13 hours of flights plus waiting time -- by... doing nothing for about eight hours. Granted, it's been better than expected: I haven't really gotten very bored, had some good coffee, seen some funny people, and I found free Internet. Props to DIA: most airports don't provide free WiFi, and some only install those bogus kiosks where you pay $500 an hour to surf at modem speeds. All in all, not bad so far.
It's probably superflous to mention it, but I've now finished my first semester (of up to 12) at UWyo. It went fairly well, although the amount of work involved was surprisingly high. I'm fine with spending long hours in the lab -- after all, I'm slaving away for my own greater glory -- but this whole schtick with taking several classes at once and trying to get some science done has been mildly frustrating. As you Swedes know, university back home involves taking one class at a time, and then an exam every 5/10/20 weeks that determines your grade. This suited me extremely well, since I have all the multitasking powers of the average male (can only just walk and chew gum at the same time) and a penchant for concentrating 'til my eyes pop out. Juggling several different classes at once (with associated homework) kind of caught me by surprise and smacked me one upside the head. However, recalling Clint Eastwood's immortal words in "Heartbreak Ridge", I improvised, I adapted, and I overcame. Can't wait for these classes to be over, though, so I can concentrate on what's actually important.
Now, my next line here was going to be something derogatory about Americans and their horrendous Christmas decorations. Every passing year seems to up the stakes and increase the number of lightbulbs employed. I'd even formulated a plan to go out and take some pictures of the worst offenders around Laramie, and gleefully demonstrate the folly of having e.g. a purple glow-in-the-dark Christmas tree. Unfortunately for me, the residents of Laramie turned out to be quite restrained in their choice of cheerful lighting. The ugliest thing I've seen all month was a raindeer that used some blue lighting to indicate a harness or something, and I kind of liked that one. The best I can do is to give you a hint of how bad it could have been.
In closing, I'll comment on something that does feel truly bizarre over here. Just the fact that there is a "Department of Homeland Security" is a sure indicator that something has gone wrong (Departments of Correct Thinking and Random Torture, respectively, are sure to follow) in Western Wonderland. And the constant speaker announcements here at the airport don't help. "The Deparment of Homeland Security Theat Condition Level has been raised to Orange. Please be vigilant of any suspicious behavior and report unattended luggage immediately to the authorities [...]" If this was followed by "Anyone caught thinking seditious thoughts will be tasered and immediately transported to Guantanamo for several years of electrocution and waterboarding. Have nice day!", I wouldn't be surprised in the least. In some respects, Sweden definitely has an edge of the US. Shit, even Osama likes us...
Friday, December 21, 2007
Sunday, December 2, 2007
The season of waiting
"Advent", I'm told, originally meant "the season of waiting". From a religious standpoint, it denotes the four Sundays leading up to Christmas. It's a major secular celebration in Sweden, probably due to a desperate need for some light in the darkness. The beginning of winter has a tendency to be extremely sunless in Sweden: whether due to the overcast skies or the four hour days, or some combination of the two, it's equally dreaded by all. Trips to e.g. southern Spain are usually employed to stave of depression, but for those left at home, the adventsljusstake will have to do before Yuletide rescues them from the gloom:
To my very great surprise, I will actually end up celebrating an almost full-blown Advent this year. Not only did my church send me an adventskalender in the mail (although in all honesty, it's a little booklet of prayers, not a proper calendar), they also thoughtfully arranged to have a special Advent service this Sunday morning, complete with lighting the first candle! Granted, they've turned the traditionally box-shaped candle holder into a wreath, which is filled with spruce branches instead of moss, but they're on the right track. And when the organist played the first couple of notes of the old Swedish hymn "Bered en väg för herran", I couldn't suppress a peal of delighted laughter. The words were all wrong in the English hymnal, of course, but it did send me right back to third grade music lessons, and I gave it my tone-deaf all.
I'll also have the oppurtunity to celebrate Lucia in a few weeks. Another quaint Swedish custom - this saint's day is only celebrated in Scandinavia and few other places - that has little to do with religion these days. One of the few other full-blooded Swedes in town (there were three at least count) is hosting a Lucia get-together at her house. She did warn me about all the other attendees being thirty-something moms and their kids, but I'll be damned if that keeps me from glögg (genuine product of IKEA!) and lussekatter.
From an American perspective, the holiday season has officially started. Tasteless Christmas decorations are going up everywhere, endless jingle-bells are heard in the stores, and many people have already finished their Christmas shopping. To top it off, winter finally gave it a good go:
Apparently King Frost, whose bark has so far been worse than his bite, decided that even all this talk of global warming isn't going to delay things any more. Temperatures promptly descended to 0 Fahrenheit or so, and it's been snowing off and on lately. It doesn't seem to amount to more than a few inches at a time, but these things do add up eventually. Or blow up, rather: the wind scours the ground of snow in some places, and piles it in foot-deep drifts elsewhere. Makes for tricky biking, I can tell you that much. Sometimes it's like being up on kalfjället (above the Swedish treeline) - the wind has unhindered access to you, and while the snow isn't coming from the sky, it sure is howling horizontally straight into your face. I can see now that I'm going to be in great cardio shape by the time Spring rolls around. But every so often the wind stops, and campus turns out to be quite lovely in winter:
Of course, for Americans the holidays are kicked off by Thanksgiving, not some odd candle-lighting ceremonies. As far as I can tell, it's the American equivalent of Swedish Christmas: no real religious connection, enough food to kill a grown man, a time to see your relatives, and general conviviality in the winter darkness. This year I had the good luck and supreme pleasure of being invited to the Wards for Thanksgiving dinner. I'll be doing a rotation in Naomi's (the woman with the Tim-Tams, remember?) lab after Christmas, and she graciously invited some current and future students (me and the Russian girls) that didn't really have anyone to celebrate with. And woah Nelly, was it a nice evening! The beer was both good and plentiful, the company interesting and funny, and the food... Oh dear. As it turns out, Naomi's husband Bryce was a professional cook some years ago. This left him with an impressive (and scary!) collection of knives, a penchant for large kitchens and what can only be described as a genius for cooking. I make a point of preparing good food myself, but I couldn't have pulled that meal off under gunpoint. Just the fact that the turkey stuffing was based on four sticks of butter, ten cloves of garlic, one bottle of Merlot and a bunch of green chili peppers speaks volumes. I don't think I've eaten quite so well (or quite so much!) in months and months. I gladly work for food, and that meal alone would've paid for my services for several weeks. As I biked home in the blistering cold, pleasantly drunk, I decided that I could easily get used to this whole Thanksgiving thing. And indeed, good times were had by all:
As for the climbing season, it's pretty much over. Most of my partners labor under the misconception that you can't climb when it's freezing and snowy outside - laughably wrong, of course - and combined with yet another annoying injury (three blown-out ligaments and counting), it has me thinking about taking up snowboarding. Indeed, the last good day of the year I wasn't even going upwards:
In closing, and getting back to the theme of waiting, the semester is drawing to an end. My final exam in biochemistry is on December 14th, and if I'm not mistaken this upcoming week is the last one of classes. I'll keep fighting the good fight in the lab up through the 20th, but after that it's "Home, sweet home". I'm taking the slow plane back to Sweden (18 hours of traveling - yuck!) and some well-deserved rest. I plan to spend lots of time alternating between bed, couch, dinner table, sauna and pub. Each has its place during a visit to the Old Country, but with it being Christmas and all, I intend to favor the less stressful activities (eating and sleeping) over the more laborious ones (seeing old friends always includes getting stinking drunk). Almost there - the sound of the carols seem to drift just beyond the edge of hearing: "Nu tändas tusen juleljus/på jordens mörka rund/och tusen, tusen stråla ock/på himlens djupblå grund"...
To my very great surprise, I will actually end up celebrating an almost full-blown Advent this year. Not only did my church send me an adventskalender in the mail (although in all honesty, it's a little booklet of prayers, not a proper calendar), they also thoughtfully arranged to have a special Advent service this Sunday morning, complete with lighting the first candle! Granted, they've turned the traditionally box-shaped candle holder into a wreath, which is filled with spruce branches instead of moss, but they're on the right track. And when the organist played the first couple of notes of the old Swedish hymn "Bered en väg för herran", I couldn't suppress a peal of delighted laughter. The words were all wrong in the English hymnal, of course, but it did send me right back to third grade music lessons, and I gave it my tone-deaf all.
I'll also have the oppurtunity to celebrate Lucia in a few weeks. Another quaint Swedish custom - this saint's day is only celebrated in Scandinavia and few other places - that has little to do with religion these days. One of the few other full-blooded Swedes in town (there were three at least count) is hosting a Lucia get-together at her house. She did warn me about all the other attendees being thirty-something moms and their kids, but I'll be damned if that keeps me from glögg (genuine product of IKEA!) and lussekatter.
