Stockholm Syndrome

The 29-Day Blogging Challenge: S is for Stockholm

One of the more exciting aspects of the expat life is moving into a new city, new country, new language, new culture, new everything. It’s an energizing challenge to re-learn everything in an effort to live effortlessly – mastering the language and cultural peculiarities, figuring out the streets and neighbourhoods and transportation routes, understanding societal expectations and codes of conduct, wrangling with governmental bureaucracy and guidelines… For some, it can be a daunting task, and thus they shy away from it. A friend of mine did a 4-month educational exchange in Norway some years back, and hated it. He hated not knowing which streets to take, where a particular store was located, how much the bus cost, how to order a coffee or a pack of smokes, or even the general etiquette rules for queuing at a grocery store. He felt more comfortable in the familiar and shunned anything that pulled him outside his comfort zone.

While these and the thousand other aspects to expat living can be intimidating, that’s what I like most about living in a new city. Perhaps it’s the adrenaline rush to my ADHD-addled brain that finds excitement and thrill in stepping out of the known into the unknown, to wander foreign streets for the first time and get horribly lost, but not at all concerned about finding my way back home. My first night in Amsterdam years back was like that – I went out on my own, no map, no previous experience with navigating the serpentine streets and alleyways, and wandered aimlessly through the damp night without a care in the world. Of course I made my way back to the hotel eventually, after miles of wrong turns and dead ends and “oooh! Let’s see what’s down this heretofore unseen passage!”… Similarly, the first several months of living in Stockholm have provided many opportunities for the same sort of aimless meandering, discovery-by-happenstance, the thrill of rounding a corner and having no idea where I’ve ended up, but eager to press on and see more.

I’ve written before about the beauty of Stockholm; I still have moments of stunned realization that I do, in fact, live here. Having only been exposed to the city through tales and movies and random pictures, I find myself often staring at the city, its architecture, its urban art, its juxtaposition of buildings and parkland and asphalt and cobblestone and forests and waterways and Beemers and bikes and people and dogs and malls and boutiques and think, “Holy shit… I live here.” This place is not a temporary stop on my vacation itinerary, it is fast becoming home.

Of course expat living often comes with an expiration date; at some point you accept a new job in a new city, a new country, you pack your bags, say final good-byes, and jet off for a new set of experiences. We have no idea what that date is for us – maybe a year or two down the road, maybe more. Our jobs are secure, and we’re both feeling ‘at home’ in this city quite rapidly. (And Sweden obviously wants me to stay – in what must be a record turn-around, I applied for and received my personnummer – basically a Swedish social security number – in 2 days. I have friends that have been struggling with the immigration board’s bureaucracy for over a year, with little success.) Whatever the remainder of our time here, Jill and I continue to discover little treasures of this city – be it a quaint neighbourhood or a jazz bar or a waterfront café or a stunning bit of architecture – and will be genuinely sad when the time comes to say goodbye. But with every goodbye comes a new challenge, a new city to explore, new rules and expectations and a myriad of unknowns that will undoubtedly surprise, delight, and frustrate us all over again. Such is the live we live, and we love it.

Previous posts: Introducing the 29-Day Blogging Challenge; A is for Anonymity; B is for Busses; C is for Canada; D is for Dogs;E is for Expatriate; F is for Failure;G is for Google; H is for Hedgehog; I is for Indian food; J is for Jill, obviously; K is for Kurt Cobain; L is for Listerine; M is for Mac&Cheez; N is for Night; O if for Olfactory Dysfunction; P is for Photography; Q if for Quest For Fire; R is for Religion

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The 29-day Blogging Challenge: S is for SWEEEET!

For the 19th installment of this 29-Day Blogging Challenge I planned on writing extensively about my new stomping ground, our new home, the city that continues to amaze and surprise me: Stockholm. However, today was a frakkin’ great day – awesome review at work, more responsibilities, extended employment guarantees, and we’re 8-days away from a loooong weekend in Amsterdam. There’s just too much going on in my mind right now to pen something moderately coherent and interesting (as if that’s ever stopped me before) but for now, I’m signing off, kicking my feet up, and basking in the glow of a SWEEEET day. An entry on Stockholm will be coming tomorrow…

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The 29-Day Blogging Challenge: R is for Religion

I am not religious. I grew up in a church, but from a very young age started questioning what I was being told; and, more specifically, that I was being told just to believe what I was being told. There was little or no importance placed on scholarly investigation or dissection, no encouragement of analysis and truth seeking; it was written, and therefore it was truth. The stories had some no-brainer morals behind the narrative – be a good person, treat others well, take care of your neighbours, etc. – but I regarded these fanciful tales as little more than padding around otherwise logical recommendations for human conduct. I didn’t need a particular book or some old guy in a suit telling me these things – they made sense, as though pre-programmed in the hardwiring of my brain. It was the rest of the fables, the mythology, the concept of divine creation and control, that I just couldn’t buy.

