Downtime and new book.

Today and tomorrow are filled with significant downtime. I thought I would relish the itinerary-free days but today was instead accomplishment-free for the most part. I woke up very late, sat around finishing The Undercover Economist, and eventually took a trip into Stockholm for a currency exchange. I must say that the small personal success of going there alone and finding the Forex exchange and a bookstore as well as making it back with no problems was uplifting.

Anyway, the book I picked up was Love in the Time of Cholera. I figured reading a Nobel prize winning classic would not only be a character building exercise but also last me until I got back to New Orleans. I'll start that up tomorrow I guess. It was down to either that, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, or the new Nick Hornby book. While I really enjoyed the first two of his novels, the more recent ones have been a disappointment so I decided to skip it.

Tonight for dinner, I walked down to the local restaurant and got some felafel. I don't have any idea what felafel is but I've been enjoying it immensely ever since Eddie's Attic in Atlanta where I had a mini-felafel burger.

On the morning of the 23rd, we'll be leaving for Norway and I won't get back to Stockholm until the night of the 28th which means I will most likely be without internet access until then. No blog updates, no email, no nothing. Hopefully I'll have much to speak of when I get back. Who knows? Maybe my next post will be laden with Nobel-prize-worthy romantic descriptive language. I just may be gushing with emotion having finished my 12th book.

The further misadventures of Goran Wallen

I didn't think I would have enough material to write a second post on our story's antagonist and certainly not this soon. However, the past 24 hours' events have changed things. When Goran (GW) borrowed the van we're traveling in from a friend, he was told explicitly to remain aware of the water level. To check it often and fill it when necessary. As usual, that caution went in one ear and out the other.

On our way to the ferry last night, GW remarked candidly that the car was overheating. Rather, he said "the car is boiling." Instead of stopping and checking the water, he insisted on continuing until we were safely inside the ferry. We arrived finally after a grand series of starting the car, getting up to 15 and turning it back off, coasting to a stop, despite repeated pleas not to. So, this morning I put a full half-gallon of water in the van and insisted that we find a mechanic to make sure a lack of water was the only issue and that it will last us through the Finnish countryside today and all the way to Norway later this week. Instead, he hopped on the freeway.

After explaining to him that if we overheat in the middle of nowhere, he's going to have some trouble finding Theresa and I transport to the venue with all the gear while he waits with the van to get it fixed, he decided to get it looked at. I'm positive that at one point in time this man did have a job but I'm not sure what kind and I can only speculate as to the seemingly obvious simplicity it must have entailed. There's no way logic and critical thinking were involved in his daily work routine.

I nearly forgot: on the ferry there was a karaoke bar. Said karaoke bar was in full swing when I stumbled upon it and my eyes didn't believe my ears when I rounded the corner. There, in full glory, was a 350lb Finnish biker complete with black doo-rag, long beard, huge gut (contained by a black t-shirt with demonic imagery) singing Elvis' "Can't Help Falling In Love" and singing it well. He was as serious as the heart attack that is sure to one day befall him. His whole chubby, dressed-in-black, biker family was into it too. Soon after he was finished, a young Swedish couple got up to sing "I've Had the Time of My Life" from Dirty Dancing. I figured the guy was roped in by his Patrick Swayze loving girlfriend, but he was into, man. Karaoke on the Baltic Sea is serious business.

Anyway, back to GW. Upon arriving in Porin (where the venue was), he took a left turn from the right lane because he thought it was a two way street. That was near death experience #1. Between near death experience #1 and 2, we (Theresa and I) discovered that a) the 4pm show we were supposed to have was actually the next day and we had to cancel it, b) our hotel rooms were cancelled and then rebooked, and c) were being led around aimlessly because he didn't want to bother the festival promoter with directions. Anyway, we had a show at midnight that went well and then left at 5am to get back to the ferry. Near death experience #2 was when he stalled out in the middle of an intersection (which is pretty much just a giant yield sign) while pointing to a sight instead of driving. This leg of the tour is pretty much Bad News Bears, it's a wonder we succeed at all.

Pori, Finland is a beautiful small town apparently much further north than Stockholm judging by how high the sun was in the sky at 10pm. I thought it would never set. One last thought: the artist passes we got for the Pori Jazz Festival are totally bitchin.

The Misadventures of Göran Wallen

So we have had our last night in Gotland. The show was in a reception hall. A horrible sounding reception hall. Of course we waited until the last night on Gotland to play such a small venue that we were actually turning people away at the door as well as making the mistake of bringing far too few CDs. Hopefully we can remember the vibe of last night in Finland and Norway as I would imagine the crowds will be a lot more tame and less ravenous for Theresa.

