Ride or Die

My impractical, hip, hard to pedal, thief magnet is now terrorizing the Swedish streets.  Katharina saw it today and said "white is the best."  Coming from a German girl I thought that was hilariously ironic.  I'm sure she meant to say, "white is my favorite color for a bicycle".  I need to invest in some basic tools to really get it dialed in.  No one rides road bikes (racers) out here.  The bike shop that I bought a few parts from thought I was an idiot for even being excited about it.  Fuck em.

The bike is an old Crescent frame (made in Sweden) that some dude sanded and painted.  The frame is heavy.  The funny thing is the dude really had no idea about how to put a bike together.  He just threw a bunch of random components on the bike that weren't really compatible with each other.  First of all, it is a single speed (not fixed) and he never installed any type of brakes (in fact, he threw the old brakes in the trash).  So when I rode it for the first time I had to give it the old Fred Flintstone to avoid killing myself.  Also the gear ratio is ten shades of fucked up.  It is harder to pedal than Phil's Raleigh (40/12).  I need to find a different size freewheel.  I also need to get some lights for the dark, brutal, black (metal) Swedish winters.  

Cool things                                                                

• Everyone is psyched on bicycles in Malmö
• Extensive bike paths
• Bicycle specific traffic lights

Things to watch out for:

• Cobblestones
• Busses
• Immigrants learning to drive

Cooking lessons

I am moving out of Christian's house on Friday.  He has been the most gracious host and I am forever in his debt.  I rarely meet people that I consider genuine, but Christian is truly one of them.  Perhaps because he has traveled as well and understands the hardship that occasionally comes with it.

We decided that before I go, we should sit down and have a nice meal together.  For the first time ever I made Gumbo outside of Lucile's.  It turned out pretty good considering it was difficult to find a lot of the ingredients.  Christian was able to find orka (he had never known what it was or how to use it), and I convinced a woman from Hemköp to sell me a whole chicken.  Needless to say, the it was an ordeal procuring all the necessary ingredients.  Surprisingly even my roux was spot on.

Most Swedes (and Europeans in general) have stoves that are impossible to control the temperature accurately.  If they would only invent in-house biogas digesters that would directly power a gas stove.  Now that would be innovative.

This was the first time that I sat down and cooked a real meal in over a month.  I generally survive on ham sandwiches and hard boiled eggs washed down with p.g. tips and maybe some salted licorice for desert.
Salted licorice is very Swedish and isn't terrible.  The salt licorice gum flavor on the other hand is brutally difficult to stomach and should be avoided at all cost.

Christian and Maria make a great couple.  I always smile when I see them together.  Maria works for Brio, a Swedish toy manufacture.  Prior to that, she was with Mercedes.  She is fluent in 4 languages and is very excited about teaching me Swedish.  We work on our lessons each evening and her endless enthusiasm breaks up the frustration.  Plus when she speaks English she has a proper British accent.  Its is incredibly endearing.  I will miss the quite evenings spent on correct pronunciation.   

Kaffe

Like in most places, coffee is a national pastime here.  I read somewhere that Swedes drink more coffee than any other nationality.  It is probably true.  Surprising to me, you don't usually buy coffee beans, but just the pre-packed grounds.  And only hipsters grind their own beans.

Katharina and I like to frequent a coffee shop that was by the hotel I stayed in for a few days.  I don't remember the name.  The baristas are snobby and cute.  And they make me feel stupid for having a terrible Swedish accent.  Also, they always ask strange questions that I am never prepared for - so I have to ask them to repeat themselves in English.  Today they asked if I wanted to pay for refills.  I didn't understand and thought refills were included, but apparently you are on the honor system and if you want a refill you pay for it upfront.

Katharina is a German version of a girl I know back in the States.  I hope neither girl takes offense to that comparison.  They both are very nice.

Kathi has the coolest Dutch bike I've eve seen.  Also she is standing in front of a sci-fi shop.  If you look closely you can see Darth Vader in the windows.

In Malmö - like Copenhagen and Amsterdam- the city bike is king.  I am a total bike snob and really dislike riding them even though they are made for this climate.  Fenders, chain-guard, kickstand, up-right position.  it all goes against all my common sense of riding.  Luckily I have found a hipster doofus bike that has none of those, and I'm an idiot for being excited about it.

Västra Hamn

This is the view from the building where I study.  That's the turning torso.  It is an iconic image here, although it doesn't represent anything important other than the affluence it takes to live in it.

I study in this building.  It is in the western harbor district

The western harbor is said to be a model for sustainability.  It isn't.