From an American perspective, the holiday season has officially started. Tasteless Christmas decorations are going up everywhere, endless jingle-bells are heard in the stores, and many people have already finished their Christmas shopping. To top it off, winter finally gave it a good go:
Apparently King Frost, whose bark has so far been worse than his bite, decided that even all this talk of global warming isn't going to delay things any more. Temperatures promptly descended to 0 Fahrenheit or so, and it's been snowing off and on lately. It doesn't seem to amount to more than a few inches at a time, but these things do add up eventually. Or blow up, rather: the wind scours the ground of snow in some places, and piles it in foot-deep drifts elsewhere. Makes for tricky biking, I can tell you that much. Sometimes it's like being up on kalfjället (above the Swedish treeline) - the wind has unhindered access to you, and while the snow isn't coming from the sky, it sure is howling horizontally straight into your face. I can see now that I'm going to be in great cardio shape by the time Spring rolls around. But every so often the wind stops, and campus turns out to be quite lovely in winter:
Of course, for Americans the holidays are kicked off by Thanksgiving, not some odd candle-lighting ceremonies. As far as I can tell, it's the American equivalent of Swedish Christmas: no real religious connection, enough food to kill a grown man, a time to see your relatives, and general conviviality in the winter darkness. This year I had the good luck and supreme pleasure of being invited to the Wards for Thanksgiving dinner. I'll be doing a rotation in Naomi's (the woman with the Tim-Tams, remember?) lab after Christmas, and she graciously invited some current and future students (me and the Russian girls) that didn't really have anyone to celebrate with. And woah Nelly, was it a nice evening! The beer was both good and plentiful, the company interesting and funny, and the food... Oh dear. As it turns out, Naomi's husband Bryce was a professional cook some years ago. This left him with an impressive (and scary!) collection of knives, a penchant for large kitchens and what can only be described as a genius for cooking. I make a point of preparing good food myself, but I couldn't have pulled that meal off under gunpoint. Just the fact that the turkey stuffing was based on four sticks of butter, ten cloves of garlic, one bottle of Merlot and a bunch of green chili peppers speaks volumes. I don't think I've eaten quite so well (or quite so much!) in months and months. I gladly work for food, and that meal alone would've paid for my services for several weeks. As I biked home in the blistering cold, pleasantly drunk, I decided that I could easily get used to this whole Thanksgiving thing. And indeed, good times were had by all:
As for the climbing season, it's pretty much over. Most of my partners labor under the misconception that you can't climb when it's freezing and snowy outside - laughably wrong, of course - and combined with yet another annoying injury (three blown-out ligaments and counting), it has me thinking about taking up snowboarding. Indeed, the last good day of the year I wasn't even going upwards:
In closing, and getting back to the theme of waiting, the semester is drawing to an end. My final exam in biochemistry is on December 14th, and if I'm not mistaken this upcoming week is the last one of classes. I'll keep fighting the good fight in the lab up through the 20th, but after that it's "Home, sweet home". I'm taking the slow plane back to Sweden (18 hours of traveling - yuck!) and some well-deserved rest. I plan to spend lots of time alternating between bed, couch, dinner table, sauna and pub. Each has its place during a visit to the Old Country, but with it being Christmas and all, I intend to favor the less stressful activities (eating and sleeping) over the more laborious ones (seeing old friends always includes getting stinking drunk). Almost there - the sound of the carols seem to drift just beyond the edge of hearing: "Nu tändas tusen juleljus/på jordens mörka rund/och tusen, tusen stråla ock/på himlens djupblå grund"...
Monday, November 12, 2007
News from the Old Country
Lately, it seems I can't turn around without running into something reminding me of my geographical past. If it's not ads in the paper saying "Call 1-800-RSVP-SWEDISH", it's people from Scandinavia or cookies from Oz. I'm beginning to think that God is trying to tell me something - possibly that I should start feeling homesick. Or He's reminding me that I still haven't bought that plane ticket to get back here after New Year's... In any case, it's enough to inspire some writing about where I've been, rather than where I am or where I'm going.
Let's start with literal news from Sweden. I don't generally follow Swedish news or politics when I'm abroad: as someone said, "Local news is for locals". Instead I try to keep up with the times around me, although this means reading about issues like water conservation or Boulderites wanting to save some species of mouse that no-one ever heard of (or would miss if it went). However, dad recently alerted me to a "political scandal" unfolding back home. Now, if we were talking about an American scandal, it might involve a shady arms deal with some banana republic or visits to houses of ill repute. The French equivalent would probably concern three young women, a top politician and his very irate wife... even if it could be argued that something along those lines wouldn't even make the news in France. In China, a high Party official would likely have swindled away millions of yuan or been responsible for building a factory that collapsed on top of the poor guys working in it. In short, it'd be something juicy and actually scandalous. But not in Sweden: it's a very quiet corner of the world. We don't go to war, we don't impact the world economy much, and our number one export is pop music. The leading moral sentiments are "Don't rock the boat" and paying taxes is "cool". Great place to raise kids, though. So when the shit hits the fan back home, it usually turns out to be neither excrement nor traveling at velocity. The outrage this time concerned the fact that several members of the cabinet had, at some point in their lives, neglected to pay the taxes associated with e.g. people cleaning their house or baby sitting. Yeeeees...? Ask yourself the following: if you ever babysat, did you demand a receipt? If you ever hired a bit of "hemhjälp", did you pay them in cash and forget about it? Jesus, people in the media, get some perspective! There are more important things to worry about, like, say, what color socks you'd like to wear tomorrow. But hey, that's part of the charm of living there: things like this is major news, because nothing really bad ever happens.
Anyway, political rants aside, the number of Scandinavians I meet per week went up 100% just recently. I finally located the mythical Norwegian student that I'd heard rumors of all semester. She turned out to be a bone fide norrbagge, complete with blonde hair and wacky-yet-wonderful modes of speech:
Of course, it's a bit hard to tell about the Norwegians sounding funny just from that picture, but just trust me on this one. They sound just as weird to us as the average Swede sounds to... anybody, I guess. It's just us and the Chinese who have that kind of sing-song language, and you're not likely to confuse the two anytime soon.
As it turned out, Ingrid is a master flutist and plays with the UW Symphony orchestra. I caught their last performance for the semester, and as always, it was pretty impressive. While the Fine Arts building is hardly Royal Albert Hall, it ain't bad:
Speaking of things I miss about places I've lived, one of my great regrets about leaving Australia is not being able to buy Tim-Tams anymore. Every culture has contributed something to the cuisine of the world: the Germans have given us great sausage, the Italians showed the world how to cook pasta and the French, well, they've pretty much supplied the rest. Downunder, they invented the Tim-Tam:
I don't know if it's obvious from the picture, but Tim-Tams are far and away the best cookies ever made. It is literally not possible to stop eating them once you start, and it's a mixed blessing that the packages are so small. On one hand, you always want more - on the other hand, you feel pretty sick after eating about a dozen. It's hard to describe how great the chocolaty, buttery goodness that is the Tim-Tam really is. Sadly the rest of the world doesn't know about them, and in most places you couldn't buy one for any amount of money. So imagine my joy when, at Friday Fika last week, professor Ward had brought two whole packages of the stuff! I couldn't believe my good fortune, and immediately executed the Tim-Tam Slam -- the best possible combination of foodstuff and beverage in the known galaxy. I haven't been so pleasantly surprised in months. She also brought some Vegemite; I stayed well away from that. Aussies make great cookies and decent beer, but trying to sell soy-flavored yeast extract as food for humans is pushing it a bit. I did get to hear the song, though, and that's way better than eating the stuff.
Finally, I ran into something at random: Swedish Fish. Now, you'd think that it'd be sill or surströmming, but it turns out that it's candy. I'm sure you'll recognize it - you can buy it at any supermarket or candy store back home. It's a bit of favorite of mine, actually, but I never imagined that us Swedes were responsible for inventing them. IKEA, sure, I'll take credit for that, but gelatinous candy? Well, why not? It's a damn sight better than most of the stuff they make here. I didn't quite believe it at first, but after checking carefully I found the little notice saying "Made under license from Leaf Sverige AB" (incidentally a major purveyor of snus). Take a close look at the package - can you spot the American addition to the advertising?
Let's start with literal news from Sweden. I don't generally follow Swedish news or politics when I'm abroad: as someone said, "Local news is for locals". Instead I try to keep up with the times around me, although this means reading about issues like water conservation or Boulderites wanting to save some species of mouse that no-one ever heard of (or would miss if it went). However, dad recently alerted me to a "political scandal" unfolding back home. Now, if we were talking about an American scandal, it might involve a shady arms deal with some banana republic or visits to houses of ill repute. The French equivalent would probably concern three young women, a top politician and his very irate wife... even if it could be argued that something along those lines wouldn't even make the news in France. In China, a high Party official would likely have swindled away millions of yuan or been responsible for building a factory that collapsed on top of the poor guys working in it. In short, it'd be something juicy and actually scandalous. But not in Sweden: it's a very quiet corner of the world. We don't go to war, we don't impact the world economy much, and our number one export is pop music. The leading moral sentiments are "Don't rock the boat" and paying taxes is "cool". Great place to raise kids, though. So when the shit hits the fan back home, it usually turns out to be neither excrement nor traveling at velocity. The outrage this time concerned the fact that several members of the cabinet had, at some point in their lives, neglected to pay the taxes associated with e.g. people cleaning their house or baby sitting. Yeeeees...? Ask yourself the following: if you ever babysat, did you demand a receipt? If you ever hired a bit of "hemhjälp", did you pay them in cash and forget about it? Jesus, people in the media, get some perspective! There are more important things to worry about, like, say, what color socks you'd like to wear tomorrow. But hey, that's part of the charm of living there: things like this is major news, because nothing really bad ever happens.