I had friends in grade school that were Muslim, Sikh, Hindu, Jewish, Catholic, Lutheran, and a handful of other religious affiliations. And they were being taught the same basic morals, albeit with different illustrative stories wrapped around these lessons. My first question, the one that stated me on a path to questioning everything, was simple: If I was being taught one thing out of a particular book, and they were being taught other things out of other books, and we were all told our version was right because it was written in our respective books, which was correct? No one could give me a definitive answer – they just told me to ‘have faith’, as though blind obedience and a closed mind to alternative explanations and accounts was all it took to enter heaven. Not surprisingly, I called ‘bullshit’ early on, and while still a regular attendee at weekly services, would sit and critique everything I heard, everything I was told, searching for some element of ‘truth’ – not as I was told, but as I felt. Some things stuck – like lessons in basic human morality and conduct towards my fellow man – but the mythology and fanciful fabrications held no sway in my thinking.

I’ve studied religion all my life, with an element of fascination and historical critique at the development and growth of various belief systems. I realized fairly quickly that stripping out the stories, the places, the people, the mythology, left most religions saying basically the same things. They were guidelines for right conduct, affirmations of what was considered good in the world. In christian terms, most religions can be broken down to the Ten Commandments and the Golden Rule. That’s the basic plot to each one, and everything else is just context and character development. And in many cases, the stories and main characters aren’t all that different – for example, Jesus is a notable, revered figure in Christianity (obviously), but also in Islam, Judaism, and Hinduism. There are many theories, in fact, that he traveled throughout India (perhaps during his 18-year hiatus in the bible?) and learned morality and ethics from Buddhist, Hindu, and other local belief systems. He is one of the highest prophets in Islam, and accounts of his life and dealings are nearly identical in both the bible and the Qur’an. It is somewhat surprising, and saddening, that with so many similarities between religions, both literal and figurative, that there is such deep division and animosity among their respective followers. Johnathan Swift wrote, “We have just enough religion to make us hate, but not enough to make us love one another.” Unfortunately, this is all too true.

History is riddled with the destructive power of religion. More people have died due to religious conflict that for any other reason. Entire empires have been overthrown, decimated, eradicated, and tortured in the name of some particular god. No religion is faultless, although some have been far more active in their crusade for world domination than others. Even today, conflicts rage around the world in the name of religion. Georgia Harkness, one of the first female theologians, famously wrote that “The tendency to turn human judgments into divine commands makes religion one of the most dangerous forces in the world.” It has been said that religion is the worst thing to happen to humanity, and in many ways, I fully agree.

I don’t have a problem with religion per se. I can understand its attraction, and I fully respect the sense of purpose and fulfillment it gives the devout followers. I admire people who devote their lives to a particular belief system, who feel its life-affirming power every day, who live by a prescribed set of principles and traditions and tenets – not because they were told to, but because it is who they are, it is what they feel, it is truth to them. What I do have a problem with, however, is when those same people discount the possibility that another person can live a just-as-moral life while believing a different collection of stories and mythology; when there can be no other truth than their own, and anyone who says otherwise is a blasphemous lout who must be converted or destroyed; when these people take their religion which (in my opinion) is a personal affirmation of purpose, and make it a public banner under which to march forward, swords blazing, in the name of their supposedly benevolent god. Examples of religious colonialism are rife throughout history, and still go on to this day. People die every minute because they have the audacity to believe in – or even just be born into – a different house of worship. Religion can be the most dangerous force in the world, despite its main intentions otherwise. As Jon Stewart says, religion gives people hope in a world torn apart by religion.

George Carlin, a brilliant comic and one of my favourite humourist thinkers, is no stranger to controversial opinion. He was very politically minded, and had a critical eye towards society, humanity, government, and of course, religion. Brought up in Catholic school, he had an acerbic view of organized religion and its potential for ill on the world. One of his lesser-known but best routines looks at the Ten Commandments, and he in no uncertain terms calls ‘bullshit’ on the lot. Methodically, logically, and humourously he breaks them down to just a couple of universally acceptable guidelines, easier to follow and without all the ’spooky’ language from the original version. At the end of the clip he sums up his arguments beautifully: “Two is all you need; Moses could have carried them down the hill in his fucking pocket. And if they had a list like that I wouldn’t mind those folks in Alabama putting it up on the courthouse wall – as long as they included one additional commandment: Thou shalt keep thy religion to thyself.” If that last line were included in every religious text throughout history, the world would be a much better – and perhaps less religiously fanatical – place.

Previous posts: Introducing the 29-Day Blogging Challenge; A is for Anonymity; B is for Busses; C is for Canada; D is for Dogs;E is for Expatriate; F is for Failure;G is for Google; H is for Hedgehog; I is for Indian food; J is for Jill, obviously; K is for Kurt Cobain; L is for Listerine; M is for Mac&Cheez; N is for Night; O if for Olfactory Dysfunction; P is for Photography; Q if for Quest For Fire

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The 29-Day Blogging Challenge: Q is for Quest For Fire

If you could have one superpower, what would it be? Most people have considered this question at least once. Common answers are the ability to read minds, to fly, to be invisible (at will, I’d assume), teleportation, and a raft of other comic book and Heroes-inspired skills. I always wanted to be universally fluent – that is, have the ability to speak any language, any time, anywhere. Or similarly, I’d like to be able to master any skill when needed – e.g. be able to pick up a guitar and wail like Angus Young, or sing like Pavarotti, or skate like Tony Hawk, or do some wicked Kung Fu Fighting like Bruce Lee; maybe cook like Jamie Oliver, dance like Gene Kelly (the baddest dancer ever, bar none), dunk like Michael Jordan, unicycle like <insert name of famous unicyclist here> or twirl my pen in my fingers like that guy that sat in front of my in economics class. Anyway, the ability to speak any language or summon any skill at will would be fun, and would open up a whole world of possibilities in terms of travel, employment, reality shows… But the one ability I would trade or all others is time travel.

