Fauxll

Summer appears to have ended here. Actually, it ended on August 23, according to the Swedish Meteorological and Hydrological Institute.

That morning, in a press conference that was supposed to be about the low pressure system sweeping through the south of the country and triggering gale warnings in the Skagerrak, one Linnea Rehn was asked if this was the start of Autumn. Her response, as far as I've been able to piece it together from various radio and newspaper reports, ran something along the lines of:

No not yet. When the average temperatures fall under 10 degrees Celsius, then summer is officially over, according to the definition. It is August, and the summer heat probably won't ever come back; but one never knows.

This isn't fall; it's just a fall-like weather pattern.

So I'm just going to close the windows, so that the rain-like precipitation and cold-like wind doesn't make my head-cold-like, umm, cold any worse.

Vacation in Switzerland

We had two and half days of touring in Switzerland—should have been three and a half, but for the infamous behavior of EasyJet, about which Joe has promised to write later—anyway, we still had some time to fill with touristing.

We landed finally in Geneva on Thursday afternoon, where we were met by G. who was in the area anyway, and he loaded us onto a train for Neuchâtel, getting out himself at a half-way point for more wedding preparations. (The train ride, though quiet, punctual, and smooth, was not terribly encouraging for the rest of the weekend, as the rain pelted down...) We were then picked up at the train station by C., G.'s mother, who gave us a quick driving tour of town for orientation. Then to their house... and what a house! A spacious three full stories broken into three apartments, with different branches of the G. family living on each one, each one owning their share of the whole place. After some coffee, and showers, and rest, we gathered for dinner, during which a bright double rainbow manifested on Lac de Neuchâtel. Not much was visible past the lake on the first evening, but we were promised views of the Pre-Alps for sure, and perhaps even Jungfrau in the Swiss alps and Mont Blanc in the French Alps if the weather cleared.

On Friday we started the day with a walk to a cemetery nearby. A sign at the entrance said that visitors should not play football, among other things, but who could possibly do so on such a steep pitch? Some of the graves reminded Joe more of New Orleans than any other place he's seen, and neither of us had seen wall niches quite like these. The cemetery has an absolutely beautiful view of Lac de Neuchâtel, which we sat and stared at for a while.

We headed out then see the town. We started off at the base of the steep hill that has the old prison tower and church at the top, where there was some street art that defied explanation. The town has lots of small narrow streets and alleyways, and a beautiful exterior circular staircase in one of the tiny courtyards, made of the yellow limestone that is a hallmark of the area. Neuchâtel is famous for its ornate public fountains, and it was at one of these that we tan into G.'s best man, who is also G., so I will cal him G2. G2 didn't stay with us long, claiming to be out and about on various wedding-related errands. After while we found ourselves back in the plaza where we started... and there was G2, sitting at a table at a cafe, taking his ease with a cup of coffee! (Although it turned out that he was waiting for G.'s sister, and they really were on wedding business.) We had chocolate milkshakes and took our ease for an hour, hearing some fun stories from G2. about life as a journalist in a small energetic town.

We went next to the collégiale area, up on top of the hill, with its cobblestones and picturesque old buildings and reform church, complete with imposing statue of Guillaume Farel, who looks like he is about to brain you with a bible ("When I was little I was scared of him," confessed G.'s mom). Back at home, we made preparations for the next day's wedding, and G.'s sister L. and her boyfriend T. made pizzas for dinner.

Sunday, the day after the wedding, started a little late in the day, as you might imagine, and so we missed the boat trip around the lake that we had planned on. But that was fine, because the weather was so pleasant that we decided we'd rather have an even more intimate encounter with Lac de Neuchâtel, and go swimming. We went first to the marina where G.'s father keeps his sailboat, and walked around the docks. Then we went to the beach, and spent quite a while paddling around in the water, which made Joe and me quite happy. As this is a city beach, there were showers, toilets, and ice cream stands, but a treat we did not expect was that the orchestra of Biel was playing from a small stage, which we went and listened to for a few minutes on our way out. It was quite windy, and at one point everyone's sheet music flew off their stands; Joe plucked a score out of the air with a skill that any base baller would admire.

Dinner was an extra treat, a special request that D. had made to her new in-laws: a traditional Swiss raclette, which is both a cheese and a procedure, and rather like a fondue. The G. family tradition at least is to have pickled mushrooms, onions, and cornichon as well as small boiled potatoes at the ready, over which is poured raclette cheese that everyone has broiled to their own taste at the table. Yum!

We were genuinely sorry to leave on Monday morning, but leave we did, without much bother (it turned out that we had both been secretly hoping for a 24-hour delay like the one we had on the way out, so that they would have to put us up in a hotel in Geneva for the night). The train from Neuchâtel to Geneva was on time (of course), the plane left only one hour late, the bus rides home to Uppsala dry and uneventful (we were lucky, it turned out that we had just missed the biggest rainfall of the year). It was fun to gather up our Swiss loot. Wine, cheese, chocolate, plums fresh from the G.'s tree—how could one go wrong?