Anyway, political rants aside, the number of Scandinavians I meet per week went up 100% just recently. I finally located the mythical Norwegian student that I'd heard rumors of all semester. She turned out to be a bone fide norrbagge, complete with blonde hair and wacky-yet-wonderful modes of speech:
Of course, it's a bit hard to tell about the Norwegians sounding funny just from that picture, but just trust me on this one. They sound just as weird to us as the average Swede sounds to... anybody, I guess. It's just us and the Chinese who have that kind of sing-song language, and you're not likely to confuse the two anytime soon.
As it turned out, Ingrid is a master flutist and plays with the UW Symphony orchestra. I caught their last performance for the semester, and as always, it was pretty impressive. While the Fine Arts building is hardly Royal Albert Hall, it ain't bad:
Speaking of things I miss about places I've lived, one of my great regrets about leaving Australia is not being able to buy Tim-Tams anymore. Every culture has contributed something to the cuisine of the world: the Germans have given us great sausage, the Italians showed the world how to cook pasta and the French, well, they've pretty much supplied the rest. Downunder, they invented the Tim-Tam:
I don't know if it's obvious from the picture, but Tim-Tams are far and away the best cookies ever made. It is literally not possible to stop eating them once you start, and it's a mixed blessing that the packages are so small. On one hand, you always want more - on the other hand, you feel pretty sick after eating about a dozen. It's hard to describe how great the chocolaty, buttery goodness that is the Tim-Tam really is. Sadly the rest of the world doesn't know about them, and in most places you couldn't buy one for any amount of money. So imagine my joy when, at Friday Fika last week, professor Ward had brought two whole packages of the stuff! I couldn't believe my good fortune, and immediately executed the Tim-Tam Slam -- the best possible combination of foodstuff and beverage in the known galaxy. I haven't been so pleasantly surprised in months. She also brought some Vegemite; I stayed well away from that. Aussies make great cookies and decent beer, but trying to sell soy-flavored yeast extract as food for humans is pushing it a bit. I did get to hear the song, though, and that's way better than eating the stuff.
Finally, I ran into something at random: Swedish Fish. Now, you'd think that it'd be sill or surströmming, but it turns out that it's candy. I'm sure you'll recognize it - you can buy it at any supermarket or candy store back home. It's a bit of favorite of mine, actually, but I never imagined that us Swedes were responsible for inventing them. IKEA, sure, I'll take credit for that, but gelatinous candy? Well, why not? It's a damn sight better than most of the stuff they make here. I didn't quite believe it at first, but after checking carefully I found the little notice saying "Made under license from Leaf Sverige AB" (incidentally a major purveyor of snus). Take a close look at the package - can you spot the American addition to the advertising?
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Happy Halloween!
Yes, it's that time of the year again, when pumpkins are mercilessly mutilated and children all over the country chuck up their candy-colored stomach contents. What the ancient Celts would've thought of this is anyone's guess - the Sidhe were probably scarier than six-year-olds wearing plastic fangs and and capes.
Of course, back in the Old Country, Halloween is not traditionally celebrated. Note that I say "traditionally", because it's slowly been creeping up on Sweden over the last five years or so. I went to a few Halloween parties in my undergrad days, and I have actually been trick-or-treating. Probably surprised the hell out of people opening doors, too, since I was a good two feet taller than the average customer, and about three times older. Sadly, no-one brought a camera for that one.
Since October 31st falls on a Wednesday this year, the student population of Laramie unanimously decided that the preceding Saturday would be the best time to dress up and party. I'm not sure exactly how that was organized (a hive mind of some sort?), but when Joe called me up and said he had beer, a spectacularly ugly costume and girls at his house, I decided to go with the flow. After substantial work with make-up, wigs and garter belts, we were ready to hit the town:
My choice of custome kind of back-fired, though. While I thought I was cleverly representing all that was wrong with the 80's, I failed to take into account that most of the party-goers never experienced the days of yuppies and shoulder pads. I didn't catch more than the second half of the decade myself, and for someone born in 1988 words like "perestroika", "MC Hammer" and "hair spray" have precious little meaning. I got guesses ranging from Billy Ray Cyrus to Joe Dirt. Kids these days...
Most of the girls had invested a lot of time and work in their costumes, and it generally worked out very, very well. Joe had mentioned that this was a "perfect excuse to skank it up", and as usual he was spot on. I don't think I've seen people so scantily dressed outside of the Red Light District before, and I'd bet anything that this would actually be illegal in Utah. Every stereotype was in attendance: Sexy Cop, Short-Skirt Nurse, Skanky Squaw, Catwoman, Tinkerbell, etc. etc. My personal favorite was Slutty Nun - brought me right back to Catholic school, that. And since American women typically don't do the typical pre-diabetes weight gain until after college, the contents of the packaging weren't half bad either. Halloween comes highly recommended.
I've also been out climbing, of course. The winter seems to come in bursts around here, and we're in a sunshiny period right now:
Granted, Rand doesn't look dileriously happy about it, but he's a fun guy to go climbing with. We always seem to get up to some fun/sketchy/stupid shit when we go out -- probably due to a propensity to just "climb what looks good". Yesterday that habit found us sitting atop a small spire of rock, without any clear idea of how to get off. After some thinking, we just tossed the rope down below us, and Rand kind of slid down the incline, holding onto one of my feet while I gave him a "belay" consisting of me basically sitting up real straight and hoping he wouldn't fall very far. The dense fog in the morning didn't help the route-finding either: 
On an entirely different note, I had a "Word of the Day" episode recently. I can usually navigate an English-speaking society without any major problems, but sometimes "liten tuva stjälper stort lass". During my attempts to make kladdkaka I learned the difference between "baking soda" (pure sodium bicarbonate) and "baking powder" (much diluted with something acidic and some starch). The former is about 100 times as potent a rising agent as the latter, and you can imagine my surprise when the cake suddenly just started boiling. After saving what I could, and spending almost two hours cleaning the other half of the kladdkaka from the oven floor, I ended up with something that looked semi-okay but had awful taste and texture:
Note to self: stick to yeast in the future. You never know what effects outgassing can have at altitude...
I'll leave you with some pictures of my fellow international grad students. From left to right that's me, Jatinder (India), Shu (China), nameless cutie (Turkmenistan, I think), Anton (Uzbekistan) and Lada (Russia). Note especially that Jeet is wearing his "winter clothing" indoors, which speaks volumes about how well it'll hold up when the mercury really drops around here. For some people, winter will come as a harsh surprise...
Of course, back in the Old Country, Halloween is not traditionally celebrated. Note that I say "traditionally", because it's slowly been creeping up on Sweden over the last five years or so. I went to a few Halloween parties in my undergrad days, and I have actually been trick-or-treating. Probably surprised the hell out of people opening doors, too, since I was a good two feet taller than the average customer, and about three times older. Sadly, no-one brought a camera for that one.
Since October 31st falls on a Wednesday this year, the student population of Laramie unanimously decided that the preceding Saturday would be the best time to dress up and party. I'm not sure exactly how that was organized (a hive mind of some sort?), but when Joe called me up and said he had beer, a spectacularly ugly costume and girls at his house, I decided to go with the flow. After substantial work with make-up, wigs and garter belts, we were ready to hit the town:
My choice of custome kind of back-fired, though. While I thought I was cleverly representing all that was wrong with the 80's, I failed to take into account that most of the party-goers never experienced the days of yuppies and shoulder pads. I didn't catch more than the second half of the decade myself, and for someone born in 1988 words like "perestroika", "MC Hammer" and "hair spray" have precious little meaning. I got guesses ranging from Billy Ray Cyrus to Joe Dirt. Kids these days...
Most of the girls had invested a lot of time and work in their costumes, and it generally worked out very, very well. Joe had mentioned that this was a "perfect excuse to skank it up", and as usual he was spot on. I don't think I've seen people so scantily dressed outside of the Red Light District before, and I'd bet anything that this would actually be illegal in Utah. Every stereotype was in attendance: Sexy Cop, Short-Skirt Nurse, Skanky Squaw, Catwoman, Tinkerbell, etc. etc. My personal favorite was Slutty Nun - brought me right back to Catholic school, that. And since American women typically don't do the typical pre-diabetes weight gain until after college, the contents of the packaging weren't half bad either. Halloween comes highly recommended.