Having the ability to slip effortlessly through time, back to another era, is something I’ve always dreamed of. Imagine having the opportunity to witness first-hand the building of the Great Wall or the pyramids at Giza or Aztec temples; watching epic battles by the likes of Alexander and Wallace and Napoleon; sitting in a village pub, hundreds of years ago, before the steam engine and electricity and refrigeration and iPods, and experiencing the human condition in raw form, devoid of technological advancements and encroachments, when transportation was powered by either beast or wind, fire the main source of light and life, and a person’s whole world extended but a few miles in every direction. It would be quite a contrast to today, when within hours one can be on the other side of the world and still have real-time communication with people back home, where dinner is microwavable and hermetically sealed and perfectly portioned, where the internet and satellite TV and radio and newspapers lay the world at your fingertips, neatly, orderly, in searchable, indexable, referenceable.

But for all of the historically significant events, there is one period I would most love to visit; and more specifically, one person I would love to meet. As with most people I have a list of my favourite movies – The Godfather, Shawshank Redemption, Clockwork Orange, even The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh. But at the top of the list is a film that went relatively unnoticed, unacknowledged, unsung in the award ceremonies; but for me, it’s the most brilliant movie of them all, in part because it allows me – sadly without the use of superpowers – to experience a period of time long since past but right at the top of my list of temporal vacation destinations.

Quest For Fire, released in 1981,c tells the story of a Neanderthal tribe some 80,000 years ago that, after an attack by rival homo erectus assholes, lose their source of fire. These days, that wouldn’t be much of a big deal – strike a match, flick a lighter, even strike some flint, and voila – heart-warming, life-giving, food-cooking fire. Those days, however, early man had to steal fire from nature, and tend it lovingly to keep it going. Without a source of fire, and no way of popping down to the local corner shop for a Bic lighter, three members of the tribe get sent out on a, well, quest for fire. Spoiler alert – all ends well, one of the lads finds love, everyone’s happy and fed, Paleolithic fun for the whole family.

Most fascinating about this movie is that no modern language is used. Anthony Burgess – ironically of Clockwork Orange fame – invented fictitious languages based on early-human physiology and social development. Most of the communication is situationally understandable, a logical ‘fill in the blanks’ as to the specifics of these prehistoric conversations. As such, you take this film to the backwaters of any country and people would understand it; perhaps it is the most universally accessible film out there. Some tribes use basic grunts, others utilize a more structured, evolved language; but each is easily understood, as though they were speaking some inherently-coded language that predates our own but is still hardwired in our collective psyche.

There is one scene that I could watch over and over again – and have, in the course of 25+ viewings of the film. If I were able to time travel, it represents one event that I would love to see. At one point in the movie a member of a more advanced homo sapien tribe shows the film’s ‘hero’ character how to make fire. This is mind-blowing, life-altering, game-changing information – he’s been trudging around the barren wastelands and dangerous swamps looking for a natural source of fire, and suddenly he is presented with a way of taking control, domesticating, mastering the greatest mystery and source of life known at the time. He watches in sheer amazement, disbelief, confusion, elation, the whole spectrum of emotion, as he is shown how to make fire. No longer is he a slave to its whims, forced to protect and nurture and tend his tribe’s source of warmth, light, life itself. The quest, it seems, was not merely for fire, but for the knowledge and ability to create and control it.

I’ve been asked who I would most love to meet, living or dead. Of course certain people top the list, but if I could only meet one historical figure, I would choose that first guy – or gal – to create fire. Say what you will about electricity or the internal combustion engine or the silicone chip or sliced bread – there is no greater leap in humanity’s intellectual evolution and mastery of his natural environment than the intentional creation of fire. As someone who has created fire himself, and danced maniacally at the overwhelming sense of atavistic accomplishment, I can only image sitting in some cave, about 100,000 years ago, before complex language and stone tools, when most were still trudging around grunting like our ape cousins and wrapped in stinky animal pets, and watching that first time that early man created smoke, then a spark, then a smoldering ember, and finally, with care and attention and I’m sure no small amount of praying to whatever god concept they had at the time, poof! Fire.

So keep your ability to fly, or read people’s minds, or spoon-bending mental tomfoolery; as fun as they would be to have, I’d definitely choose time travel as my superpower. There are so many historical events and periods of human achievement that I would love to see, to experience, to just spend a day blending in, observing, living that life and moving on. But the one event, the one experience, that I would most like to witness is that first time man created fire. Alas, Quest For Fire is the closest I’ll come to that damp cave floor, but it is a worthy substitute for the real thing.

