Swedenblog

I was perched on a stool in a café by the baggage hall in Terminal 1 at Heathrow, reading about the Joad family setting off for California in their over laden car to truck conversion in the Grapes of Wrath when there was Dom. He and the rest of the passengers on his flight from Edinburgh had apparently been circling the clouds before the plane could land.

We headed for terminal three where we checked in and established ourselves in the SAS lounge (courtesy of Dom’s gold thingy). After some water and a V&T we boarded the plane where I ate a Dime Bar and Dom had something he liked.

At Arlanda we jumped into a taxi operated by an Iranian man intent on cheery conversation and speculation that we were only there for the Swedish girls. He dropped us in town for our appointment at the Ice Bar. However the Ice Bar folk had no record of this date and so we arranged to come back after dinner.

We wandered towards our hotel which was on an island called Gamla Stan. My room was neat and compact. There was a TV mounted on a bracket at shoulder height at the foot of my bed so I needn’t have packed my prism glasses.

I persuaded Dom that we should have Tapas for dinner, as there was a nice looking bar round the corner from the hotel. The food was tasty and afterwards, Michael, the barman set about getting us a bit drunk with various shots including one that tasted of bubble gum and a fiery one (called a Flat Liner) comprising sambuca, Tabasco (quite a lot of it) and tequila. Consequently we were warmed up for our rematch with the desk staff at the Ice Bar.


Inuit, I didn't; how to speak Swedish

This time though we were sped through check-in and in no time we were wearing our silver ponchos and gazing through the window of the airlock into the misty depths of the bar. Indeed everything inside was ice, the tables, the sculpture, the walls and even our glasses. There was quite a party atmosphere, from what I remember. Two Swedish blokes wouldn’t believe that Dom was English, such is his proficiency with the local lingo. Indeed they kept speaking to me in Swedish as they thought there was some scam going on. The butcher (cos that’s what he said he was) and his mate must have been a bit loud, although I don’t remember this, as the bar man would not let me buy them a drink (for clarification, he was happy to serve us). This created a slightly awkward hiatus but when we saw that the blokes were chatting to a Danish girl we re-entered the airlock and returned to the Tapas bar via another bar. More odd shots.


Odd shot


I watched a nature programme about the ten most deadly snakes in the world the following morning before Dom rang enquiring after my health. Such was the size of my bathroom and the relationship between the basin and the toilet that the latter had to be mounted from a jaunty angle. Why this should interfere with proceedings I don’t know.


After breakfast we headed towards the city centre and spent a relaxed day shopping and eating. I did some Zhan Zhuang (Jam Jong); standing like a tree in the garden that surrounds the main library. We had good burgers before setting off by cab for the Kent gig. The venue was a large circus sized big top tent. It was unusually well decorated and lit inside, quite eerie. It was raining hard and every so often a small torrent would find a gap between the sheets of canvas. There was a digital clock that counted down to the band starting, we arrived with about 1 hour 20 to go.

Impressively, the band started playing on the zero seconds to go. There was a zingy atmosphere, I was squashed up against a couple of young (I would guess experimental) lesbians who were experimenting quite a bit. Dom was squashed up against a heterosexual woman, though he had his back to her. The music was great, I knew about half the songs but enjoyed even those I’d never heard.

After the music it was back to the Tapas bar for some more bubble gum (in my case) and something more refined for Dom.


Photo opportunity

Next morning a brisk walk across town to the site where the Museum of Modern art had been temporarily located whilst the new building was made ready and then on by cab to the real one. I really enjoyed myself. There was an architectural section which featured many beautiful models including the Michelangelo Laurentian Library which I have visited in Florence on account of it purportedly being inspirational in Mark Rothko’s room at the Tate Modern (originally done for a New York Restaurant). Mark Rothko; he was an interesting man. Whilst I remember, I must go to the Matisse decorated Chapel in Vence when I am in the neighbourhood.


Museum of Modern Art

We spent a very relaxed rest of the day before heading for the airport in the late afternoon. The journey home seemed to go by very quickly as there was lots to talk about. I think it would have been good if the journey had taken longer.

Thanks Dom.

Workshop

Attended a Chi Kung Workshop yesterday. It proved to be a pleasant day out and I met some people I liked. The workshop itself could have been better. Despite his enthusiastic presentation style, the leader's slightly dodgy English meant that I missed some points (asking questions, by the way, often made the fog more opaque). If I am going to see someone who calls himself Master Something, perhaps I should not be surprised by such things.

Moolaade

I saw the above film a the National Film Theatre yesterday. Despite the frightening topic (female circumcision) this is a beautiful, perfectly paced thing. It is about progress and the unfortunate stuff that we do to ourselves along the way. Reading The Grapes of Wrath at the moment which I find to be a stoter of a book and shares some common ground with the film.

Wistful

As I may have mentioned on this very site before, I feel I can be better described by lists than anything else, not that it is necessarily of any interest to anyone, but I quite like to find patterns. Perhaps I will start another blog comprising of lists, in order that I can then produce a list of lists and eventually sum up my existence with one word, (which I forecast might well be "truth", or the lack of it).