Yesterday, Goran, 66, sat in the middle of the road stopped in front of the venue with no blinker just waiting on something or looking at something or really doing nothing is what it was. Either way, when he did finally decide to turn off this very narrow one lane road into the venue, a Vespa was passing him and he clipped the back tire, nearly throwing the young woman from the scooter. However, she was so scooter saavy that she quickly regained balance, remained upright, and kept driving. I, of course, was inwardly furious at his constant neglect for the safety of others, the rules of the road, and his general surroundings. Thus, I have reached the conclusion that barring flight delays, the only reason Iwouldn't be home on July 29th would be a car wreck caused by our bumbling octogenarian promoter.

After the show, we arrived back at the house near 1am with plans to be up and at 'em to leave at 7am in order to catch the ferry back to the mainland. I undress, climb into bed, and close my eyes, exhausted. Suddenly, my door opens, the light comes on, and Goran asks me if I can get into the car.

I ask, "why? You have the keys."

"No," he says "I locked them inside just now."

I think about this for a second, realize that I made sure that all the doors and windows were well locked on the van when I came inside and told him "Guess you'd better call a locksmith now then to make sure we can leave promptly at 7." I then, having solved the issue, fell asleep.

Ten minutes later, Theresa wakes me up. Apparently on Gotland locksmiths are most certainly not available 24 hours a day and we wouldn't be able to catch the morning ferry unless we got the keys soon and would I mind trying my hand at getting in since Goran is doing nothing but circling the car trying all the windows and doors again in a textbook case of insanity: repeating an action expecting different results. So, my next 20 minutes were spent in the pre-dawn chill, with eventual success, feeding a crooked coathanger in the window to unlock the door.

Now, this is not the first time Goran has locked us out, but I'm having trouble deciding on which time was more troubling. The first time he locked us out of both his car and his house in one fell swoop while it was raining heavily and we were in a rush. All in all, I'm beginning to fear my safety as a passenger and/or guest in this man's care. It is a miracle we haven't missed a show yet. I believe I could have an entirely separate blog entitled "The Misadventures of Göran Wallen" and it would probably have more readers and more comments than this one but the subject just depresses me.

On a happier note, I finally got him back for taking numerous unwanted candid photos of me against my wishes by snapping a shot of him snoring loudly, mouth open, head back.

Visby

We have played two shows in Visby so far, both in a unique club set inside a tower which is part of the ancient city wall. The tower itself is said to date back to 900A.D. and certainly looks it. As great as the ambience and decor of the room was, imagine running sound in a half-cylindrical room made of stone. Not too much fun. Either way, we got the sound pumping and it was a good crowd. This was the first Swedish show in a proper bar so the crowd was ready to move with the music. The alcohol certainly helped.

Some of the pre-show music piped in was a hilarious mishmash of 80's hits like "Girls Just Want to Have Fun," "Like a Virgin," Cameo's "Word Up," "Welcome to the Jungle," and the Human League's "Don't You Want Me." The greatest part of the night came between the two sets and some jackass put on "Dr. Feelgood." It seems like the bar suddenly jumped into hyperdrive with everyone up and singing along while dancing over to the bar. And all for what? Mötley Crüe.

We've got a few more shows here in Visby before heading to Finland on the 17th for a show, back to Stockholm for a show on the 20th, a few shows in Norway possibly, then three shows back on the mainland from the 26th-28th to close it out before I head home sweet home. I'm counting the days.

My greatest fears have been realized

Well, the time has come and a lot sooner than I had hoped. I finished all my books including the John Grisham book (which sucked me in around page 200 I must admit) and a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird that was miraculously here in Sweden. So I have finished a full 10 books and a thoroughly uninteresting copy of Vogue in about 5 weeks and have about 2 1/2 weeks left. Hopefully I can actually make it to that bookstore in Stockholm when I get back.

On a happier note, Gotland is pretty nice. We're pretty isolated from everything here and the distance from a city is noticable. A kilometer in one direction brings me to a country store with the daily necessities, a kilometer in the other direction brings me to the Gotland shore and an ancient fishing village with no electricity or plumbing to give you an idea of the area I'm in. Either way, Gotlanders are excited that one of their own is here and playing shows. They're packing in from miles around.

Gotland

Earlier I found myself on a ferry ride to a mythical land, Gotland. Mythical because of the extreme pride of natives who talk it up. Twinkles appear in the eyes of Gotlanders when the word is mentioned and they will speak at length of it as if it is their first and only child.

The way Gotland seems to have shaped many artists, it has become a popular haven for the creative but even in my short time here, it seems that Gotlander artists use it as a fencepost: something they can lean against (though in some cases, it leans back). In addition to an artist haven, it is also a hugely popular vacation spot in the summer. I was hoping for, if nothing else, packed shows, fresh air, and a dip in the Baltic Sea (if only just to say I've done it, which I now have). I got more than that.