Woman, best friend of human

As a little vacation, we attended the wedding of our Swiss friends G. and D. this last weekend. We stayed in the town of Neuchâtel, while the wedding itself was held in Coppet, with a reception in Crissier. Lots happened, so the report will be delivered in parts...

I'll start with the apéro and dinner at a 17th century mansion, now the Restaurant de Bois-Genoud, complete with a sculpture exhibit on the lawn. The weather was sunny and warm, and the wine at the apéro was cool, refreshing. The company was somewhat cosmopolitan, as G. and D. have friends from many places in the world— we spent time much of the time before dinner talking to a couple of Belorussian scientists living in Lausanne, a German enterpreneur living in Philadelphia, and G.'s sister's Belgian boyfriend, a photographer.

I don't know how traditionally Swiss this wedding party was, but the dinner-time entertainments consisted mostly of animations; that is, small skits or musical performances delivered by friends and family, some of them simple (for instance, G.'s aunt and uncle sang a comic tune), others elaborate (between dessert and coffee we were all herded outside to watch a small play). I delivered a 60-second skål to the happy couple early in the evening, and was the only one to do so, so I think that it may have been a little exotic.

Toasts at our table, on the other hand, were nearly non-stop. We had been seated with the Belorussians, Vladimir and Tatiana (if there is a Russian equivalent of Jennifer and Joe, perhaps that is it), and the topic of traditional toasts came up. Vladimir offered up a common Russian starter, "Peace between nations," and then we went around the table and everyone came up with several more. After a while of this, and after some wine had been imbibed, and after some humorous comment on someone's part that I laughed at but felt was slightly sexist, I proposed the next toast. "To women!", I said, and clinked glasses with Tatiana, who laughed and agreed. Not to be left out, Vladimir grabbed his glass, and offered up an elaboration: "To woman. Best friend of human!"

The evening ended with dancing, which G. and D. started off with "A Fifth of Beethoven," choreographed by G.'s sister, a professional dancer, and eventually including the entire 8-person wedding party. Free-form dancing after that, with my favorite new find being the techno-pop of Helmut Fritz). Joe and I took a walk out back to see the stars, where Joe got slightly waylaid by Vladimir ("Come, my American friend, I get you a beer!"), and I saw a meteorite flashing against the Milky Way. A little more dancing before we left for the 45 minute ride back to Neuchâtel, finally getting to bed at about 03h30m. A wonderful day, 7 août 2010...

Cruisin' in Åland

Earlier in the spring, our upstairs neighbor P., who is an enthusiast of America in general, told us that he wanted to do something nice for us, and take us somewhere (within driving distance, for reasons that will become clear) to see more of Sweden than we've been able to. After some debate, he decided to take us to one of his favorite places, which is not strictly speaking in Sweden at all. The Åland island chain lies between Sweden and Finland, and is politically a part of Finland, although the residents speak a dialect of Swedish, and the islands enjoy some degree of autonomy that includes a tax exemption on alcohol. Many of the Baltic ferries therefore are based in Åland, so that they can sell booze cheap in their large duty-free stores. The eastern edge of Åland is only about a 2 hour ferry ride away, and it is a popular place to go for a week or so on holiday, while day trips are also popular.

The islands are beautiful, inhabited but not crowded (due to draconian residency requirements— you cannot purchase property, but must inherit it, P. said), but shockingly primitive when it comes to public transportation, as most people come here with their own cars. Fortunately, P. likes to drive. Even better, he likes to drive slowly. Driving slowly is not only better for sight-seeing, but is also a comfort when one finds oneself in a 1959 Ford Fairlane with a V8 engine but no seat belts or head rests.

We managed to have darn near the perfect day for this trip: sunny on the 1.5 hour car ride through the countryside to the ferry at Grisslehamn, then quite warm but not too hot on the ferry (although we got a little sunburned), then warm and partially cloudy, which was quite welcome as we had a picnic lunch and lazed about on the sandy beach at Degersand, near the town of Eckerö. The beach was busy, but not overcrowded, and to my joy, I have finally managed to go swimming in the Baltic. The water was quite nice— salty of course, but not too bad, and quite clear.

Then we drove across the main island to the other town, Mariehamn, enjoying the views of the farms and fields and numerous inlets and bays. There are plenty of old churches here, all now land-locked, but originally built on the sea so that people could arrive by boat. We passed a sign to another town, Kattnäs. "Cat Nose?" I said out loud, confusedly remembering that nose is näsa. P. gave me a sort of sideways look. "Yes," he said, "but no. 'Näs' is just a place surrounded by water." (Swedish for peninsula is halvö, which for some reason I find charming.) We drove into and around Mariehamn, with the windows down, and the CCR CD blasting from the speakers. "What is more American than cruising?" asked P. proudly, and we couldn't think of anything.

We headed back across to Eckerö, stopping at a nice little wooded place on the main road that looked like an abandoned campground, where we could also admire the red granite that the island is made of, and smell the wonderful smell of pine trees in the sun. We had brought fika supplies— hot and cold coffee, and cookies— and we had our fika directly out of the trunk, complete with one of the old pink plastic camping cups that have been in the family for decades and hauled around to everywhere. Those old American cars surely do have large trunks. Most of the cars I've ridden around in in Sweden could almost fit in it...