I've also been out climbing, of course. The winter seems to come in bursts around here, and we're in a sunshiny period right now:
Granted, Rand doesn't look dileriously happy about it, but he's a fun guy to go climbing with. We always seem to get up to some fun/sketchy/stupid shit when we go out -- probably due to a propensity to just "climb what looks good". Yesterday that habit found us sitting atop a small spire of rock, without any clear idea of how to get off. After some thinking, we just tossed the rope down below us, and Rand kind of slid down the incline, holding onto one of my feet while I gave him a "belay" consisting of me basically sitting up real straight and hoping he wouldn't fall very far. The dense fog in the morning didn't help the route-finding either:
On an entirely different note, I had a "Word of the Day" episode recently. I can usually navigate an English-speaking society without any major problems, but sometimes "liten tuva stjälper stort lass". During my attempts to make kladdkaka I learned the difference between "baking soda" (pure sodium bicarbonate) and "baking powder" (much diluted with something acidic and some starch). The former is about 100 times as potent a rising agent as the latter, and you can imagine my surprise when the cake suddenly just started boiling. After saving what I could, and spending almost two hours cleaning the other half of the kladdkaka from the oven floor, I ended up with something that looked semi-okay but had awful taste and texture:
Note to self: stick to yeast in the future. You never know what effects outgassing can have at altitude...
I'll leave you with some pictures of my fellow international grad students. From left to right that's me, Jatinder (India), Shu (China), nameless cutie (Turkmenistan, I think), Anton (Uzbekistan) and Lada (Russia). Note especially that Jeet is wearing his "winter clothing" indoors, which speaks volumes about how well it'll hold up when the mercury really drops around here. For some people, winter will come as a harsh surprise...
Sunday, October 21, 2007
A culture of convenience
After some comments from the peanut gallery, I realize I might've gone a bit overboard with the climbing narrative lately. While I find it fun to write about, I appreciate that the majority of the readership might not share my fascination with the subject. Unfortunately, not too many exciting things happen in my life that are not tied into climbing -- my existence outside of the sport isn't particularly interesting even if you're into bioinformatics. And since I don't comment on my job or co-workers, that leaves precious little to write about. Except, of course, my other major topic when I'm abroad: those crazy foreigners. Today, we'll re-visit American (and specifically Wyoming) culture.
There are many aspects of American life that are fairly puzzling to the non-native. The most pronounced one is the basic lassitude that seems to underlie almost all day-to-day decisions. It seems the watchword is "convenient", and since the other major idea is "more! of everything!", this tends to be taken way beyond the point where it stops being sane. As Joe (a Wyoming native) recently put it: "[My roommate] is an example of all that's wrong with the country. She's all 'I want it, and I want it now!'" Some examples will indubitably underscore his point:
Wyoming culture, as opposed to American behavior in general, is of course a chapter unto itself. I can't claim to understand much of it yet, since I don't see many Wyomingites on a daily basis, but I can provide some anecdotes. For instance, the cowboys. While the man with the ten-gallon hat, flannel shirt and trusty steed might be confined to Western movies in Europe (and much of the US), he is alive and well in Wyoming. Ranching cattle (or sheep) is still a major occupation in this state, and the people who do it don't seem to have changed a lot in the last 100 years. I regularly see guys in class who're just back from driving the cows home, and the waxed mustache is as ubiquitous a fashion accessory with them as the hooded sweatshirt is with the other college kids.
Related to the cowboy is the saloon. If you look after cows for a living, what else do you do with your spare time but kick back and drink beer? Probably not much. The most typical "saloon" in Laramie is "The Buckhorn Bar". I swung by on Friday night, and, well, let's say it's not anything like one of the "nations" back in Uppsala. Imagine, if you will, the typical Western saloon you see in the movies. There's a sign with very distinctive lettering over the door, and when you come in a long bar with a mirror and plenty of whiskey bottles greets you. The mirror is cracked and warped, because a large bullet hole decorates its center. Some guy is playing steel guitar in the background, and most of the clientele looks like they came there to kick ass and drink beer (and are fast running out of beer). If Clint Eastwood came in and announced he was looking for a certain outlaw, you wouldn't be surprised for a second. Now fast-forward a century, put up some neon Budweiser signs and badly done murals of cows, and you've got the Buckhorn, complete with shot-up mirror (dating back to sometime in the seventies). This is where the less polished half of Laramie drinks, and if you want to strike up a conversation on the relative merits of the horse and the ATV for moving a herd of Black Angus, you've come to the right spot. Just the fact that Bob Scarpelli, formerly Laramie's best climber and worst drunk, used to hang out here six days a week speaks volumes. I wish I'd brought my camera, but you'll have to make do with the links.
In light of all this, I could embark on a lengthy and over-intellectualized analysis on what the effects are on Americans in general (mainly diabetes) and why all this came to be. But I won't. Partially because I just don't get it -- how did they go from the Puritan work ethic ("Idle hands do the Devil's work!") to sitting around in La-Z-Boys and eating donuts? Is this some sort of over-compensation for the presumably harsh conditions in Europe that many of their ancestors fled from? Where did it all change (or go wrong, depending on your point of view)? Cleverer people than I have wrestled with that question, and I can't claim to provide an answer. Things are the way they are, for now, and they are not likely to change because I disapprove. And I certainly don't hate every aspect of life here; quite the opposite. I think that the Americans are among the friendliest and most generous people in the world, and have an admirable self-confidence and a healthy competitive attitude. I moved back here because I enjoyed it the last time around. But as the old saw states, although you can take a swede out of Sweden, you can never take Sweden out of a swede. Even if I live out the rest of my natural life here, I will still bitch about transparent coffee, lack of public transport and the sickening amounts of sugar that permeates every foodstuff. Now, where did I put that can of surströmming? It was just getting lagom smelly...
There are many aspects of American life that are fairly puzzling to the non-native. The most pronounced one is the basic lassitude that seems to underlie almost all day-to-day decisions. It seems the watchword is "convenient", and since the other major idea is "more! of everything!", this tends to be taken way beyond the point where it stops being sane. As Joe (a Wyoming native) recently put it: "[My roommate] is an example of all that's wrong with the country. She's all 'I want it, and I want it now!'" Some examples will indubitably underscore his point:
- Driving everywhere. I know people who drive the two-block distance between the dorms and my church, and my landlord doesn't hesitate to get into the car when going to her office... which is across the street. The sidewalks are as empty as a bar in Salt Lake City, and I may just possibly be the only person (aside from a Dutch student) in Laramie who bikes through snow/wind/rain. As soon as the distance you're going becomes longer than about ten feet, or if the weather is any worse than it is indoors, any red-blooded American will immediately reach for the car keys. Needless to say, I find this as amusing as it is pitiful.
- Pre-processed food. In Sweden, this is known as "helfabrikat", and while it may have been fashionable in the fifties, it isn't exactly considered to be good for you these days. Tell people here that you baked something from scratch (i.e. from eggs, flour and fat, as opposed to "German cake mix") and they look at you with a mix of awe and disbelief. I live about one block from not less than eight drive-through fast-food places, although I seldom frequent them. The more advanced forms of this phenomenon are just plain startling when you discover them: the first time I bought "rolls in a can", I almost jumped out of my skin when I broke open the can and four breakfast rolls just about exploded out of it, ready for the oven. I continually thank God for the fact that I have a kitchen of my own and know how to use it.
- Shopping malls -- or in smaller cities like Laramie, Walmart. The tendency is to put all the stores or goods you can possibly think of under one roof, so you don't have to go anywhere else. And when I say "all", I mean absolutely everything. I just came back from Walmart, where I got a haircut, picked up some fresh milk and grabbed Swiss chocolate on the way out. If I'd been hungry, I could've had lunch in the in-store Subway. Or cured a headache at the Walmart pharmacy. Had I been feeling lonely, I could've picked up a pet -- or if I felt belligerent, bought a gun. A squeaky brake on your car can be lubed up, and if you need a pair of pants or a cellphone, those are available too. I could go on and on, but you get the idea: this leaves all similar European manifestations in the dust. Of course, you drive to the mall, and most of the food there is heavily pre-processed, so it all ties in neatly.
Wyoming culture, as opposed to American behavior in general, is of course a chapter unto itself. I can't claim to understand much of it yet, since I don't see many Wyomingites on a daily basis, but I can provide some anecdotes. For instance, the cowboys. While the man with the ten-gallon hat, flannel shirt and trusty steed might be confined to Western movies in Europe (and much of the US), he is alive and well in Wyoming. Ranching cattle (or sheep) is still a major occupation in this state, and the people who do it don't seem to have changed a lot in the last 100 years. I regularly see guys in class who're just back from driving the cows home, and the waxed mustache is as ubiquitous a fashion accessory with them as the hooded sweatshirt is with the other college kids.
Related to the cowboy is the saloon. If you look after cows for a living, what else do you do with your spare time but kick back and drink beer? Probably not much. The most typical "saloon" in Laramie is "The Buckhorn Bar". I swung by on Friday night, and, well, let's say it's not anything like one of the "nations" back in Uppsala. Imagine, if you will, the typical Western saloon you see in the movies. There's a sign with very distinctive lettering over the door, and when you come in a long bar with a mirror and plenty of whiskey bottles greets you. The mirror is cracked and warped, because a large bullet hole decorates its center. Some guy is playing steel guitar in the background, and most of the clientele looks like they came there to kick ass and drink beer (and are fast running out of beer). If Clint Eastwood came in and announced he was looking for a certain outlaw, you wouldn't be surprised for a second. Now fast-forward a century, put up some neon Budweiser signs and badly done murals of cows, and you've got the Buckhorn, complete with shot-up mirror (dating back to sometime in the seventies). This is where the less polished half of Laramie drinks, and if you want to strike up a conversation on the relative merits of the horse and the ATV for moving a herd of Black Angus, you've come to the right spot. Just the fact that Bob Scarpelli, formerly Laramie's best climber and worst drunk, used to hang out here six days a week speaks volumes. I wish I'd brought my camera, but you'll have to make do with the links.
