Christmas Ends With A Goat

I'm quite sure that I've mentioned Skansen here at least once before as it's become one of my favorite places in Stockholm. It's billed as an open-air museum, which probably sounds strange for a country buried under snow for half the year. And yes, it does get really cold walking around there in the winter but it's totally worth  it. Part of the place is essentially a museum of history and anthropology. Whole buildings from different centuries and different parts of Sweden were brought to Skansen along with their period furniture and accessories, and each day some of these buildings are inhabited by docents in period costume who tell you about the building and about life during that particular time. We've seen different women roasting coffee, making flatbread and knitting in dark, low-ceilinged, smoky kitchens. Another part of Skansen is a zoo. No giraffes or lions (I think they'd freeze to death), but animals such as wolves, bears and reindeer. Another part is a tiny amusement park that's essentially deserted right now but I'm sure will be busy starting in May, and then there's Little Skansen, an indoor children's museum with play structures and small animals (fish, guinea pigs, chickens, etc) that's inevitably packed.

We purchased a yearlong family membership and have been making it a point to get the most out of it. We went a few times during the Christmas season when they had special concerts and markets, and I knew that January 6 was the last day of their seasonal celebrations. I had my special Skansen Christmas calendar and noted exactly which events I wanted to see and participate in, not having high hopes that we'd actually be able to do everything. My personality's combination of ambition with laziness is bad enough without throwing a toddler into the mix. So imagine my surprise when we did it all, and more!

An early lunch was number one on the list (the park's only cafeteria-style restaurant gets extremely crowded by noon) followed by a concert of traditional fiddling. Our son is obsessed with violins, and stringed instruments in general, so I really wanted to make sure he saw this. It really wasn't so much a concert as it was two fiddlers in period dress sitting in front of a fireplace in a small 19th-century farmhouse, playing away. It was as though we (and a dozen other people) had teleported 150 years back in time into the house of a husband and wife playing music for their own entertainment. I restrained myself and didn't try to surreptitiously take a photo, but I wish I knew the name of the instrument the woman was playing. It had many strings and also many buttons along one side, and she would press the buttons as she bowed the instrument. Whatever it was, it was very, very fascinating. And O just sat there watching and listening for what must have been 20 minutes without fussing or fidgeting.

The Christmas market still had a few food stalls open, so we got to eat freshly made waffles and sweet roasted nuts. We also danced around the large Christmas tree in the center of the marketplace (ok, we danced near it and watched all the other people dancing around it as a live band played and sang) and we discovered a little playground that we'd somehow missed on all our previous visits. But the craziest thing of all? The Procession. Apparently in ye olde tymes, people would dress up and parade in the streets singing and chanting in rhyme to beg for food and drink. Kind of like wassailing, I guess? We thought we'd be watching this from the sidelines, but when it began, everyone was encouraged to BE part of the procession. The leaders were three youngish guys, one of whom was dressed like a bearded old man, one of whom was dressed like a woman, and one of whom was dressed like a goat or possibly a ram. Had it not been for the goatman, it would have all just seemed silly. But the goatman was completely sinister. He was wearing sheepskins (ok, so ram seems more likely) and in front he held a bright red goat/ram's head on a stick with the horns sticking out, and he bowed his own head down so you couldn't see his face. And of course we couldn't understand what they were saying. Totally out of The Wicker Man.

I expected us to walk past houses with people in costume standing outside who'd give a few of us something small. Instead, they started ushering everyone into the first house. By that point O was asleep (thank goodness) so S said he'd stay outside with the stroller. I wanted to see what would happen next, so in I shuffled foolishly. The tiny farmhouse was being heated by a log fire, so it was very dark (a little kid in front of me started crying because she'd fallen over the threshold), very hot, very smoky and extremely crowded. Once I was inside, I realized how many people were in there and how many more were still coming in, and I also realized that I had no idea how long this part would go on. And I realized it would all be in Swedish. And that there was a goatman blocking the exit. I was starting to feel claustrophobic and decided that, cultural curiosity be damned, I was getting out of that farmhouse before it was too late. So out I went against the flow of people, walking past the three men while trying to project the message, "Nothing personal, just too crowded." Maybe next Christmas we will brave the goatman again. Or maybe he will just haunt my dreams.