Intitial stab at list of lists (in no particular order):

Surgical procedures
Books read
People loved
Things that could be eliminated from life
Favourite places
Favourite films
Groupings of types of people (as previously referred to)
Pieces of art which resonate
Clothes
Things to do (I have a new one which I may post soon)
Sources of energy
Purchases that proved to be excellent

I have also, lying in bed before getting up, been thinking of Venn Diagrams. I enjoyed them aged eleven but have never used them since.

First stab at the Excellent Purchases list:

1988, Hublot Watch, still a thing of beauty
1987, JVC 4 inch TV. Bought from Harrods, quite pricey at the time but still a perfect thing, used regularly. Watched Ayrton Senna go from fifth at the fist bend to first by the end of the lap at the European GP, Donnington 1993 on this TV
1993, Grey Armani leather jacket, always felt good in that(until I started to get a bit fat)
Circa 1978, G&S Fibreflex Bowlrider skateboard deck, much pleasure derived
1999, Kickboard; three wheeled skateboard with steering, I still use it. WIll be traveling from Victoria Station to Lambeth Bridge and back on it this very weekend.
1987, Porsche 356C. Owned until last month, much pleasure received in the early days even if not exploited latterly. Something that caused me to smile when I used it, how many things do that?
Circa 1990, Prism Spectacles. Specs that you wear to watch TV whilst fully supine. I wear them almost every day. Good for reading too.

Film Recommendation 2

This weekend I enjoyed the particular pleasure that is 'going to the cinema on a really sunny day' which adds a little to the basic pleasure (partly because there are very few people in the place), but not as much as 'going to the cinema when your supposed to be working' which is a delicious thing that I have tasted on very few ocassions.

Anyway, outside it was bright, so much so that my enjoyment of the trailers was hampered slightly by the fact that the usherette (are they still called that?) left the door open (thereby allowing shards of light to penetrate the inner sanctum; it was cinema 8 at the Odeon in Brighton, right by the back door, which leads on to the sea front).

Once the opening credits role we a ceiled in and transported into thirties New York before moving along to Amalfi, there to enjoy the intrigue and clever quips of "The Good Woman", the story based on Oscar Wilde's "Lady Windermere's Fan". If you want a bunch of beautiful people (including Scarlette Johannsen) playing clever people in a period drama in a stunning setting..........

Snacks on a different scale........

.......or scales on a different snack.

If you visit China you might be pleasantly surprised, as was I, that in many places they sell little dried fish in packets.

One of the best things about them is that if you like them and if you travel with a party form the west, as I did, you will be able to eat almost as many as you like, because in a sample survey of 12 occidental people of a variety of ages and sexes (well, 2 sexes), I was the only person to find them yummy.

Indeed, on a flight to Shanghai from somewhere else in China, we were given them by the delightful cabin staff (they are delightful by the way) and I had most other people’s from my group. On that flight I also enjoyed the kind of purple rice dish that they have for breakfast.

Film Recommendation

This weekend I thoroughly enjoyed the film, The Station Agent. Three isolated people becoming less isolated and making me laugh and feel a bit emotional along the way.

Her name was Rio

The other day I had lunch with Jose and Julian at a pub in town. I must have had quite a few lunches with them.

I suppose I must have been in my late teens when for a while, pretty much every week, Jose (Julian’s dad) would pick me up from my mum’s on the way to picking up Julian from his, on the way to going to a nightclub called the Warehouse in Leeds....for Sunday lunch.

They served food upstairs. Jose knew the owner, an American bloke I seem to remember. Having scoffed our burgers, Julian and I would go downstairs to watch the band, usually a fruity disco group called Best Friends. “Put it in the slot”, they would sing. There were also the Space Invader, Galaxian and later on Asteroid machines. Usually we’d end up amongst the last people there after the act had left the stage, Jose carousing with the beautiful people upstairs, me shooting lines of grunting luminous crabs, Julian watching.

There was the Sunday when we didn’t stop in Leeds but went to Milton Keynes to see UB40, Squeeze and the Police amongst others; Jose left us there and went on to London with his pal, picking us up on the way back later. Muddy, Milton Keynes Bowl.

We went to some massive discos in Spain circa 1981. “Operation Suntan” started as a 30 hour bus trip from Leeds to Barcelona to meet Jose. We stayed in Spain for a couple of weeks during which time we climbed into Salvador Dali’s garden and were the only trunked people on a nudist beach, (whenever I think of that I cannot get the sight of the naked German windsurfing bloke out of my mind). Then we headed off to France, driving fast along the motorways the bright sunshine bouncing off the blue sea, the car full of the sound of Duran Duran, Jose sharing a private joke with his girlfriend; the twenty four year old model, Julian and I wondering.

More recently Julian and I visited Jose at his home near Barcelona so we could attend the Spanish Grand Prix. Rosa, Jose’s friend from school would cook a lovely meal for us before we’d go out in the evening get drunk and play with the road signs. (Actually I’m talking about myself there, I blame those continental measures).