In light of all this, I could embark on a lengthy and over-intellectualized analysis on what the effects are on Americans in general (mainly diabetes) and why all this came to be. But I won't. Partially because I just don't get it -- how did they go from the Puritan work ethic ("Idle hands do the Devil's work!") to sitting around in La-Z-Boys and eating donuts? Is this some sort of over-compensation for the presumably harsh conditions in Europe that many of their ancestors fled from? Where did it all change (or go wrong, depending on your point of view)? Cleverer people than I have wrestled with that question, and I can't claim to provide an answer. Things are the way they are, for now, and they are not likely to change because I disapprove. And I certainly don't hate every aspect of life here; quite the opposite. I think that the Americans are among the friendliest and most generous people in the world, and have an admirable self-confidence and a healthy competitive attitude. I moved back here because I enjoyed it the last time around. But as the old saw states, although you can take a swede out of Sweden, you can never take Sweden out of a swede. Even if I live out the rest of my natural life here, I will still bitch about transparent coffee, lack of public transport and the sickening amounts of sugar that permeates every foodstuff. Now, where did I put that can of surströmming? It was just getting lagom smelly...
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Sunday, September 30, 2007
There is no such thing as "the Fall season"
Okay, that's it, it's winter. Just like the temperature oscillates wildly between night and day here in the desert (50 degrees is not uncommon), so it fluctuates between seasons. "Fall" around here is considered prime skiing season, and the aspen turned a brilliant yellow almost overnight last weekend. The natives tell me that the wind will claim the leaves in a matter of weeks, and then it's winter. Note to self: time to buy outrageously warm down jacket. And pants. And gloves. And better get a new hat, too. And gaiters, crampons, snow shoes... Not that my assistantship salary is enough for that kind of shopping.
Knowing that the season was drawing to a close, I wanted to get a nice summit hike in before the snow started for real. One of my fellow grad students, Stan, turned out to be a dedicated hiker and outdoorsman, and he thought it sounded like a great idea. He suggested we go to Medicine Bow Peak, which has some great views.
(Now, before anyone says anything: yes, I had a "date" this Sunday with a man. In Wyoming. To go up a mountain and "enjoy the great outdoors". And yes, I have seen Brokeback Mountain. At least there weren't any sheep involved. Now get your mind out of the gutter and enjoy the narrative)
The forecast was 60-70 degrees, sunny skies, but with about three inches of snowfall the previous night. No biggie, I thought, a dusting of snow is nothing I can't handle. I put on enough layers for a pleasant Fall hike, grabbed my hat as an afterthought, and we set off. Unfortunately, "forecast" and "actual conditions" are not always the same. We got an early start to avoid afternoon thunderstorms (people are killed regularly by lightning strike on Medicine Bow Peak), but that landed us smack dab in the middle of the remnants of last night's storm. And as we ascended the range in Stan's trusty Toyota, the sun turned to cloud, the cloud turned to rain, and finally the rain turned into snow. When we reached the parking lot at the trail head, it was so full of snow that the car couldn't make it in, and conditions quickly worsened:
After getting out of the car and being hit by a blast of frigid air, a friendly guy driving a snow plough came by and advised us a bit. It took him all of 30 seconds to figure out that we were grad students, out-of-towners, and completely clueless about local conditions. In the most respectful way possible, he suggested that we at least switch to another parking lot higher up. By the time we got there, it was a complete whiteout, and the weather wasn't going to get friendlier up on top of the mountain. We decided that today wasn't a good day to die, tucked our tails between our legs, and sped down the road to sunnier climes. A few thousand feet further down, we found them:
The short hike around Libby Creek was lovely (and very reminiscent of home), but its absolutely best feature was one we didn't actually get to see: Swastika Lake. Yes, I shit you not, a few miles into the woods, there's a good-size lake by name of... Swastika. We laughed for a few minutes about that, and vowed to come back with Nordic skis later in the season and explore what was obviously Nazi High Country. Really, what were they thinking?
Also, Stan stumbled upon what looked like a good place to go fishing (plenty of trout, even now):
Say what you want, but they don't make the scenery ugly around here.
We stopped in Centennial for lunch on the way back. An ex-logging/mining town, it would barely qualify as a minor village back home. It seems driven by tourism these days:
And of course, by that time the skies had cleared, and the promised beautiful weather materialized. The fall colors are vivid, although short-lived:
In my bid to climb/hike/bike up the side of as many things as I can, I spent most of last weekend in Vedauwoo. In a fit of hubris, I decided to have a go at the real wide crack climbs around here, having been lulled into false security by the amount of tape the locals use. However, you can't tape your whole body:
The rock beat the living crap out of me, both Saturday and Sunday, but I did have a lot of fun along the way. Climbing is a bit masochistic even at the best of times, but climbs like this really highlight that aspect of the sport. But since I'm not slight of build, tall of stature or an endurance monster, I figure this is where I can make my mark. These cracks basically require (in addition to awkward technique) a lot of brute strength, relatively big hands and a willingness to suffer. All these attributes I got. Horn's Mother, here I come!
Harboring further delusions of grandeur, I also went biking with one of the international students, Irene from the Chezch Republic:
She plays basketball for a living (or, well, for a scholarship), and in addition to athleticism brought a lot of youthful exuberance to the enterprise. That was a damn good thing, because it was looking like a long ride:
We set our sights for Pilot Hill, which my good buddy Joe claimed to be "not more than an hour of of town". I knew something was fishy about that advice, since he's coaching the cycling team. That hill also happens to be visible for miles around, which means it's fairly tall. Nevertheless, we biked toward it. We picked up the standard trail after about an hour - that should give you an indication of how good Joe's advice was. The trail went on seemingly forever, always at an infuriating angle: steep enough to suck the life out of your legs, but not steep enough to excuse getting off to walk. Since both me and Irene are flatlanders, we were huffing and puffing like badly treated locomotives all the way. My legs actually cramped out on the final hill, but I tried not to let on. Really, I'm more humble than I once was, but I'll be old and gray before I give up on anything in front of a pretty girl. As luck would have it, we did finally summit:
Was it worth it? Yeah, kinda. You forget the pain soon enough, and it was a damn fine view. The ride down was pretty exciting, too, since it was five miles of fairly steep biking. My shitty Walmart bike was rattling as if it was going to explode at any minute, and the noise scared up a big herd of antelope. Their flight behavior is interesting: typically the does go off first, and then the buck only comes out and checks it out once he's satisfied that the situation is under control. Yeah, real brave...
And work? Oh, it's progressing. My week days are pretty much spent in the lab and in class. When I finally make it home, it's time to eat something and then read journal papers until I go to bed. Which reminds me, I have a big-ass stack of things to go through before tomorrow. Time get to it. Catch you later.
Knowing that the season was drawing to a close, I wanted to get a nice summit hike in before the snow started for real. One of my fellow grad students, Stan, turned out to be a dedicated hiker and outdoorsman, and he thought it sounded like a great idea. He suggested we go to Medicine Bow Peak, which has some great views.
(Now, before anyone says anything: yes, I had a "date" this Sunday with a man. In Wyoming. To go up a mountain and "enjoy the great outdoors". And yes, I have seen Brokeback Mountain. At least there weren't any sheep involved. Now get your mind out of the gutter and enjoy the narrative)
The forecast was 60-70 degrees, sunny skies, but with about three inches of snowfall the previous night. No biggie, I thought, a dusting of snow is nothing I can't handle. I put on enough layers for a pleasant Fall hike, grabbed my hat as an afterthought, and we set off. Unfortunately, "forecast" and "actual conditions" are not always the same. We got an early start to avoid afternoon thunderstorms (people are killed regularly by lightning strike on Medicine Bow Peak), but that landed us smack dab in the middle of the remnants of last night's storm. And as we ascended the range in Stan's trusty Toyota, the sun turned to cloud, the cloud turned to rain, and finally the rain turned into snow. When we reached the parking lot at the trail head, it was so full of snow that the car couldn't make it in, and conditions quickly worsened:
After getting out of the car and being hit by a blast of frigid air, a friendly guy driving a snow plough came by and advised us a bit. It took him all of 30 seconds to figure out that we were grad students, out-of-towners, and completely clueless about local conditions. In the most respectful way possible, he suggested that we at least switch to another parking lot higher up. By the time we got there, it was a complete whiteout, and the weather wasn't going to get friendlier up on top of the mountain. We decided that today wasn't a good day to die, tucked our tails between our legs, and sped down the road to sunnier climes. A few thousand feet further down, we found them:
The short hike around Libby Creek was lovely (and very reminiscent of home), but its absolutely best feature was one we didn't actually get to see: Swastika Lake. Yes, I shit you not, a few miles into the woods, there's a good-size lake by name of... Swastika. We laughed for a few minutes about that, and vowed to come back with Nordic skis later in the season and explore what was obviously Nazi High Country. Really, what were they thinking?
