Silver Snow in Late January. How often I thought I was walking in the North Pole, looking for Santa and Sleigh!!
Sunday Jan 24, 2010. -15 degree Centigrade.
I still do the math in my head. Meeting at 14:15 means 2:15 p.m..
It is beautiful outside. I like the comfort of the fact that I can run around in a T-shirt inside the house and yet stare at milk-white snow that graces the roads outside and makes everything seem bright in a time when all nature seems to be dead.
I must go for another round of grocery shopping so that I do not have to worry about the next few days. I will need the time at school to arrange for things.
This time I go alone to the grocery store and I choose to go to the international grocery store.
I can barely feel my upper lip, and can sense the cold seeping into my teeth. No wonder people take to smoking and drinking in these climates.
So far my ginger tea has done me good.
I look around and a board says “Suicide Center”.
Wait, that can’t be right, I look again, the board says, “Studie Center”
Better. The cold is affecting me, I think.
At the international grocery store I spot a young Indian couple. I can understand what they are saying. And even though they do not know that I walk away to respect their privacy and ‘a idea of security’ that they cannot be understood, as they discuss what to buy.
This time I look at the spice section.
They all look like “demo size” 100 gms packets.
Man, I am an Indian. What will I do with 100 gm packet of Haldi (turmeric?)?
Sniff and hope to get high?
I must ask around if they have stores with better selection and bigger packets in Stockholm.
They still do not have a good Indian restaurant here. So far, I have been told there is one, but not that great. There are a few Greek, Thai, Middle-Eastern restaurants and takeaways though.
On my way back home, I loose track. After all, there is snow everywhere. I start looking around and despite the cold my mind wanders. I think of all the places where I lugged groceries. Not once in Fiji though. Cabs were always around and cheap. I would call one of the three cabbies whose numbers I had saved. And the first one available would be right outside the grocery store waiting for me when I was done.
As I turn around in snow, with two bags of groceries, I come upon a name plate “Hedstrom”. MH-Morris Hedstrom the biggest grocery store chain in Fiji.
“Hedstrom was Swedish? What was Hedstrom doing in Fiji?
“Stop free associating woman!!” and look for the right path.
After a few turns I find I am closer than I think. Always been that way.
At home I ask Erik if he can feel his teeth are going cold when he goes out too.
“No” he says calmly.
I smile. I won’t ask that question again.
After a quick lunch I take the bus to town, hoping this time I have enough time to actually buy things.
I do buy shoes this time, I really need them. Black and white, walking shoes.
I am wary of buying too much. Knowing my life, I have to move every so often and I must learn to cut down on what I own to facilitate the movement.
I can better say “Stora Torget” But I still stutter when I say that.
I must come tomorrow.
In the evening Erik and I sit down for a chat.
He talks about Bofors.
Bofors was Swedish.
It was a major scandal in India in the 80s where the then Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi was accused of taking kickbacks for purchasing faulty arms and ammunition.
I smile again. Did I ever think I would be discussing Bofors with a Swede in Sweden?
Life!! Its so mysterious!!
So unpredictable.
Then we discuss Obama and his Nobel Prize.
“Oh that” says Erik waving his hand, “But that is the Norwegians. We say the same about Norwegians that Australians say about the Kiwis and Americans about the Canadians. They are not quite there!!”
Erik’s eyes go wide as he hears my boisterous laughter and watches me thump the floor.
I laugh not at what he says, but at the prevalence of this “feeling good” of one community by putting other community, preferably a similar one, down.
During the coming week, I will hear a lot about how Norwegians and Swedes make fun of each other by telling the same jokes, only switching nationalities of the characters to suit their view point.
Erik tells me that he lived in Germany and was an exchange student in New Zealand (lived in
Aotearoa). We talk a bit about Auckland, which I enjoyed.
When I tell him I always encounter more Germans when I travel, than people from any other country, Erik adds his wisdom again...
“Well, it is hard to ignore Germans. They are large.” Erik says matter-of-factly. And adds, “German is a good language to shout at children in or to train dogs in.”
I think he means the language sounds rough.
I am laughing again. Wondering what jokes Germans have about Scandinavia.
The only one that I have heard of in the US is Garrison Keillor’s regular joke about Norwegian bachelor farmers.
“A Norwegian farmer who was headed towards the US was told by his parents to be careful of all the spicy food that Americans ate.”
“What spicy foods” he asked, with a concern.
“Like Ketchup!!”
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