The Doktorand Who Tried Skiing

Every Whom
Down in Whom-Vale
Liked Skiing a lot…

But the Doktorand,
Who lived 500 km southwest of Whom-Vale,
Thought down hill was rot!

The Doktorand hated down hill! The whole downward direction!
If you want to know why, it won't take much detection:
It could be that his poles didn't function quite right,
It could be, perhaps, that he was skiing at night;
But I think that the most likely reason of all
May have been that it always led him to fall.

But,
Whatever the reason,
His poles or his skis,
(Or the bruises that covered his hands and knees)
He sat there on Sunday Eve, hating the hills,
Gulping glasses of water with his painkiller pills.
For he knew every Whom around Whom-Vale, you see,
Was busy now, planning their Monday morn ski.

"And the bars are closed!" he snarled with a sneer.
"I've been out skiing! I want a cold beer!"
Then he growled, with his Doktorand fingers rapidly typing,
"The internet isn't even fast enough for skyping!"
But, tomorrow, he knew…

…All the IT department girls and boys
Would wake up bright and early. They'd rush for the slopes!
And then! Oh, the skiing! Oh, the skiing! Skiing! Skiing!

To be continued…

Hat? What hat? I don't have a hat.

I suppose that the national honor is safe once more, as the Swede who won last year's Vasaloppet has just now managed to win it again, beating a Norwegian (who had steadfastly refused to share the lead all day) by less than a second after a 90 km slog. [Update: actually, the rude guy turns out to have been a Czech. The best Norwegian placed fourth.]

So how does that leave the modern state of Swedo-Nordic relations? Allow me to give a brief survey of yesterday's Expressen newspaper by way of illustration. The headline was "Nya Skymfen Mot Sverige: Northugs Hån På Mållinjen" beneath a picture of the incident itself, complete with an added speech bubble in which Northug insults the King, Björn Borg, and Ingemar Stenmark (he didn't actually have time for all that at the finish line, of course, so the verbal insults had to wait until he was interviewed on Norwegian tv a few minutes later). The front page of the sports section breaks down the five different ways that Northug insulted Sweden on Friday (including making a quip about the wife of a Swedish sports commentator). The coverage then continues for all of the next 8 pages, with second-by-second stills of "the insult."

My favorite part, though, is page 11 of the main section, which is wholly given over to a list of all the ways that Sweden is superior to Norway. In the paper's own words, "Expressen har sammanställt listan som får norrmännen at rysa i sina lusekoftor." The list includes things like "Vi är snabbare i luften," "Vi lever längre," and "Vi inreder era hem." In the name of fair and balanced reporting, they go on to list the things which Norway does better: Norwegians destroy the environment with fossil fuels, and they make nice sweaters, plus Swedes do appreciate Norwegian banana-flavored baby food.

It concludes with:

Poor Petter Northug—he is obviously so disturbed at living in an inferior country that he must act like a fool. Don't worry, Petter—not everyone can live in a country as nice as Sweden.

So, how long do you suppose they've been waiting for an excuse to run that page?

I need a new hat

I told my Swedish teacher my "Fel mossa!" story this week, and without hesitation he said, "Nu är det Ski-VM i Oslo och norrmännen är fienden…"

In the meanwhile, things have gotten much worse. Much, much worse. I assume everyone has been keeping up with the events unfolding in Oslo—how could you not, with the constant television coverage?—but in case you missed it, the end of the men's relay is worth watching. Petter Northug, (the Norwegian) is in red, Marcus Hellner (the Swede) in white; Northug's antics start just after he tops the last hill about 35 seconds in, but the real insult comes just after the 50 second mark.



Surely no one noticed that, right? Well, maybe one or two people…

On the bright side, the spring sales have started, so I'm sure I can buy myself a more appropriate hat.

At least I looked a little Swedish

So today marks a real milestone in my life: my first job interview for a non-academic position, and an interview held in a foreign language at that.

When I was offered to have a job interview with Livsmedelsverket, I had answered the phone and then set up the time in English. The potential boss, who called me, and who would be doing the interview along with three others, said that it would be okay for us to have the interview in English. But somehow, when I got there this morning and said hello and a few other words in Swedish to him, he decided that there was no reason not to do the whole thing in Swedish. "Men du får svara på engelska, det går bra," he said.