Also, Stan stumbled upon what looked like a good place to go fishing (plenty of trout, even now):
Say what you want, but they don't make the scenery ugly around here.
We stopped in Centennial for lunch on the way back. An ex-logging/mining town, it would barely qualify as a minor village back home. It seems driven by tourism these days:
And of course, by that time the skies had cleared, and the promised beautiful weather materialized. The fall colors are vivid, although short-lived:
In my bid to climb/hike/bike up the side of as many things as I can, I spent most of last weekend in Vedauwoo. In a fit of hubris, I decided to have a go at the real wide crack climbs around here, having been lulled into false security by the amount of tape the locals use. However, you can't tape your whole body:
The rock beat the living crap out of me, both Saturday and Sunday, but I did have a lot of fun along the way. Climbing is a bit masochistic even at the best of times, but climbs like this really highlight that aspect of the sport. But since I'm not slight of build, tall of stature or an endurance monster, I figure this is where I can make my mark. These cracks basically require (in addition to awkward technique) a lot of brute strength, relatively big hands and a willingness to suffer. All these attributes I got. Horn's Mother, here I come!
Harboring further delusions of grandeur, I also went biking with one of the international students, Irene from the Chezch Republic:
She plays basketball for a living (or, well, for a scholarship), and in addition to athleticism brought a lot of youthful exuberance to the enterprise. That was a damn good thing, because it was looking like a long ride:
We set our sights for Pilot Hill, which my good buddy Joe claimed to be "not more than an hour of of town". I knew something was fishy about that advice, since he's coaching the cycling team. That hill also happens to be visible for miles around, which means it's fairly tall. Nevertheless, we biked toward it. We picked up the standard trail after about an hour - that should give you an indication of how good Joe's advice was. The trail went on seemingly forever, always at an infuriating angle: steep enough to suck the life out of your legs, but not steep enough to excuse getting off to walk. Since both me and Irene are flatlanders, we were huffing and puffing like badly treated locomotives all the way. My legs actually cramped out on the final hill, but I tried not to let on. Really, I'm more humble than I once was, but I'll be old and gray before I give up on anything in front of a pretty girl. As luck would have it, we did finally summit:
Was it worth it? Yeah, kinda. You forget the pain soon enough, and it was a damn fine view. The ride down was pretty exciting, too, since it was five miles of fairly steep biking. My shitty Walmart bike was rattling as if it was going to explode at any minute, and the noise scared up a big herd of antelope. Their flight behavior is interesting: typically the does go off first, and then the buck only comes out and checks it out once he's satisfied that the situation is under control. Yeah, real brave...
And work? Oh, it's progressing. My week days are pretty much spent in the lab and in class. When I finally make it home, it's time to eat something and then read journal papers until I go to bed. Which reminds me, I have a big-ass stack of things to go through before tomorrow. Time get to it. Catch you later.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
The shape of things to come
Things are settling down in the Wild West. My most basic needs (money, food, shelter, coffee) are finally all in place - the cash was touch-and-go for a while - and I've been diving into my new life as a grad student. Being a creature of habit, I find having a routine pretty soothing. I've established a fairly good one now, I feel. Work at the lab (occasionally interrupted by classes) all day long, eat free food here and there, go climbing at the gym two times a week, read journal papers and/or biochem book in the evening, leave town for The Great Outdoors during the weekend. This is a considerable improvement in many ways on my average day in London.
Especially health-wise -- I'm losing weight like crazy, here, despite being fed greasy pizza and cheese-drenched Mexican food a few times a week. Cutting down on the booze worked real well too, although after about five minutes of uphill hiking (or just biking to work in the morning) I'm still huffing and puffing. I guess I can still blame the altitude, but that excuse is only good for another month of so. On the upside, I'm going to have more red blood cells than the most EPO-infused Tour de France sprinter before long.
And I seem to have promised some pictures. And now, after getting that long-lost power adapter (thanks, mom and dad!), I can deliver. First, I get up in the morning and wander aimlessly around my shiny new apartment:
Take a look out the window - the weather is usually good, but afternoon thunderstorms hit at the drop of a hat:
Anyway, time to be off. The lab is there waiting for me:
I admit, the lack of windows is a bit depressing... But it's not like I'm staring at anything except the computer screen anyway. The research is going, well, forward. There's a certain amount of grunt work involved in generating a dataset, irrespective of how you do it (lab bench or database search), but I should be hitting the "now, what does it all mean?" stage pretty soon.
But if it's a suitable day, you can always bugger off to the climbing wall to refresh yourself. If the day is especially suitable, you might even go to a comp. And should you by some miracle be the best competitor in your class (because e.g. the hardmen aren't there), you can be a genuine, certified bouldering champion:
That T-shirt right there pretty much tops any previous athletic achievement for me. I have way more awards, diplomas and medals from running track, but none of those actually say that I won something. Ah, America, the land of oppurtunity...
Soon enough, hunger drives me home again. I continually thank God that I have a kitchen of my own, because the alternative is fast food (argh) or eating at the Washakie Dining Hall. According to those unfortunate souls who live in the residence halls (the tallest buildings in Wyoming, by the way, at all of 11 floors) the options over there aren't exactly enchanting. And really, are they gonna cook me up some nice Thai food? I think not.
On the way home, you might happen to see the sun go down over the Snowy Range:
Ah, man, I love living here already. In London, there was no way to see the sun go down because three million buildings were in the way. And of course, clear skies weren't particularly frequent. Here, I can usually enjoy the view of snow-covered peaks as I bike to the lab, and catch the last rays turning Pilot Point over on the Laramie Range a lovely shade of pink as I make my way home. Truly, I seem to have hit the right spot.
The work week, intensive as it is (take a look at "Piled higher and Deeper" (what's the acronym? Think about it...) if you don't believe me), eventually ends, and then you can get the heck out of Dodge! There's nothing to do inside Laramie, except possibly drinking, and I've had plenty of that during the last couple of years. I try to spend as much time outdoors as I can, and one very good place to do it is Vedauwoo:
Not twenty minutes from home (in a car, of course), I have an entirely mountain range's worth of forest, hills and huge piles of granite. Could it possibly get better? This place pretty much outstrips the entire Västerbottens län for climbable rock, and them routes are mighty tasty, too. My bizarre fetish for cracks that are wide enough to swallow your entire leg is working to my advantage, as Vedauwoo is famed all over the climbing world for its variety of wide cracks. Unfortunately, it's also quite renowned as a place that will eat your flesh and drink your blood if you don't wrap your entire body in tape:
Those stories of flesh-eating cracks are slightly embellished (as all good stories are!), but not that much. They bit me good today, and although I didn't leave much blood behind, it certainly hurt pretty bad. As compensation, the rock treated me to some really excellent climbing, and in three days I've done an entire season's worth of classics. I'll admit this place doesn't quite have Offerhällans grandeur, or Ringkallen's sweeping vistas, but for sheer quantity and quality it beats the pants off either. Woo-hoo!
Of course you can't go climbing without some good buddies to hold the other end of the rope, and yell/encourage you when the going gets tough and you think you're going to fall to your death. This weekend, I've been out with Dan and Karin (sadly, no Swedish connection there), Laramie's only color-coordinated climbing couple:
Who knew that married people could be so much fun? Ooh, bit of a preconception creeping up on me there...
If you want to see some more pretty pictures, including some halfway decent shots of my co-workers in the lab and on the rock, take a look at my Flickr page. You can also look at just the climbing shots, if you want to.
Especially health-wise -- I'm losing weight like crazy, here, despite being fed greasy pizza and cheese-drenched Mexican food a few times a week. Cutting down on the booze worked real well too, although after about five minutes of uphill hiking (or just biking to work in the morning) I'm still huffing and puffing. I guess I can still blame the altitude, but that excuse is only good for another month of so. On the upside, I'm going to have more red blood cells than the most EPO-infused Tour de France sprinter before long.
And I seem to have promised some pictures. And now, after getting that long-lost power adapter (thanks, mom and dad!), I can deliver. First, I get up in the morning and wander aimlessly around my shiny new apartment:
Take a look out the window - the weather is usually good, but afternoon thunderstorms hit at the drop of a hat:
Anyway, time to be off. The lab is there waiting for me:
I admit, the lack of windows is a bit depressing... But it's not like I'm staring at anything except the computer screen anyway. The research is going, well, forward. There's a certain amount of grunt work involved in generating a dataset, irrespective of how you do it (lab bench or database search), but I should be hitting the "now, what does it all mean?" stage pretty soon.
But if it's a suitable day, you can always bugger off to the climbing wall to refresh yourself. If the day is especially suitable, you might even go to a comp. And should you by some miracle be the best competitor in your class (because e.g. the hardmen aren't there), you can be a genuine, certified bouldering champion:
That T-shirt right there pretty much tops any previous athletic achievement for me. I have way more awards, diplomas and medals from running track, but none of those actually say that I won something. Ah, America, the land of oppurtunity...