Jose, the Catalan septuagenarian, is still cool, always smart, always tanned, smelling cosmopolitan and expensive. He tells me he can’t be bothered to chat up girls anymore but I don’t believe it.

Commuting

In Sedona there is a small airport on the top of a plateau. It looks like a large rocky aircraft carrier. I drove up the hill and at the T junction at the top, was confronted by a sign offering about ten companies to the left. There were fewer to the right; I turned right. I parked and walked into the small terminal building and immediately knew how to choose which company to use. On his own playing a game on his PC was the Benny Hill look-a-like who was receptionist, chief executive, pilot and presumably everything else of his company. He couldn’t hide his excitement at the fact that once we’d gone out to look over his powered glider, I had said I’d like to take a trip.

The machine had two seats, side by side. Once inside we drove off to one end of the runway, abruptly he summoned full power; there was a lot of noise and moments later, still travelling quite slowly, we left the ground. After ten or so minutes he turned the engine off and so it was much easier to communicate; he told me that he lived a half hour flight away. On a typical day, he got up, stepped out of the house where his plane was parked, flew to Sedona, played computer games and flew people like me about and then flew home. Here was a man who was happy in his work and had given up trying to look otherwise.

With the engine off, we soared about the canyons sometimes skirting across the rims, frightening a little group of dear, sometimes plunging into a deep orange chasm as though on a massive, silent big dipper. He showed me ruins of American Indian cave dwellings and I remember seeing a very deep hole that he explained had one day recently appeared in the landscape without warning.

I glanced across at him a few times; he was grinning from ear to ear as was I. On one occasion we both looked at each other simultaneously and there was a slightly awkward moment before we quickly looked away and pointed out some landmark to each other.

After about a half hour, he radioed the airport and made an arrangement to land. We arced round gracefully so that the runway was stretched out in front of us. A few moments later we landed, the whisper of the wind shattered by the noise of the plane hitting the ground like a box of toys.

Water shock

For argument’s sake, lets say I am 75kg, just under 12 stone (or 168 pounds, good afternoon American readers ) and that 70% of that weight is water (a conservative estimate) which comes in at about 52 kg or, in fact 52 litres. A large bottle of Volvic is 1.5 litres, I therefore have about 35 bottles of water in me, or one bottle short of six 6packs of the type that you get at the supermarket.

If I could be dehydrated and rehydrated prune-like , at my destination, then I could arrange for my transportation in a handy 23kg pack carried by a friend or relative on a major airline, but not Ryan Air where it would be cheaper for me to buy a ticket and travel full of H2O.

Wedged Up

There is much fear about. It could be that of terrorism (although I personally don’t know anyone with that particular type), being poor (quite popular), worrying what people will think (I suppose I have that, but I am better able to recognise it in others), getting ripped off; that’s quite a personal one. People are easily vexed when they think that they have lost something rightfully their’s. Their concern is not really about losing the thing in question, it is a very primal thing, to do with clans and hierarchies and finding a mate, an so on. If you want to be sure that a tiger will track you down and eat you, apparently you help yourself to one of his kills. I saw a documentary recently where a miserable Siberian had done just that. So convinced were people of his fate that they wouldn’t let him stay in their houses. Sure enough, several days and miles later, his remains were found strewn about his camp-site.

I am in the supermarket, in the queue at the checkout. The person in front of me has loaded their gear on to the conveyer belt and I am starting to fill the space that is left. Check out what happens when you fail to place on of those “next customer please” doofers in the gap between his super size bottles of diet coke and your goats’ milk yogurt. You don’t have to wait long before he will slap one of those plastic wedges on to that rubber as though I’d just helped myself to few glugs of his low fat fizzy drink.

Does my failure to have positioned the plastic toblerone symbolise the fact that I might be about to grab his wench by the hair, and drag her, kicking and screaming, back to my cave. Mister, are you seriously that worried that you might accidentally pay for my daily portion of friendly bacteria? No, we are in fact talking about a hunter-gatherer-territory thing!

I suppose we should be thankful for those small wedges otherwise people would be micturating over their messages.

A Peeling

A few years ago I went to the see an exhibition in the East End of dissected and “plasticized” human bodies.

I left with a new respect for mine. There were lots of different types of exhibit, one of the most beautiful was that of a child whose blood had been replaced by resin and then everything other than his blood vessel network had been removed leaving an intricate sculpture. Whilst I rated it highly and found it to be very informative there was undoubtedly an air of the performance about the display.


Flay Boy

That turns out to be nothing compared to the first of four programmes called Anatomy for Beginners and featuring the slightly bonkers Dr Gunter von Hagens (responsible for the previously mentioned exhibition) dissecting human bodies, which was shown last night on Channel 4. Almost as revealing as the exhibition it was nevertheless a little bit like watching a spoilt child blowing a wad of his dad’s cash on rubbish with no one able to take him to one side and have a word with him. The good doctor got a clap for goodness sake, for managing to remove the donor’s spinal chord and the associated nerves leading down one leg to his foot, in one piece (and without taking his hat off).

But I’ll be watching again tonight as the oddest thing of all is the taboo around dead bodies which means that I know as little as I do about how mine fits together.