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...

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:

• 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.

I also find American advertising fairly bizarre. Back home, ads tend more toward the sober or understated, or very frequently funny (Swedish TV ads may be the most entertaining in the world). US adverts are substantially more direct: huge letters, loud colors, messages for the naive consumer: "BUY NOW! GOING OUT OF STOCK! SALE! SALE! SALE!". Really, guys, all you have to do is tell me what you sell, how much you sell it for, and where I can find you. I am not five years old, nor "un peu lent", so just yelling "BUY THIS STUFF, IT'S THE BEST EVER!" at me will probably not work. This may just be an outgrowth of intellectual snobbery on my part, but the shit I get in my mailbox every day makes more angry than interested.

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...

Monday the 13th

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