The beginning of our second day began at 3am to drive an hour for a 4am casting call for a TV4 program. Filmed in the ruins of a once magnificent stone church, the three hour show highlighted the upcoming goings on in Gotland: a politcal convention, a small culinary fest, a new wonderful vet, Theresa Anderson shows (she performed two songs on the program which I got to mix live to air), and the circus. The circus spot was one of constant buzz because it featured Mickey, a very large, very hungry elephant.

That's correct. For many hours Mickey hung around a small field that was once the grand stone foyer of a very large church eating apples and unpeeled bananas whole with an insatiable appetite both for the fruit and attention of the dozens of confused onlookers. Confused because an elephant was downtown, confused because an elephant was being filmed at 7am, confused because they were stand out of earshot of the hosts and may have found it necessary to draw their own conclusions rather than popping on Sweden's Good Morning America and discovering the real reason for presence of this uncaged, untethered gentle giant in their fair city.

That afternoon we made our way to a local hotel compound (many cottages, hostel rooms, and true hotel rooms) for the show. The staff, while attentive and generally aiming to please, became a source of constant irritation through their music choices. I truly believe that the young manager has just discovered the Barenaked Ladies and admires them vociferously as the triumphant voice of a generation. Thus, he played the same five songs over and over as an evangelist of the gospel of sappy Canadian pop. Otherwise, the accomodations were fine.

This morning, I took a walk down to the store. I grabbed a pear and Coke, set them down on the counter, waited to hear the price (or actually see it on the screen) before handing over my money, and said "tack." In response, the duder said "you're welcome." How did he know!? Apparently my look just screams American. No matter what I wear people know that I do not belong. Amazing.

Moja

Moja is beautiful: An island off the eastern coast of Sweden (1 of an alleged 25,000 small islands) measuring approximately 5 miles by 2.5 miles. It is Swedish pastoral epitomized--numerous clay red cottages dot the rocky landscape said to have been formed by slow moving glaciers and I believe it. We were treated to a wonderful bbq on the water with a large gathering of an extended family and many new friends before the show.

The fresh air did make me feel a lot better for a time and this morning's outing was especially nice. We took a boat ride to a tiny island further out into the Baltic for coffee and freshly baked bread that we brought with us. I took many pictures but have no way of posting them now as this PC doesn't like my camera connection. Either way, the island community absorbed us like a wet blanket. The tight knit group fed us, gave us drink, offered to carry our equipment, wanted to talk all night, offered beds, even two whole cottages. It felt like home.

My 4th of July

Last year I spent my 4th of July among many friends. We ate, drank, and took two dogs for a swim with mixed results (the pug is a swimming champ, the Chesapeake Bay Retriever was terrified). This year, I spent 4th of July in a country that doesn't even have an independence day. There are rumors that country executives are attempting to make June 6th meaningful in some way but it was unclear as to why. Something about conversion from paganism.

Anyway, for my 4th of July, I read a book used often in college level management courses, ate an entire veggie pizza, and blew my nose a lot. I'm still quite sick and can only hope that the trip by sea we're taking today doesn't disagree with me.

I do hear from others, though, that the fireworks were bright, hot dogs warm, iced tea sweet, and spirts up in the States. Good for you guys, I guess.

Here are some things Sweden has allowed me to get back in touch with:
e-Bay
PayPal
Blogging
Writing stuff down in my little notebook
Sinusitis
My hilarious passport photo
BBC (especially the show Lead Balloon which is genius)
Long, personal emails

Here are some things Sweden has allowed me to neglect, if only temporarily:
Shaving
Recording
Coke
Good American television
Variety of wardrobe
Driving
The celebration of national US holidays
Long, personal conversations

Paranoia or are they out to get me?

It seems a running joke towards Americans here is forewarning us to either be silent or behave especially well around certain individuals due to a great disdain towards my native land.

The way in which this "joke" is presented baffles me: is he serious? Might I upset this A&R guy? Will that bartender spit in my beer for ordering in English? Will this shop attendant give me intentionally wrong directions? Sarcasm translates as a dead serious statement. It is hard to appear dry and cynical when one stumbles over words. If the comic concentrates hard enough on the proper English, he or she forgets to display the twinkle in the eye, the wry smirk, or the eye roll. Maybe I should just tell people I'm from Canada and see how their reactions may change.

Today we had a long break between load in and sound check--around 5 hours. Therefore, I sat comfortably scrolling through my iPod to find music I have not listened to for one reason or another and actually enjoy it. The Guillemots were great, Peter, Bjorn, and John's Writer's Block was also good. I chose to listen to the latter because I was able to meet John earlier this week. Very nice, very unassuming guy. If anyone has found anything truly amazing recently, please pass it along. I've heard great things about Fleet Foxes but haven't had a chance to listen to or even learn a thing about them.