And plus, just to be an asshole, I’d probably show up a day before the ‘1st fire’ guy made his epic discovery, and whip out the Zippo to the amazement and adulation of all around. I would be their god, they would fear me, and scamper away to do my nefarious bidding lest I light their pelts a-flame. Perhaps it’s better I don’t have superpowers…

Previous posts: Introducing the 29-Day Blogging Challenge; A is for Anonymity; B is for Busses; C is for Canada; D is for Dogs;E is for Expatriate; F is for Failure;G is for Google; H is for Hedgehog; I is for Indian food; J is for Jill, obviously; K is for Kurt Cobain; L is for Listerine; M is for Mac&Cheez; N is for Night; O if for Olfactory Dysfunction; P is for Photography

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The 29-Day Blogging Challenge: P is for Photography

I’ve heard it said that humans are the only creature that creates – or has the capacity to create – art. Regarded as a clear symbol of our advanced evolution, this capacity for abstraction and symbolism towards our greater environment, rather than a purely functional, literal interaction, is seen as that which “separates man from beast.” Personally I think the world would be better off if we acted more like our lesser-order cousins, but perhaps we would lose our ability to produce art – and that would be a great loss indeed.

I have friends that can draw and paint amazing works, play numerous musical instruments, create stunning 3D computer images, sing like the best of their genre, dance in ways that defy physics, act out any number of theatre characters, or write so effortlessly and eloquently that guarantees them a spot on the future must-read lists. I’ve dabbled in most of these – I play percussion, a little piano, and a few chords on guitar; I can’t draw to save my life but play around with computer graphics and design; I make feeble attempts at writing, when the mood strikes, of course. Artisically, I think I’ve got a lot of expressive desire, but lack the fundamental skills to actually produce something.

Photography is my main artistic outlet. I’ve always been drawn to great photos, interesting compositions, the interplay of colour and shadow and perspective. I used to pour over film collections at the local library, relatively uninterested in the accompanying captions but entranced by the images themselves. What gave me pause was seeing photographs that showed the world the way I tend to see it. I’m drawn to unique angles, contrasts, candid scenes, juxtaposed subjects and environment. I studied these pictures, analyzed them, imagined myself the photographer looking at a particular scene and finding the ‘life’ that would inhabit my pictures.

What I love most about photography is the ability to capture a period of time in a static, two-dimensional medium. Even at the highest shutter speed, the resulting photograph spans a certain – perhaps miniscule – period of time. When taking someone’s portrait, for example, even if the shutter snaps shut in a hundredth of a second, the image still shows their progression through ten one-thousandths of that very second – in that time cells have regenerated, hair has grown, a myriad of thoughts have spun through their heads. Whole lives have begun and ended in less time. On the quantum level, a photograph is representative of an era, a length of time too small for us to notice but long enough for entire galaxies to shift position, the sun to move a several kilometers over. Although seemingly instantaneous, there is no such thing as ‘instantaneous’ in photography; and in a way, that brings the image to life.

I tend to focus (ha!) on inanimate objects, mainly buildings, architectural elements, cityscapes. I’ve begun to play around with animate subjects, group photos, portraits, etc., but still find the inanimate a much easier subject to capture. I’m rarely without my camera – especially when I travel – and spend a great amount of time analyzing the shots, the technical details – exposure, shutter speed, white balance, etc. – that produce the best results. Even if the composition – the combination of distinct elements to make up a cohesive scene – is less-than interesting, I try to learn the technical tweaks that result in the end product that I want. Once I have the specific settings and adjustments down, I can better capture the compositional image that I see through the viewfinder.

I’m still learning a lot, of course. I browse through photography-related websites and books often, picking up little tips and tricks along the way. That’s part of the allure of digital photography – experimentation is basically free. But I plod ahead, talk to friends with similar interests, practice as much as possible, and smile when I happen to get ‘the’ shot. It’s rare, but incredibly satisfying when it finally happens. Maybe that’s what drives my more classically artistic friends in their particular craft – that sense of accomplishment, even one-time mastery, the gratifying realization that you’ve physically produced something that until then only existed in your mind’s eye.

I certainly wouldn’t call myself an artist – I’m just some guy with a camera and a willingness to search for that one great shot. Sometimes is works out, sometimes it fails miserably, and sometimes there’s just a minute detail out of place that ultimately relegates the picture to the recycling bin on my desktop. I’m picky about the shots that I take, even more about the photos I keep, and as such struggle to learn more about my equipment, photography in general, advanced techniques and the more classically accepted principles of composition. Over the years I’ve seen an improvement, and am aiming to get even better over the next while. I’ve got a few project ideas, but they need a better photographer behind the lens in order to be worthwhile. With time, a lot of experience, and an overflowing recycling bin, maybe I’ll get there.

Previous posts: Introducing the 29-Day Blogging Challenge; A is for Anonymity; B is for Busses; C is for Canada; D is for Dogs;E is for Expatriate; F is for Failure;G is for Google; H is for Hedgehog; I is for Indian food; J is for Jill, obviously; K is for Kurt Cobain; L is for Listerine; M is for Mac&Cheez; N is for Night; O if for Olfactory Dysfunction

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The 29-Day Blogging Challenge: O is for Olfactory Dysfunction

When I was a very wee lad – 4, maybe 5 – I remember the family talking about one of my cousins, and the fact that she had no sense of smell. I recall them describing how difficult that must be, not being able to smell foods or perfumes or flowers or whatnot. As they prattled on (as adults tend to do in the eyes of a wee’un) I got to thinking – what do foods and perfumes and flowers and these mysterious whatnots smell like? I set out on a quest to figure that out, which proved to be an exercise in frustration, because as far as I could tell, they all smelled the same, as did trees and day-old socks and blueberry pie and dog shit and the very air surrounding me. Everything was the same, in that it smelled like ‘nothing’. I contrasted this indecipherable variance with my sister, who could tell if a mouse farted in the next city block. Obviously, I was missing some basic component or ability.