New Year

Who can believe another year is already here, or that I'd be witnessing the dawning of 2013 from my son's bedroom window in Stockholm? Of course his room had the very best view of the fireworks that were lighting the sky all over our neighborhood, so S and I crept in at midnight after he'd already been sound asleep for hours (how is it that toddlers can sleep through extremely loud explosions and yet will catch any word you don't want them to hear when muttered as softly as possible under your breath?) and we pressed our faces to the glass of the French doors, watching the bursts of color in awe. Maybe S will deny feeling any sense of awe. I think he's more jaded about these sorts of things than I am. But no matter how many fireworks displays I watch, every single one inspires as much joy as the last. There are only a handful of things that propel me straight back to childhood, and fireworks are high on that list. For me, they are not just fitting at the new year because of their celebratory nature, but because I associate them with youth, with the promise of excitement, and with wonder.

I'm disappointed to admit that I didn't feel much of those things when it came time to make our big move in 2012. I don't think I've ever felt so old, being responsible (along with S) for all of those big decisions about travel and housing and the general logistics of moving to another continent, all with a two-year-old in tow who was completely reliant on us (and who was also very, very ill at the beginning of the move). I never felt more like a grown-up, which basically means that I don't think I've ever worried so much in my entire life.

The worry, and the pessimism, and the homesickness all kept me from feeling as excited about living here as I should have. I'd like to live my life with more excitement, with more wonder, which really shouldn't be too difficult with a toddler for whom almost anything is exciting and wonderful. For that's the kind of excitement I mean, the excitement and wonder of discovering or rediscovering something. It's the kind of feeling that is so easy to capture in childhood, and just as easily lost. I don't plan to discover the joys of downhill skiing or anything else potentially risky, thankyouverymuch. My plans are more low-key. Discover new places in Stockholm. Rediscover old pleasures like writing and language-learning. Let go of some of the worry and pessimism that hinder the general enjoyment of life. Goals like these are always easier said than done, but I hope that by saying them, I'm taking a step towards making them true.

Holidays

Things have been busy here these past few weeks because S's family was visiting. First his brother came with his wife and three-year-old daughter, then his parents arrived a week after the first lot left. This meant seeing some touristy sights that we hadn't gotten around to visiting, namely, the oldey worldey narrow cobblestone streets of Gamla Stan and the amusement park/zoo that is Skansen. Gamla Stan is probably the most picturesque part of Stockholm, given the architecture and the history and the proximity of the water (it's a tiny island), but Skansen has been the most consistently fun. There is something for everyone: rides for kids (including those coin-operated ones that you can stick your toddler on without paying because, really, he doesn't know the difference), an indoor children's zoo for when the weather's bad, another indoor zoo (with separate admission fee--why??), an outdoor zoo of Scandinavian animals (reindeer! bears! wolverines!), a bunch of traditional Swedish buildings and windmills that were brought piece by piece from all over Sweden (some with costumed "traditional women" who talked to you while doing things like knitting and roasting coffee--this kind of thing was more of a hit with the older crowd. I got a kick out of the traditional toys, which included a stick of firewood wearing a dress), and an outdoor marketplace with crafts and food. I think there was actually a lot more that we didn't see, because it's a pretty huge place. We even bought a family pass for one year, so if you come to visit us, it is pretty much guaranteed that we will drag you there.

S's parents were here for Thanksgiving, which they've only ever celebrated with us, and it was a little strange to not see anything Thanksgiving-related in Stockholm. I expected an American-style restaurant might have a special menu, or that someone in the expat group with which I'm loosely affiliated might organize something. It would seem that everyone's too busy getting ready for Christmas. And boy, people get ready early over here. I think I started seeing some decorations before mid-November. Lots of stars and candles (though they're really electric candles) and special Christmas greenery. And weird elves with very long beards. We do not have anything Christmas-related up yet other than some poinsettias on the windowsill. Maybe I should look into an electric Christmas candle thing soon...