Well thank goodness for that, at least, because I can muddle through "Hej, hur läget?" and "Dåligt väder idag" okay, but discussing science, or using what some folks might call good grammar, is just a tad beyond my feeble skills at this point. (But I should say thank goodness also for the last few weeks of physical therapy I have been doing, because the therapists have been insisting to do everything in Swedish, with the result that I feel quite a bit more confident about my listening skills than I did even at the start of the year.)

Of course I was told during the initial phone contact that it would be better if I spoke Swedish, so to make up for the fact that I do not, I made up my mind to look as Swedish as possible. And I think I did that pretty well, at least. Everyone else was also wearing jeans and comfortable shoes.

For some reason, I have just now remembered that my father, when feeling playful, likes to credit me with single-handedly inventing the saying "If you can't dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bullroar."

Well, I gave it my best shot, and I think maybe I will get a little extra credit for at least trying in Swedish. And every interview is good practice for the next one. For instance, in the future I will be better prepared for the question "What would you do if you had your day planned out but your boss came to you and wanted you to do something else?"

My answer was "Well, I would probably do it."

To which their response was: "Probably?" (chortles all around the table)

Hmmm. Well, so we'll just see how that goes.

Bad Hat!

Update: I should have payed a little closer attention to my Swedish. The word for hat is mössa, not mossa as I originally reported. Also, the correct translation would be closer to "Wrong hat!"—which is also pretty funny, actually.

---

We've been back from the States for six weeks now, and we're still having fun with all of the little treasures that we brought back with us—clothes we haven't worn in years that suddenly fit and/or seem stylish, trinkets we had been missing, gadgets we had forgotten we owned. We're still in the process of working all of our new/old stuff into our old/new life (March this year will be the month of hanging-things-on-the-walls).

One of my little treasures is my Norway flag hat, purchased out of desperation on a cold boat trip along the Norwegian coast in 2005. I didn't bring it to Sweden originally because, well, it's Norwegian, and at the time I thought it might be a little impolitic. Now that we're acclimated, though, it didn't seem like such a big deal, and I missed it. So this time I brought it along, and I'm glad I did—it actually does a better job covering my earlobes than any other hat I have here, not an insignificant factor when biking along at 20 degrees below freezing.

So, today the last of our Christmas bounty showed up, a package of stuff we'd ordered in Michigan that arrived after we returned, kindly forwarded by Jennifer's parents. More treasures! Instead of coming to our local gas station, though, the box stopped at Uppsala's single post office*, so this afternoon I took off work a little early to go and fetch it before the office closed for the weekend.

On the way out of the building, I passed my co-supervisor in the hall. He glanced at my head, then said, "For a moment I thought you were wearing a Norwegian flag on your hat."

When I avowed that I was, in point of fact, doing just that, he shook his head sadly, and said, "It's no wonder it took you so long to get your visa, then."

Now fast forward to my walk back to the bus stop from the post office. As I slowly made my way down a particularly icy sidewalk, a Swedish woman in her 60s, going the opposite direction, took the time to go a few steps out of her way so that she could shake a finger at me menacingly, and declare, "Fel mossa!"

Of course, last night Charlotte Kalla did suffer an ignominious defeat in the ski sprint in Oslo, the medal eventually going to Marit Bjørgen (a Norwegian), but clearly the blame for that lies with the French. No, I think it's more likely that the Swedish dislike of Norwegians runs deep enough to compel a complete stranger to speak to me on the street, for what must be the third time in three years.

Can you imagine what would happen if I ever mentioned the fact that I'm part Danish? I shudder to think.

*Why didn't it go to the usual place, you ask? Whim. For a postal service, Posten has always maintained an admirable sense of whimsy.

What have we been up to??

Vacation!

Being a "woman of leisure" for the time being, I went home in early December for a nice long holiday vacation in lovely St. Joe, Michigan. The weather was cold and snowy, with an unexpected thaw just before the New Year, so... just like home. Joe, who had classes and employment and pesky things like that, joined us a few days before Christmas.

One of the few disappointments with the trip was that we did not manage to visit Ann Arbor. I-94, as many of you know, can be a right nuisance in blizzard season, and this year was no exception. We are very sorry to have missed seeing people, but next time we visit the US, Ann Arbor is a priority. (And we probably won't try it in the winter again.)

Details... will follow. All is well here, and we hope that all is well for you, wherever you are. Happy 2011, and may we all have a safe, healthy, and prosperous Year of the Rabbit.