I started telling people that I had no sense of smell – i.e. “Hey, I’m obviously malformed in some way here!” – which they all thought was adorable, because obviously I just wanted to be like my older cousin Jen. How the hell is a lad of single-digit age supposed to convince the elders that he does not, in fact, have a sense of smell and is not actually faking this condition for some fabricated commonality with a slightly distant relative? So I went years saying I had no sense of smell, with the family accommodatingly rolling their eyes and saying “yeah, sure” whenever the topic was brought up. They did grudgingly admit, however, that not once did I ever ‘slip up’ and comment on how good dinner smelled, or a person’s perfume, or take a fleeting whiff of the nearest bouquet. It wasn’t until I was 17 that a doctor finally administered a test – taking all of 30 second, mind you – and confirmed, in writing, on official letterhead, and able to withstand legal scrutiny if need be, that what I had been saying for over 10 years, and what had been dismissed as little more than an elaborate case of make-believe, was true: I have no sense of smell.

The technical term is anosmia, or congenital (meaning ‘since birth’) anosmia, a form of olfactory dysfunction. There are varying degrees of olfactory dysfunction, anosmia being the complete lack of the sense altogether. It can be caused by a number of things – a head injury (being thrown down the basement stairs, perhaps?), or an early childhood infection, or just plain luck of the draw, as in my case. (Although oddly, I have a ‘sense’ of what a few things – like roses and apple pie – smell like, things I would have been around as a young bugger. I can’t quite describe it – it’s like trying to recall the details of a dream, they’re there, and you can almost touch them, but they fade the closer you get…) The olfactory sense was the latest to develop evolutionarily – it is the only one with its own direct pathway to the brain, bypassing the cerebral cortex completely. Biologists theorize the sense developed to allow animals to ‘sense’ predators, or rotten food, or other hidden dangers in their environment. Those don’t really play a factor in modern life, so it really hasn’t been an issue for me. It would be far different had I lost my sense of smell when I was in my teens, after having spent years interacting with my environment through that plus my other four senses; but having never really smelled anything, the fact that I can’t do so to this day is no major deal.

That’s not to say that I don’t realize that I miss out on a lot of stimuli and experience. I’ve mentioned before that I love food, but I recognize that my perception of flavour is far different from the Normals out there. The tongue can only detect 4 tastes – sweet, salty, sour, and bitter. There is a lot of debate about adding piquance (i.e. the ‘bite’ of chili peppers) and savoriness (i.e. difficult to describe, but often regarded as ‘brothy’ or ‘meaty’) to that list. Anyway, those are tastes; the concept of flavour comes in by pairing those tastes with the aroma, or smell, of food. Together, they represent the full sensory experience of food; so technically, my sense of taste is intact, but I have no added input from the olfactory system, so my sense of flavour is my sense of taste. As a result, other attributes become more important to me – e.g. texture. And to boost the inputs from food, I tend to cook with – or add – a lot of spice. It’s a good thing Jill – even with a fully-functioning olfactory system – likes spicy fare as well.

Having no sense of smell can be limiting, of course. Despite my early yearnings, I could never become a cop – I’d approach a car with ten pounds of marijuana and a dead hooker in the trunk and wouldn’t be the wiser. I could never be a chef – at least not an overly successful one. I can’t be a sommelier, a food critic, a fragrance tester, and I certainly can’t be a sniffer dog employed by airport customs – not that I’d necessarily want to, but you get the point. And there are a few dangers as well – I can’t detect a fire or gas leak in the house, so I’ve always had smoke and carbon monoxide detectors. I can’t detect spoiled food, so am overly cautious when it comes to expiration dates and thoroughly cooked meats (after a few bouts of self-induced food poisoning, one learns to be extra vigilant). But outside of these, I’ve never really thought much about it. I watch with curious amusement when people smell their food and comment on its aroma – I have no concept of that experience, and as much as I would like to know what that entails, if I was going to be malformed so as to be lacking a particular sense, smell is definitely the lesser of, well, five evils.

Interestingly, the sense of smell has been associated with memory, specifically the ability to recall events and places. I’ve heard many people describe being ‘taken back’ to a particular time, just by a random aroma. Obviously I’ve never experienced this per se, but do understand the phenomenon. I tend to get the same reaction by taste and sound – there’s a certain sour orange flavour that instantly transports me to a parking lot in Florida when I was maybe 4 years old. A certain texture of mashed potatoes reminds me of my fraternal grandmother’s kitchen, me propped up on a stool playing with her egg timer. And music has a profound effect on my situational memory – I remember walking out of a university party with my best friend whenever I hear Alive by Pearl Jam; or driving through the Muskokas in the middle of the night when I hear Five Days in May by Blue Rodeo. The list is endless, and that’s one of the reasons I’m so into music – it’s more than an aural experience, it’s a contextual one, the ability to not just remember but to feel, to be there, to relive past events. Some are topically paired with the song itself; others just happened to be playing at the right time. But almost every song I hear, I actually relive where, when, and with whom I first, or most poignantly, heard it. Maybe it’s better that I don’t have a sense of smell, otherwise I’d be a mental time-travelling frequent-flyer with no productive value in society, just a battered old iPod, a scratch-and-sniff book, and a glazed look of ‘remember when’ spread across my face.