A Helping Hand

Ever since we arrived in Stockholm, I've been feeling rather helpless when it comes to the simplest tasks. Both S and I were stumped by our building's elevator on the first day--there were two buttons on our floor, one on top of the other, so we naturally assumed we should press the bottom one to call the elevator to go down to the lobby. Instead, we sent the empty elevator shooting past us from above. In the case of our ancient elevator, the bottom button ("ned") always sends the elevator straight to the lobby, while the top button ("hit") is the "call" button that just brings the elevator to your floor and doesn't care if you want to go up or down. Since then, we've noticed that most old elevators only have a "hit" button to call the elevator, and it's only the modern buildings that have up and down arrows to press at the elevator bank.

I also get tricked by the different credit/debit card machines at the various supermarkets and stores. Sometimes you enter your pin and press OK, and that's it. Other times the cashier has had to say something to me in Swedish, then say "Press it again" in English when it's obvious I haven't understood that I'm supposed to press OK again to accept the total amount I'm being charged. I've gotten slightly better at paying attention to what the screen is saying (meaning, I look out for the letters "OK"), and yet, I feel like a moron every time it catches me out.

I still don't understand how the paper subway ticket works. I'm trying to avoid having to understand this by using a swipey travel card instead.

All of this is to say that, after feeling like a lost child for the past several weeks, it was refreshing to actually help someone else out for a change. I've become friendly with our upstairs neighbor, a kindergarten teacher originally from Chile who moved to Stockholm to settle down with her Swedish fiance. She's been here for over five years and is basically fluent in Swedish now but, given that my Swedish is non-existent, I've been practicing my Spanish with her. I'm taking advantage of the fact that she is currently on maternity leave with her 6-month-old son and is available during the day to just hang out. O and I went up to her place for a chat a week ago, which was a little eerie because their unit is identical to ours apart from a covered over doorway and a huge opening where there used to be a wall (you know, kind of like that Fawlty Towers episode, except nothing threatens to fall down).

Yesterday she and her son came down to our place and I got to show her the toys that O had as a baby (a lot of which he still likes). This was how I was able to be helpful. During our previous chat, my neighbor had mentioned not knowing what toys to buy, and I offered to show her what O had. She really liked a few things and was able to take pictures on her phone to see whether she could find identical things here in Stockholm. I definitely do not want to be that mom handing out unsolicited advice, but it's kind of nice to know that I could be helpful with my own experiences as a parent if she needs help. That is, if I remember what life with O was like 20 months ago...

When in Rome

The other day it was raining, relatively lightly, though still heavily enough that I would never have taken O out to play had we been in Washington. But given that we were in Sweden, I felt compelled to do what the Swedes do. You know, "There's no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing." And we had, after all, invested a decent amount of money in a rain jacket, rain pants (with attached fleecy bib) and boots. The only problem is that my son hates having anything on his head. It was a real struggle getting the rain hood on, and that seemed to spoil his mood completely. Whereas he'd normally be content to walk from our building to the little playground that's literally five minutes away, this time he insisted that I carry him. In the rain. At the playground, he kept fighting with his hood. It didn't matter that I pointed out how literally every single child but him had his or her head protected from the rain, so they wouldn't get wet and cold and sick. We probably stayed for fifteen or twenty minutes, neither of us especially thrilled though he did seem to enjoy playing with some of the cars and trucks. But you know, we have cars and trucks at home, where it's dry. And we also have books, which I think he might even love more than playing outside. So while I know the Swedes take their kids outside every day, no matter the weather, we might be content to make that decision on a case-by-case basis, probably winding up somewhere between our old habit of making a run for cover at the first drop of rain to the Swedish way of splashing around in 40F weather.

Random Observations

Stockholm weirdly reminds me of parts of Madrid. Have I already mentioned this? It's something about the style of architecture and the small, very specialized shops and the fact that you can find pick-and-mix candy everywhere.

 Elevators here are a little scary because there are some that only surround you with 2 or 3 walls instead of 4. This means you can see the elevator shaft whizzing past you and could touch it if you wanted. (But there are illustrated signs warning of the dangers of actually doing this.)

 People are not surprised that I speak English well. Does this make Sweden the most open-minded country I've ever lived in with respect to that, apart from the good old USA? Seriously, even in England, there was a bit of an assumption that English would not be my native language.

 I've seen some very attractive Swedish people (almost all women) but the city is not exactly crawling with supermodel types as I'd been promised. Disappointing.