Sitting in the green room listening to music and contemplating my origins today, I noticed two tea candles on the table and I wondered: what is it about candles or contained fire in general that is comforting? The small amount of light they put out is romantic in a restaurant setting but frighteningly unhelpful in total darkness. Is it human nature to, even now in the 21st century, amaze ourselves in the discovery to cultivate fire? Our ability to overcome what once alluded us for thousands of years? I'm not sure but I will allow myself to be pulled blindly toward the softly flickering light time after time.

I ramble because I'm quickly running out of book. We have, I believe, 20 shows left in Sweden and I've already finished The Corrections, Why White Kids Love Hip-Hop, and American Pastoral. Today alone I read half of Made to Stick and after that it's a thin Elmore Leonard novel and a John Grisham legal "thriller"--gross.

I do know of a Swedish bookstore with a variety of English titles as well as a record store with various music themed books but it would cost me $15 round trip for a one day train pass. Oh well, I don't have much choice. $10 says the bookstore has stacks and stacks of Stephen King, Jeffrey Deaver, Dean Koontz, and other horribly boring fiction while carrying nothing of interest to me. Maybe they'll have a sweet used section full of heavy paperbacks tourists didn't want to take back with them in lieu of all the heavy Swedish stuff they bought while on vacation escaping the doldrums of reality television, fast food, and shopping malls. Little did they know that they would be watching nothing but reality TV in Sweden (many stations carry it), eating fast food (easy to understand menus), and shopping in malls (there are tons of them here).

Either way, I need something to fill my time otherwise I'll just it around and know what it means to miss New Orleans while thinking nonstop about this cold that refuses to die. I think it's my body telling me to head West.

Why do I attract stupidity?

First and foremost, I must say that I laud Swedes for their commitment to learning much of the English language. Nearly everyone I ask a question in English (do you have international calling cards, where can I find a map, why is everyone so blonde here?) is able to answer me with little to no difficulty. It seems, though, when I begin to engage in a deeper conversation than the normal "is this your first time in Sweden? How do you like it? How long are you here?" etc, that there are just as many idiots present in Scandinavia as there are in the US perhaps more.

Granted, I've met some very intelligent Swedes that I would delight in talking to all day long (one of them being local indie star Tobias Froberg, his fiancé Sondra, and Michael, the music producer of Scandinavia's largest theme park, to name a few) but I have certainly had the unfortunate displeasure of having lengthy repeated conversations with some who are no brighter than a brick wall that is suffering from a growing and relentless dementia. As my father would say, "about as dumb as a bag of hammers." Now my question is this: is it the language barrier or just genuine lack of appropriately firing neurons that account for the sheer stupidity? Do these same people think that yours truly is a moron as well? Finally, how can I spot these people before engaging in conversation or how to keep it to a minimum with those I cannot avoid?

Yes, I realize this post is one full of brash language and perhaps a false sense of superiority
by yet another complacent American, but I'm just telling it the way it is. Any thoughts?

Stockholm's totally walkable

Today I walked around Stockholm. I did yesterday as well, but today I did it alone. It's interesting to see the great number of people that look just as confused as I do. July and August, I've heard, are the months that all of Sweden seems to take as vacation so I would imagine that many native to Stockholm have vacated and many from the country have flocked in. Either way, it's a cool place to visit.

After getting caught in a rainstorm today, I decided that perhaps a warm coffee in a not-so-hip coffeehouse was the thing to do. So, while enjoying a good cappuccino and my current book (Philip Roth's American Pastoral), I noticed quite a commotion across the street. There were literally hundreds of blonde-haired Swedish women crowding through two sets of double doors into what turned out to be two simultaneous showings of Sex and the City. Promiscuity and materialism, it seems, is not limited to American culture.

These women were ravenous for Sarah Jessica Parker's latest travails in the ways of love (or perhaps those of Samantha's). I still have absolutely no interest whatsoever in seeing it, regardless of my sometimes regrettable admitted materialism. I confess that I am a true hound for studio gear and boutique jeans. It is something I cannot escape. I bought boutique jeans yesterday, in fact, from a local jean shop (Nudie Jeans) that are fantastic (and fantastically expensive compared to the regular Levi's). It's something I cannot help. My calves, my thighs, my waist, it seems, are happier when embraced by quality denim in an insatiable thirst that cannot be satisfied by American chains like The Gap, American Eagle, and Abercrombie & Fitch. Tell me I'm wasting my money, tell me I'm a clotheshound, only don't tell me my jeans look bad.