And not to be crude, but only completely honest: If I only had one day with a fully functioning sense of smell, the one aroma, fragrance, waft of olfactory bounty that I would love to experience – along with all the wondrous smells that must be available in this world – is that of a particularly vile fart. I just don’t understand what the big deal is – what is it about a 3-octave, 10-second trouser-trumpet trill that makes a certain someone run from the room, teary-eyed and choking, cursing the hell-beast that now floats threateningly at nose level? “It can’t be that bad,” I say. “To me, it smells just like blueberries!”

Previous posts: Introducing the 29-Day Blogging Challenge; A is for Anonymity; B is for Busses; C is for Canada; D is for Dogs;E is for Expatriate; F is for Failure;G is for Google; H is for Hedgehog; I is for Indian food; J is for Jill, obviously; K is for Kurt Cobain; L is for Listerine; M is for Mac&Cheez; N is for Night

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The 29-Day Blogging Challenge: N is for Night

I don’t sleep much; never have, really. 5 or 6 hours is a standard night, but I can go days, even weeks, on much less. This proved quite helpful in university when exams were piling up, report and presentation deadlines were fast approaching, and I still had to contend with a raft of extracurricular commitments and part-time jobs. No matter how long the day, how tiring its schedule, a fresh pot of coffee and some tunes were all I needed to dig in for a long night of studying. I seemed to come alive after the sun went down, as though night was my natural state. Perhaps I am nocturnal.

Even these days, with a much lighter but no less demanding schedule, I love the nighttime. Don’t get me wrong, this city is stunning in the daylight – the multicoloured buildings, the budding greenery, the fashionistas sashaying down the sidewalk. (Side note: One thing I’ve noticed is that no one wears sunglasses here. If there’s even a smidgen of light peeking through the clouds I rock the shades, but will be the only one on the  street wearing them. Maybe it’s because they’ve spent their lives pining for sunlight during the long dark winters and don’t want to waste a singe ray when it finally breaks through. Odd…) Anyway, the city is gorgeous at any time; but I prefer Stockholm once the sun starts to set, and the city is bathed in a sepia-toned hue. If you squint your eyes a little and de-focus the light, the scene looks lifted from a war-era postcard.

Soon enough, sepia gives way to black and white exposure, where there is little discernable colour but the texture of the city shines through. The attraction of a particular building at that point is not its reddish-brown facade or tarnished rooftop – it’s the texture, the interplay of shapes, the building itself, not its colour. Walking down a narrow cobblestone street or along the waterfront is a stunning sight in grayscale, pierced randomly by candles lit in the windows, or soft lighting in a cozy cafe. I love watching shadows dance when a car’s headlights pass, and seeing the pulsing depth and detail of a centuries-old building, its carved columns and entryways, the cut-stone path leading around the corner.There is surprisingly much to see in the darkness of night.

As a sometimes-photographer, night is my favourite time to shoot. Technically, I find I have much more control over the light, the exposure, the way I want the image to appear. And in a city like Stockholm, which was only ever accessible via old black and white photos back home, I can capture the images of this place that I still have in my head. I love shooting people at night as well. (That sounded like the deranged and unbalanced sniper in me talking, but I’m still referring to photography.) I love the darkened shadows, the points of light, the contour that even low-light sources brings out in people.

We’re headed to Amsterdam in a few weeks, and one of the things I’m most looking forward to is heading out onto the darkened canals and down the shadowed alleys at night, camera in hand, ready to capture whatever bit of architecture or raucous shenanigans I happen across. There’s just something about old cities, buildings that grew up in the last few centuries, the old mastery of masonry and urban development. Amsterdam is definitely one of my favourite cities to shoot, so pics – perhaps heavily censored – will be posted later…

But as it is NOT currently nighttime, but rather mid-day and I’m losing precious lunch time, I’ll end off here. (I warned you some of these entries would be pointless.)

Previous posts: Introducing the 29-Day Blogging Challenge; A is for Anonymity; B is for Busses; C is for Canada; D is for Dogs;E is for Expatriate; F is for Failure;G is for Google; H is for Hedgehog; I is for Indian food; J is for Jill, obviously; K is for Kurt Cobain; L is for Listerine; M is for Mac&Cheez

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The 29-Day Blogging Challenge: M is for Mac&Cheez

There was a slight delay in posting this entry… One, there was a technical glitch and I couldn’t get to the editor section. Two, had a bit of a mid-day distraction that proved just too good to pass up. Three, and most importantly, has to do with macaroni and cheese.

In the last entry (L is for Listerine) I mentioned Sweden’s apparent oversight in stocking that oh-so-wondrous concoction from our good friends at Kraft. Yellow Death, as it is affectionately known, is one of my favourite go-to meals in a pinch, but also just something I like. I do consider myself a ‘foodie’ – I love sampling regional fare, have very eclectic tastes, and enjoy learning (or experimenting) to cook all manner of grub. But every now and then I like to sit back with a simple bowl of KD, or a frozen pizza, or a Big Mac, and indulge in the simpler side of life.