 Finally, every Saturday we've been here, we've seen at least one loud group of women parading around in honor of a bride-to-be, who's wearing some kind of hideous outfit with a tiara or animal ears, and she's got a list of tasks to complete. And this inevitably takes place around noon. I'm used to this kind of thing at night, where the bars are. A couple of weeks ago we were having lunch at a falafel place when one of these groups came in and the bride kissed one of the cooks. I was so afraid she was going to kiss Owen on her way out, but she just gave him a big smile and said hello. He was fascinated.

The Defects, and The Delights

A plumber is coming by at 8 am tomorrow morning because the dishwasher doesn't work. For the first couple of weeks we'd been terribly environmentally unfriendly and ate all our meals off disposable dishes, so you can imagine our excitement when our proper plates and glasses and cutlery arrived. Poor S loaded up the dishwasher, only to find that it made a whirring noise for about thirty seconds before falling back into silence. He's been doing all the dishes by hand for the past few days as we've argued with our landlord, who swears the machine was working perfectly fine when she last used it and who appears to believe that we don't know how to use a dishwasher. (I'm pretty sure we do, and it will be extremely embarrassing if I'm wrong about that.)

At first I thought, Gee, this would never have happened at The Windermere. (That's our old building back in Washington.) I've been looking back extremely fondly on our old place and our old neighborhood. The management office was right there in the lobby if you had any issues come up, and there was a dedicated maintenance staff always around who were very friendly (to the extent that one custodian gave O a present shortly after he was born, and yes, I know it helped that I spoke Spanish), and there was always a doorman on duty in the evenings. Basically, you almost always saw someone in the building, and I liked that. It felt like a neighborhood within a neighborhood. But there are always pros and cons. We were living in a small apartment. The fact that it was laid out well with high ceilings and lots of natural light and hardwood floors made it feel bigger, plus we had two giant closets, but there's no denying the fact that we had an almost-2-year-old sleeping in a curtained-off nook adjacent to the main living space. Our kitchen was a narrow galley with only one drawer. And a small one at that. There was barely any counter space (we bought a separate piece of furniture for both counter and storage space), but there was a dishwasher! Oh, and laundry was all in the basement for roughly $3 a load. But that was actually kind of fun because O liked playing down there.

What's it like in Stockholm, you ask? Well, the things I love: the apartment is the biggest I've ever lived in. In addition to having two bedrooms (which, ok, I've lived in a 2BR), it has 1.5 baths! If you've never had that extra bathroom and you're sharing an apartment with someone, I can only hope for your good fortune in the future. There no longer exists a mad race for the single toilet after a long morning shopping trip out. (Presumably this will change when O learns about the potty, but I'm blocking out any and all considerations of this for the time being.) The ceilings are crazy high and the windows are proportionately tall and the wood floors are amazing. The kitchen is large enough to eat in (and there are SIX drawers!) and looks recently renovated with some pretty posh appliances. (Except for the broken dishwasher.) And there is a ton of storage. And a washing machine in the full bath!

BUT. There is no dryer in the full bath. There is no bath in the full bath. Heck, there isn't even what we Americans would call a proper shower in the full bath. There is a drain in the center, more or less, of the bathroom floor. There is no raised border or anything similar to delineate a shower stall. Just a curtain that's pretty short, so water gets everywhere. 

But back to the lack of a dryer. We don't have one in our unit. The laundry room is in the basement of a different building, across the courtyard, but they don't have dryers either. They have something that's translated as "oven room", which is basically a very warm place to hang up your clothes. Interesting, huh? Maybe it's just another example of how the Swedes are more environmentally aware. All of this means that I'm doing the laundry much more frequently than I used to, because there wouldn't be space to line dry everything if I waited longer. So, we have a modern kitchen and washing machine and both cable and Internet included in our rent, but I'm washing the clothes every other day and hanging them on the line like an Italian grandmother. In our case, we have never yet managed to have everything. ("Everything" would include a proper spare room and a second full bath and functional dishwasher, washing machine and dryer all in the unit.) We will make do with what we have for now. And quirks aside, it's pretty great. UPDATE: The water to the dishwasher had been turned off. Quite possibly by us by mistake. Ok, very possibly. I'm not sure we'll ever be fit to own our own home.