Soon enough, hunger drives me home again. I continually thank God that I have a kitchen of my own, because the alternative is fast food (argh) or eating at the Washakie Dining Hall. According to those unfortunate souls who live in the residence halls (the tallest buildings in Wyoming, by the way, at all of 11 floors) the options over there aren't exactly enchanting. And really, are they gonna cook me up some nice Thai food? I think not.
On the way home, you might happen to see the sun go down over the Snowy Range:
Ah, man, I love living here already. In London, there was no way to see the sun go down because three million buildings were in the way. And of course, clear skies weren't particularly frequent. Here, I can usually enjoy the view of snow-covered peaks as I bike to the lab, and catch the last rays turning Pilot Point over on the Laramie Range a lovely shade of pink as I make my way home. Truly, I seem to have hit the right spot.
The work week, intensive as it is (take a look at "Piled higher and Deeper" (what's the acronym? Think about it...) if you don't believe me), eventually ends, and then you can get the heck out of Dodge! There's nothing to do inside Laramie, except possibly drinking, and I've had plenty of that during the last couple of years. I try to spend as much time outdoors as I can, and one very good place to do it is Vedauwoo:
Not twenty minutes from home (in a car, of course), I have an entirely mountain range's worth of forest, hills and huge piles of granite. Could it possibly get better? This place pretty much outstrips the entire Västerbottens län for climbable rock, and them routes are mighty tasty, too. My bizarre fetish for cracks that are wide enough to swallow your entire leg is working to my advantage, as Vedauwoo is famed all over the climbing world for its variety of wide cracks. Unfortunately, it's also quite renowned as a place that will eat your flesh and drink your blood if you don't wrap your entire body in tape:
Those stories of flesh-eating cracks are slightly embellished (as all good stories are!), but not that much. They bit me good today, and although I didn't leave much blood behind, it certainly hurt pretty bad. As compensation, the rock treated me to some really excellent climbing, and in three days I've done an entire season's worth of classics. I'll admit this place doesn't quite have Offerhällans grandeur, or Ringkallen's sweeping vistas, but for sheer quantity and quality it beats the pants off either. Woo-hoo!
Of course you can't go climbing without some good buddies to hold the other end of the rope, and yell/encourage you when the going gets tough and you think you're going to fall to your death. This weekend, I've been out with Dan and Karin (sadly, no Swedish connection there), Laramie's only color-coordinated climbing couple:
Who knew that married people could be so much fun? Ooh, bit of a preconception creeping up on me there...
If you want to see some more pretty pictures, including some halfway decent shots of my co-workers in the lab and on the rock, take a look at my Flickr page. You can also look at just the climbing shots, if you want to.
Monday, September 3, 2007
To Montana on a bicycle
Sweet Jesus, I'm tired! And it's related to biking to Montana (well, almost), but we'll get to that.
So now I've survived my first week of classes here in America. Of course, nothing much actually happened since it was almost all introductions ("You will be graded on your attendence [...] GPA [...] office hours"), but still some sort of milestone. To my considerable glee, I only have one bonefide lecture-and-exam class this semester (Biochemistry), which means more time for actual work (i.e. research) and climbing (hooray!). Nevertheless, one professor has already managed to put the fear of God into me and presumably most of his students: I swear the guy is some long-lost twin brother to my physics teacher from junior high (Olle, for those of you who were around then). The only real difference is that Olle wouldn't have worn those loud shirts...
Speaking of loud shirts, let's makee some cultural observations regarding the Americans. For one, most of them are not snappy dressers. The professors and other professionals do don shirts and slacks from time to time, but mostly the all-pervasive uniform is jeans and t-shirt (or cargo shorts and t-shirt). On one level it's liberating, but on a Swedish cultural level I think they all look less than impressive. Really, guys, would buying some nice outfits be be too much to ask? But naturally, within the year I'll look the same.
Another oft-stated opinion about the US is that everything is bigger here. And it sure as hell is. For instance, I just had a muffin that actually contained more calories than my entire lunch (some lovely Gulaschsuppe). The cars -- or rather trucks -- around here are so big that I keep looking over my shoulder expecting to see a bus or 18-wheeler zoom past me when I bike to school. The streets are wider, the cups of coffee are more voluminous (but tasteless), the veggies look like GMOs all the way, and people... no, people aren't actually bigger here. I haven't seen more than about five real fatties all week, which is considerably less than in London. People tell me it's the altitude: it just makes you waste away. I'll believe that, and hope for it: still have hundreds of pints from British pubs to atone for.
More specifically, Laramie is nice so far. I came here looking for a break from the high tempo of big-city life, and the town sure delivered. The traffic is leisurely, people are polite, and no-one really seems to be in a hurry anywhere. Of course that comes back to bite you every so often: the raging incompetents at the local electronics store aren't just dull-witted, they're lazy to boot. I've been trying to buy a power adapter off them for two weeks, and still no sign of it. Eventually I just gave up and asked my parents to send one from Sweden. Indubidably it'll be faster.
And the bike ride to Montana? Well, it's tied into "everything is big". I don't have a car, and since my climbing plans on Saturday fell through, I thought I'd bicycle to the nearest climbing spot instead. Roger's Canyon was supposed to contain decent limestone, and be placed just "ten minute's drive out of town". That works out to about 10 miles, or 13 if you count going from my house to the edge of town. So I set off, thinking that I could easily bike 10 miles. Hell, I'd done so in less than 30 minutes before! Unfortunately, I failed to take several things into account:
And that's it for now. I just told Joe I'd see him fairly soon down at the climbing wall, and I need to swing by my apartment to pick up my shoes first. But next time, I promise, some pictures!
So now I've survived my first week of classes here in America. Of course, nothing much actually happened since it was almost all introductions ("You will be graded on your attendence [...] GPA [...] office hours"), but still some sort of milestone. To my considerable glee, I only have one bonefide lecture-and-exam class this semester (Biochemistry), which means more time for actual work (i.e. research) and climbing (hooray!). Nevertheless, one professor has already managed to put the fear of God into me and presumably most of his students: I swear the guy is some long-lost twin brother to my physics teacher from junior high (Olle, for those of you who were around then). The only real difference is that Olle wouldn't have worn those loud shirts...
Speaking of loud shirts, let's makee some cultural observations regarding the Americans. For one, most of them are not snappy dressers. The professors and other professionals do don shirts and slacks from time to time, but mostly the all-pervasive uniform is jeans and t-shirt (or cargo shorts and t-shirt). On one level it's liberating, but on a Swedish cultural level I think they all look less than impressive. Really, guys, would buying some nice outfits be be too much to ask? But naturally, within the year I'll look the same.
Another oft-stated opinion about the US is that everything is bigger here. And it sure as hell is. For instance, I just had a muffin that actually contained more calories than my entire lunch (some lovely Gulaschsuppe). The cars -- or rather trucks -- around here are so big that I keep looking over my shoulder expecting to see a bus or 18-wheeler zoom past me when I bike to school. The streets are wider, the cups of coffee are more voluminous (but tasteless), the veggies look like GMOs all the way, and people... no, people aren't actually bigger here. I haven't seen more than about five real fatties all week, which is considerably less than in London. People tell me it's the altitude: it just makes you waste away. I'll believe that, and hope for it: still have hundreds of pints from British pubs to atone for.
More specifically, Laramie is nice so far. I came here looking for a break from the high tempo of big-city life, and the town sure delivered. The traffic is leisurely, people are polite, and no-one really seems to be in a hurry anywhere. Of course that comes back to bite you every so often: the raging incompetents at the local electronics store aren't just dull-witted, they're lazy to boot. I've been trying to buy a power adapter off them for two weeks, and still no sign of it. Eventually I just gave up and asked my parents to send one from Sweden. Indubidably it'll be faster.
And the bike ride to Montana? Well, it's tied into "everything is big". I don't have a car, and since my climbing plans on Saturday fell through, I thought I'd bicycle to the nearest climbing spot instead. Roger's Canyon was supposed to contain decent limestone, and be placed just "ten minute's drive out of town". That works out to about 10 miles, or 13 if you count going from my house to the edge of town. So I set off, thinking that I could easily bike 10 miles. Hell, I'd done so in less than 30 minutes before! Unfortunately, I failed to take several things into account:
- Altitude gain. The canyon lay in the hills to the north-east, and they were of course higher than the surrounding plains. I don't know how much higher, but I sure spent a lot of time in first gear.
- Road condition. Roger's Canyon Rd turned out to be under construction, and half of it wasn't paved. Going uphill on gravel pretty much sucks.
- The wind. A bit silly to forget about that, but the wind always blows in Wyoming. Yesterday, in 40 mph gusts. Biking into it meant shifting down to about 0.5 gear.
- The distance. You can see so far around here -- looking north you can almost imagine Billings, Montana in the distance -- that everything seems close. But in fact, it's miles and miles and miles to go still.
And that's it for now. I just told Joe I'd see him fairly soon down at the climbing wall, and I need to swing by my apartment to pick up my shoes first. But next time, I promise, some pictures!