Last night was one such night. We had picked up a few boxes of Sweden’s version of KD (made by Hospitality), and I decided to whip some up. To add a little flair, I also included some ground beef, peppers, chipotle sauce, garlic, and salt. Nothing but the best for my wife when I cook, dammit. Anyway, whilst making the KD itself (with no spice added) I set aside a few noodles. Why? To augment Baxter The Hedgehog’s dinner, of course. We do that often – apportion a small sampling as an extra ‘treat’ for the beast to cut the monotony of his usual fare, and to see what else he might like. In the last while he’s taken to shrimp, moose, mashed potatoes and gravy, turkey, meatballs… No doubt he is Sweden’s most varied gastronomist, hedgehog-wise of course.

So along with his normal dinner (Sheba gourmet kitten food, plus dried crunchy food) he had a few noodles. Turns out, he loves them – licked the bowl clean, in fact. Yes, we have a hedgehog that likes macaroni and cheese. Weird beast. He would never survive in the wild.

Previous posts: Introducing the 29-Day Blogging Challenge; A is for Anonymity; B is for Busses; C is for Canada; D is for Dogs;E is for Expatriate; F is for Failure;G is for Google; H is for Hedgehog; I is for Indian food; J is for Jill, obviously; K is for Kurt Cobain; L is for Listerine

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The 29-Day Blogging Challenge: L is for Listerine

When one chooses to move to a new country and live the expat life, one has to expect and accept that certain things once familiar and given are not readily – if at all – available. When I moved to Dubai I was really looking forward to the new foods – Turkish, Lebanese, North African, all manners of Sub-Continent fare… What surprised and delighted me, though, was the abundance of traditional North American food as well. Some of the big grocery stores looked no different from Sabey’s in Sweden, Metro and Fortinos in Canada, or Kroger in the US – massive, brightly lit, cavernous warehouses of polished shelves, bright signage, and every kind of pre-made, pre-packaged fare. I could buy the same can of Campbell’s soup, the same box of Hamburger Helper, the same Minute Rice, etc. If ever I was homesick for a taste of the Old Country, I could pop by my local Spinney’s or Choithram and stock up for a heavy sodium, heat & mix, ready-in-10-minutes meal.

Of course, there were certain staples of back home that weren’t available. For example, even through the stores stocked a number of Kraft products, they didn’t carry the traditional Yellow Death – otherwise known as Kraft Dinner, a box containing dried macaroni noodles and a packet of powdered cheese (or some benign orange chemical that doubled as cheese flavour and food colouring). Boil the noodles, drain, mix in a dollop of butter, a splash of milk, and the secret orange powder, and voila! Down home cooking well into one’s college years. There was impostor mac-n-cheez, but no back-home KD. And this isn’t due to import or dietary restrictions – most of these stores contained a room solely for pork products – real bacon, sausage, chops, etc. So, I took to smuggling boxes back whenever I visited, or having Jill include a few boxes in every care package. I got my fill and was satisfied with that solution, but was – and am – still mystified that certain things – of which KD is but one example – just weren’t available.

Ironically, Sweden doesn’t seem to carry Kraft Dinner either. We’ve found a Swedish version, but still no KD. But I’ve already mentioned KD, and this post is brought to you by the letter L, so – I’ll talk about Listerine.

Listerine, an iconic brand of antiseptic mouthwash dates back to 1879 when it was used as an antiseptic wash for surgical instruments. It was later made available to dentists as part of their treatments, and was the first commercially available consumer mouthwash in 1914. The original concoction that looks similar to a bottle of scotch, has a notoriously harsh, burning taste. It has since developed milder versions, as well as a range of alternative flavours. I never liked the alternatives – I like that early morning kick-in-the-ass swig of piss-yellow Listerine because, quite honestly, it taste like an antiseptic mouthwash should taste. The weaker, minty-fresh crap just doesn’t seem like it’s doing its job, or at best a half-assed effort. It’s like Buckley’s, a Canadian company just down the road from my hometown. They make cough medicine, and for years parents shoved the stuff down their kids’ throats to cure all manner of cold-related ailments. The thing is, the stuff tastes like crap. And a teaspoon of sugar does not help the medicine go down, no matter how melodically you put it. So many years back, perhaps following some of the competitive activity in the market, Buckley’s changed its formula – it made a cherry-flavoured version and a few others, put them on the shelves, and watched sales drop through the floor. Their customers stopped buying it, you see, because it didn’t taste like medicine, so they didn’t believe in its efficacy. Brilliantly – and this is a well-known case in the marketing world – the company went back to the old gut-wrenching, gag-inducing formula and slapped on its now-famous tag line, “Buckley’s. It tastes awful. And it works.” Sales shot up. People loved the line, delivered in TV commercials by the grandfatherly owner of the company himself. Who says there’s no truth in advertising?

For me, the same holds true with Listerine. If I want something to make my breath minty or cinnamony or icey or whatever, I’ll grab some gum, a candy, or lick the back of a stamp. No, I want antiseptic action, and I want it to burn. I want it to charge in, all asses and elbows, and take no prisoners. I want an oral Blitzkrieg. I want to cringe, to hurt, to countdown the seconds like they’re my last on earth. Original, scotch-coloured Listerine does that. But do you think I can find it in Sweden? Nooo. I would prefer to go without KD than without Listerine. As a grudging compromise I’ve had to make do with the purple, minty, icky Listerine-lite version, and I’m none too happy about it. If anyone from J&J is reading this (Ha! Yeah, I know), hook a brother up!