Födelsedagsfest

Joel and Josefine's birthday party was held this weekend.  They were nice enough to invite me, despite the special arrangements that are generally required for a foreigner .  It was held at an old scouts cabin just outside of Ängelholm.  I am still enamored with nature here.  The last time I visited Joel, I described it by saying it smelled like North.  I still stand by that.  

The place held at least 30 people.  There was  a dress code. Tacos (!) were served and I had my fill of Fanta.  

Swedish birthdays entail lots of storytelling, speeches, singing, games, jokes and more storytelling.   I was surprised at   how personal such a large party could become.  Although I didn't understand the majority of what was said, it was nice to be included.  Even if I was a token character to some.  Joel is quite a talented musician as well as a great language coach.   

I've never seen that much Danish Gold in one place.  As a matter of fact, I had never seen Danish Gold before.  Anywhere.  I'm sure it is a feat that will never be repeated in my lifetime.

The morning after we slept upstairs in the scout bunk beds.  I'm sure Josefine feels much worse than she looks here.  Yes, that is a compliment.

This is Max.  He lives a paradoxical lifestyle by being born in Denmark and moving to Sweden when he was 4.  He was introduced to me as a Dane within the first sentence.  When he goes to Helsingør he is considered Swedish.  No rest.  Max is charmingly witty.  One of the best conversations I've had so far was with him.  I hope to see him again. 

Now it is raining incredibly hard in Malmö.  Also, today is election day in Sweden.  I couldn't name the political parties here.  Christian would be very disappointed in me if he knew that.

Slussen.

This is where I live.  Its nice

This is where I dream about stuff

This is where people pray (I assume)

 

This is my alarm clock.  Operating a crane in orkanen takes a lifetime of skill I'm sure.

This is what I drink from

This is where Christian gets the oranges to make the  marmalade that I eat when he isn't looking

Closed for Business

I'm impressed at how everything in Malmö closes about 3 hours before I expect it to. For being the 3rd largest city in this country, shit closes early. I would expect Swedish convenience stores (which are generally operated by immigrants) to be open till, oh I don't know, 7pm. Not necessarily the case. To my surprise I think the 7/11 is actually open till 11. I would have to actually look at my watch to confirm that. It's a little strange to walk around a rather hip district of town on a Saturday night and be the only one on the street.

Malmö underground

So it's been a week and a half and I have spent some time in a heroin den, hostel and now a hotel. My apartment fell through pretty spectacularly and I am in the process of securing a new place to sleep.

When I arrived I met up with Johan at his home. Right away I realized it would be a rough start. He met me outside his apartment holding in one hand this drinkable yogurt (which is quite popular) and wearing a white mustache like a reject from the "got milk" ads. Right away I realized he was loaded. Loaded in a way a homeless man on the corner makes you vomit on the inside. After attempting to help me with my bags and falling over, I decided that I could carry them both. I carried them from Colorado after all. I don't think he could have made it 2 flights of stairs anyway. Here is what he looks like sans junk.

Upon entering Chateau de Tullgren I was immediately set upon by Mollie (pronounced Moily), his small blattered poodle-pitbull mix. We developed a fast hatred of each other. I desired to be left alone and she insisted on pissing on everything imaginable (including the bed I was set to sleep on the first night). After the initial shock of realizing that Johan was a dog-guy I began to smell the stagnant oder of 10,000 smoked cigarettes. Perhaps that was the cause of the wall color beginning to look something like a light egg yolk. Regardless I was there, for a time anyway.

After a few days of attempting to adjust to the residue caking the shower I realized that I should actively start looking for apartments. I had a few leads that didn't really pan out so I went to visit Joel (pronounced Yoel) in Helsingborg. I've met very few people in my life that instantly impress me.

Joel is one of them. He is one of the most honest, capable, intelligent and sophisticated gentleman I have ever met. And he makes ridiculously strong coffee (now you're a man, a man-y man-y man...). Joel made me feel quite a bit better about my circumstances. So after a day of Swedish hiking, cake and coffee breaks and a nice meal I caught the train south again.

I arrived in Malmö to find Johan face down in a pile of chopped up oxy dust that he had been packing up his nose the entire weekend. I also found my room devastated. The door kicked in, my sleeping bag thrown about, and piles of clothes everywhere. Initially I thought I had been completely robbed of anything of value, but everything seemed to be accounted for. It appeared, in what ever junked-out state of logical reason, Johan had simply wanted a fresh pair of socks. That was my excuse to give the proverbial "fuck it" and pack my shit and get the hell out of there. On night in a hostel and now a few in a hotel and its my birthday. Way to go 26!