We got back to the ferry terminal in plenty of time, and talked more about the car, and P.'s restoration work on it. He searches diligently for genuine parts, often finding them online from places in Finland, oddly. His restorations iare not entirely contemporary for the car— for instance, there's an electronic lock on the trunk— and of course the CD player and new speakers. We looked at the buttons and pulls and other half-remembered controls on the dashboard. Above the AM radio are two buttons, one that has a "T" on it and another with a "C." None of us could figure out what they meant, although I vaguely recall seeing something like that on Grandpa's Ford trucks. Anyone who remembers what they mean, please let me know.

When we got back to Grisslehamn, we had a little wait to get out of the terminal parking lot, since there were a fair number of cars leaving the boat. The motor was running. A middle aged man stepped out directly in front of us and stopped. He bent down, and cupped his ear at the engine. P. obligingly put the car in neutral and revved it high. The man stood up, nodded in complete satisfaction, and walked on, as some onlookers laughed. A middle aged woman standing on the sidewalk waved, and gave P. a smile and a thumbs-up sign. The car is clearly a magnet, attracting all sorts of attention.

So it was a really good outing, and a fun day, and well worth three hours in a car and four on a ferry in order to go to a sandy beach, on a new body of water, for a summer afternoon. I will only mention that the concept of "beach" is something I am well familiar with, and Degersand was very pleasant indeed: nevertheless, the scale of it pales in comparison to the beaches of Lake Michigan. Anyone reading this who does not have to travel seven hours to get to a beach... well, just know that I am envious.

Tibble Days

E. and family (the Dutch hosts of the World Cup Final party we attended a couple of weeks back) are having their summer vacation now, and very thoughtfully suggested that we might like to use their house some while they were away, as a sort of country holiday. Even though they're gone for a few of weeks, we're only able to take them up on their offer for a few days—the hamlet they live in, Tibble, is a good 23 km from our house as the jackdaw flies, and while there is a regional bus stop not 100 m from their front door the bus doesn't run during the summer. Nevertheless, we were able to hitch a ride out last night from a friend who is in the process of buying a house out this way, so we'll have a sort of four day weekend, albeit with both of working from home for parts of it.

Aside from remembering how to use an espresso machine, this morning's most important task was getting to the grocery store, which lies 6 km away in the outskirts of Rasbo (or possibly Gåvsta? The divisions between villages are a little abstract out this way…). So I hopped on board the rather cunning cargo bicycle parked out in the barn and headed off down the road. How was the bike? I've been rereading the Aubrey-Maturin books for the summer, so with apologies to Mr. O'Brian I'll sum up the experience thus:

By the time I'd made it to the edge of the village, I could tell that she was a slab-sided Dutch herringbus that griped something awful if you tried to put her within a few points of the wind. But with her hold stowed to bring her by the bow and the wind on her quarter she was a pretty smooth sailer. Still, I was happy to get her into port before the black squall whipping in from the east caught me.

The first drops of rain fell as I was pulling in to the drive, and a few minutes later we got a nice heavy rain (our first in a while, and perhaps enough that we won't need to water E.'s garden today). Unfortunately, it also took out the power (not an uncommon occurance in these parts, as Jennifer somewhat belatedly remembered), so our lunch was simple bread and cheese (there's a fridge full of Gouda, naturally), washed down with a bit of Trocadero (a local soda that's sort of like a fruity ginger ale). On the plus side, what was shaping up to be a hot, humid day, with a high around 30°C, has turned cool and breezy.

According to the Norwegian weather service, tomorrow will have a high of 17°C, proving yet again that we are incapable of packing correctly for even the shortest of trips in Scandinavia, having brought nothing but shorts and light-weight shirts. Sigh.

Bottling summer

It's that time of year again— sing hallelujah, the smultron are ripe! This year of course I have been keeping a careful eye on the smultron patch, noting the state of the flowers and early stage berries. Even so, it was my nose that let me know they were finally ready—their delicate sweet smell, wafting across the sidewalk on the early-evening breeze, mixed with the scent of warm pine trees in the sun... heavenly!

Last year, it seemed like they lasted for several weeks. This year has been quite hot, though, and so the berries are maturing quickly, and at a smaller size. Smultron seem far too small and fussy to contemplate making preserves out of, so this year I've decided instead to try to make some (very) small-batch aquavit out of them. The berries fit quite handily plastic tubes, convenient not only for carrying them back in your pocket, but they should also serve as a decent brewing vessel.

I have read that smultron are resistant to cultivation; other authorities seem to think that they are simply normal strawberries grown under wild conditions. In any event, I have never seen them for sale anywhere; one must pick them oneself. Linnaeus testified that eating smultron had cured his gout, and legend has it that he therefore ate two silver bowls of them per day, later in life; the bowl is carefully preserved in his museum, and has a volume of about a half liter. (For comparison, the tubes in the picture above are 15ml.) On the other hand, he also lobbied against the consumption of strong spirits. What he would make of my experiment?