Anyway, Jill just came back from a conference in Washington, and as we always do, the returning party brought the patiently-waiting party some presents. I always tended to bring back jewelry, hand-woven tapestries, pashminas, carved bric-a-brac, something nice. So what did I get from Obama’s backyard? A box of Scoobie Doo Kraft Dinner (yum!), 4 Cadbury’s Cream Eggs (haven’t found them here, and they’re my favourite confection), and… a bottle of original recipe Listerine! AWE-SOME. Can’t wait to get ready for work tomorrow. It’s gonna hurt sooo good.

The funny thing is, Jill found the bottle in Washington, in a Korean convenience store, and the bottle is imported from Indonesia. Yes, Indonesia. The colour is a little off, too, as I remember it. We’re honestly thinking this is bootleg mouth-hooch, but I really don’t care. It’s the closest I’ve come to real Listerine, even if it is just a mix of gasoline, bleach, and kraft-dinner food colouring.

Previous posts: Introducing the 29-Day Blogging Challenge; A is for Anonymity; B is for Busses; C is for Canada; D is for Dogs;E is for Expatriate; F is for Failure;G is for Google; H is for Hedgehog; I is for Indian food; J is for Jill, obviously; K is for Kurt Cobain

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The 29-Day Blogging Challenge: K is for Kurt Cobain

I love music. I’ve always been an avid listener, a sometimes player, a general follower. I’m not a ‘groupie’ or into the ‘cult of personality’ in any way, though. There are bands and individuals that I consider some of the greatest contributors to the musical zeitgeist, those who have elevated the level of talent and progression to ground-breaking heights; but I can’t name more than a single member of most of my favourite bands, don’t know the detailed discographies, and half the time can’t even name more than a few of their songs. If their songs come on, though – even after years of not hearing a particular track – I can sing along (very poorly, mind you) to every lyric, follow the lifts and bridges and licks and warbles as though I had heard it only yesterday. Music is just natural for me to follow, although I don’t necessarily follow the source.

I keep my ‘ear to the ground’, as it were, and am fairly informed about the current music scene. Outside of the fringes and underground scenes, however, I see little redeeming quality in music – or mainstream ‘music’ – today. It is heavily produced, cookie-cutter, image-driven tripe, for the most part. But there are a few, and some from the days of my youth, who do hold a special place in my iTunes playlists. Some are long gone – classical composers, big band leaders, early jazz and blues pioneers… even those more contemporary but who have left the stage far before the final curtain.

Kurt Cobain is of the latter group. I don’t know when I first heard Smells Like Teen Spirit but it was not long afterwards that Nirvana’s break-out CD was a permanent fixture in my shuffler. It was the first CD that I loved every song, without exception. I loved the twisted – and twisting – imagery-laden, dark, expressive, angst-ridden lyrics. Not because they necessarily spoke to me, but because they were more honest and naked than I had heard in a long time. It was like Kurt was exposing his soul, every fear and failure and ghost-within to the world, and found a cathartic release – or at least temporary acceptance – in doing so. Fucking awesome.

Often considered the founders and greatest contributors to the ‘grunge’ scene of the early ‘90s, Nirvana released more albums, found a larger audience, garnered constant media attention, but for the most part hated all of it. They wanted to make music – that was all. They didn’t care about worldwide fame, didn’t want constant interviews and paparazzi attention, and certainly didn’t tailor their public image to satisfy anyone. They – Kurt specifically – were vocal supporters of gay rights, the pro-choice movement, and racial equality, going so far as to write in their Incesticide liner-notes, “if any of you in any way hate homosexuals, people of different color, or women, please do this one favor for us – leave us the fuck alone! Don’t come to our shows and don’t buy our records.” Kurt himself went on record to say that social liberation could only be made possible by the eradication of sexism.

Kurt was hounded and haunted by the band’s success, as he felt that it betrayed the ‘underground’ spirit of the music. That same success also found him branded the unofficial spokesperson for the alternative, dissatisfied, flannel-wearing Generation Y crowd. Grunge became a fashion statement, a fad, an easily-recognizable and easily-emulated set of clothes, must-have CDs, and ever-present look of lamenting boredom with the world. It belied the true music, the true source of lyrical exploration, of Kurt himself. In 1994, under tragic circumstances, he killed himself; and the world moved on to another genre, another group to hound, another icon of its mercurial personality and mood.

I haven’t mentioned much about his personal life, or the situation(s) surrounding his death, for a number of reasons – the biggest of which is that Kurt wouldn’t want that. He never put himself above the music, above the message, above anything. I guess that’s part of the tragedy; he was bigger than a lot of things, if only for his honest declarations, serpentine confessions, grainy but melodically intricate lyrics.

Kurt Cobain is one of the few I would love to meet. I wouldn’t shower him with praise, or ask for an autograph, or try to get a picture. I wouldn’t say anything; I would just sit and listen. And maybe try to play along a little.

I’m so happy ’cause today
I found my friends
They’re in my head
I’m so ugly, that’s okay
‘Cause so are you
Broke our mirrors
Sunday morning is everyday
For all I care
And I’m not scared
Light my candles, in a daze
‘Cause I’ve found God

- Nirvana, Lithium

Previous posts: Introducing the 29-Day Blogging Challenge; A is for Anonymity; B is for Busses; C is for Canada; D is for Dogs;E is for Expatriate; F is for Failure;G is for Google; H is for Hedgehog; I is for Indian food; J is for Jill, obviously

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