Saturday, August 25, 2007
High Plains drifter
Yes, I'm still alive. Uncharacteristically, I haven't updated in what, over two weeks? It's a wonder I didn't just drop dead on the spot from withdrawal...
The reason that I've been out of touch is simple: to put it mildly, I've been busy. To tell you the truth, it's been stressful as all hell. I spent my last week in Sweden saying goodbye (or more frequently "See you in six months!") to friends and relatives, only narrowly missing a pseudo-reunion with some people from high school. It turned out to be possible to fly out on Friday rather than Sunday, which turned out to be A Good Thing. So since Thursday night, I've been in a more or less total communications blackout due to two things: travel and... Wyoming. The state is not, ah, littered with high-speed Internet connections.
So, now I've changed countries again. A bit like a global game of Musical Chairs ("Hela Havet Stormar" for those of you playing at home), this: I come, I sit for a while, I bugger off again. Uprooting my entire life has become both easier and harder with each move. The logistics are getting more and more predictable, and hence less of an issue: for instance, I now know that the very first things that need to be bought are toilet paper and bed sheets. Without these items, one tends to get distinctly uncomfortable. On the other hand, it becomes harder and harder to leave all friends, stability and sanity behind each time I do it. Partially because of age, I guess, but also because I know it's going to suck outrageously for a while before my life starts rolling again. But it always seems to right itself again, somehow, and knowing that is the real benefit of experience.
Consequently, I've been running around like a headless chicken during the last week, signing forms left and right (I've certified that I am not a rapist, among other things), attending lectures/lunches/meeetings that welcome me to the University of Wyoming, trying to have conversations with people whose English leaves something to be desired, and so on. The typical hysterics, but moderated by some degree of knowledge about this place. I won't go deeper into the US vs. Britain vs. Sweden cultural debate right here (that'll be my next post!), but suffice to say that there were a great many things that I'd forgotten over the last several years, and even more that I had no experience with at all from last time. Charlotta will no doubt be absolutely delighted to hear that I've had not just one but several Words Of The Day all week long, ranging from "correspondent bank" (who knew there were banks too small to do international wires?) through "bath coordinates" (if anyone knows the difference between that and "bath accessories", please tell me!) to "tax treaty" (an unpleasant surprise if I ever got one).
But today is Saturday, the traditional Swedish day of rest... no, what am I saying? Saturday is reserved for sleeping in, making last-minute trips to Systembolaget for booze and then the consumption of said libations. However, since I've been getting up before sunrise for a straight week, due to jetlag as well as a busy schedule, I opted out of that scheme and decided to do some exploration instead. Walmart has graciously provided me with a bicycle that was most certainly manufactured by sweat-shop slaves somewhere in China (the cost was roughly 1/5 of the Swedish equivalent), and I figured I'd field test both it and my lungs today. The bike held up fairly well, but I seem to have acquired the excellent physical performance of the average octagenerian. The blame doesn't rest solely on my slothfulness in Britain, but rather with the altitude: we're up at 2,200 meters here, and it is taking a serious toll on the oxygenation of my blood. The ride was awesome, though, and I'm happy I went. It doesn't take me more than about ten minutes to totally leave the city (such as it is) behind and head out into the grasslands. It is Big Sky Country out here, with sagebrush and hardy grasses ekeing a miserable living out of the red dirt. The nearby mountain ranges seem deceptively close, since you can see hundreds of miles in every direction, but are in fact a long-ass way away if you're on a bicycle. The overall feel is quite like Australia, but without the constant threat of death from all flora, fauna and geological features that mar that country (sorry, Cass, but it's true!). I saw a family of antelope bounding across the plain, scared up grasshoppers by the dozen (they sounds just like tiny machine guns when they fly), and encountered wild cactus for the first time in my life. As icing on the cake, I ran across a limestone canyon and some opportunities for really shitty climbing. In fact, the canyon as a site was far and away better than the climbing, which alternated between painful enough to cause blackouts and crummy enough that I accidentally kicked holes in the wall. But no matter, because the scenery just goes on forever around here. Looking west is especially pleasant, as the Snowy Range provides a lovely frame for the surprisingly green siloutte of Laramie. I'd show you some pictures, but due to a slight fuck-up from Yours Truly the camera is powerless, as are all of my other electric appliances.
And since I must've typed a thousand words already, I'll stop there. I have some fine buffalo meat that's thawing out as we speak, and I need to get home to cook up some Sauce Bolognese a la Ouest Sauvage. I'll post again when I get some more time on my hands, or some nice pictures. There will be some directions on how to get e-mail updates when I post something, too, as soon as I figure it out. Those of you who are more technically inclined can just subscribe to the Atom feed for now.
The reason that I've been out of touch is simple: to put it mildly, I've been busy. To tell you the truth, it's been stressful as all hell. I spent my last week in Sweden saying goodbye (or more frequently "See you in six months!") to friends and relatives, only narrowly missing a pseudo-reunion with some people from high school. It turned out to be possible to fly out on Friday rather than Sunday, which turned out to be A Good Thing. So since Thursday night, I've been in a more or less total communications blackout due to two things: travel and... Wyoming. The state is not, ah, littered with high-speed Internet connections.
So, now I've changed countries again. A bit like a global game of Musical Chairs ("Hela Havet Stormar" for those of you playing at home), this: I come, I sit for a while, I bugger off again. Uprooting my entire life has become both easier and harder with each move. The logistics are getting more and more predictable, and hence less of an issue: for instance, I now know that the very first things that need to be bought are toilet paper and bed sheets. Without these items, one tends to get distinctly uncomfortable. On the other hand, it becomes harder and harder to leave all friends, stability and sanity behind each time I do it. Partially because of age, I guess, but also because I know it's going to suck outrageously for a while before my life starts rolling again. But it always seems to right itself again, somehow, and knowing that is the real benefit of experience.
Consequently, I've been running around like a headless chicken during the last week, signing forms left and right (I've certified that I am not a rapist, among other things), attending lectures/lunches/meeetings that welcome me to the University of Wyoming, trying to have conversations with people whose English leaves something to be desired, and so on. The typical hysterics, but moderated by some degree of knowledge about this place. I won't go deeper into the US vs. Britain vs. Sweden cultural debate right here (that'll be my next post!), but suffice to say that there were a great many things that I'd forgotten over the last several years, and even more that I had no experience with at all from last time. Charlotta will no doubt be absolutely delighted to hear that I've had not just one but several Words Of The Day all week long, ranging from "correspondent bank" (who knew there were banks too small to do international wires?) through "bath coordinates" (if anyone knows the difference between that and "bath accessories", please tell me!) to "tax treaty" (an unpleasant surprise if I ever got one).
But today is Saturday, the traditional Swedish day of rest... no, what am I saying? Saturday is reserved for sleeping in, making last-minute trips to Systembolaget for booze and then the consumption of said libations. However, since I've been getting up before sunrise for a straight week, due to jetlag as well as a busy schedule, I opted out of that scheme and decided to do some exploration instead. Walmart has graciously provided me with a bicycle that was most certainly manufactured by sweat-shop slaves somewhere in China (the cost was roughly 1/5 of the Swedish equivalent), and I figured I'd field test both it and my lungs today. The bike held up fairly well, but I seem to have acquired the excellent physical performance of the average octagenerian. The blame doesn't rest solely on my slothfulness in Britain, but rather with the altitude: we're up at 2,200 meters here, and it is taking a serious toll on the oxygenation of my blood. The ride was awesome, though, and I'm happy I went. It doesn't take me more than about ten minutes to totally leave the city (such as it is) behind and head out into the grasslands. It is Big Sky Country out here, with sagebrush and hardy grasses ekeing a miserable living out of the red dirt. The nearby mountain ranges seem deceptively close, since you can see hundreds of miles in every direction, but are in fact a long-ass way away if you're on a bicycle. The overall feel is quite like Australia, but without the constant threat of death from all flora, fauna and geological features that mar that country (sorry, Cass, but it's true!). I saw a family of antelope bounding across the plain, scared up grasshoppers by the dozen (they sounds just like tiny machine guns when they fly), and encountered wild cactus for the first time in my life. As icing on the cake, I ran across a limestone canyon and some opportunities for really shitty climbing. In fact, the canyon as a site was far and away better than the climbing, which alternated between painful enough to cause blackouts and crummy enough that I accidentally kicked holes in the wall. But no matter, because the scenery just goes on forever around here. Looking west is especially pleasant, as the Snowy Range provides a lovely frame for the surprisingly green siloutte of Laramie. I'd show you some pictures, but due to a slight fuck-up from Yours Truly the camera is powerless, as are all of my other electric appliances.
And since I must've typed a thousand words already, I'll stop there. I have some fine buffalo meat that's thawing out as we speak, and I need to get home to cook up some Sauce Bolognese a la Ouest Sauvage. I'll post again when I get some more time on my hands, or some nice pictures. There will be some directions on how to get e-mail updates when I post something, too, as soon as I figure it out. Those of you who are more technically inclined can just subscribe to the Atom feed for now.
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