Stockholmers and the curse of the Tvättstuga

There is a curious reverence attached to washing here in Stockholm. It's not something you might casually do when you get home after a few beers, and chuck the lot in the dryer to have awaiting you, warm and fresh, when you awake. I call that the Sydney System. It's not even something that you might drop off at the launderette before work and pick up on the way home, as in the Amsterdam Arrangement. No, it is a carefully planned event that you must arrange your life around, regardless of how many years you have been waiting to see Jarvis Cocker in concert or how many good-looking Swedish men have suddenly decided that they must start drinking in the establishment immediately adjacent to your office. The washing machine is your master.

This is because everyone in your apartment building (if you're lucky) or block (if you are unlucky) will share your laundry. Usually, being Sweden, the laundry (tvättstugan) is well-equipped and clean, possibly with equipment that no-one knows how to actually use. To access this equipment, you need to book a time. This is done using a special key that unlocks a tiny metal placeholder in a calendar. Each placeholder is marked with a mysterious number that may or may not match one on your front door (if you forget which of the little placeholders is yours, you will have to test each and every one with the key. My hairdresser informs me that he has taken his washing to his mother's for weeks because no matter how many he tries, he can't find his placeholder. That's how serious it is. I told him he should just shove a piece of paper in the placeholder with his apartment number on it. He looked at me wide-eyed and couldn't believe an Australian had just given him the wisest washing advice in Sweden).

Anyway, once you have booked the timeslot, you'd better hold onto it for love or money. If you're half an hour late, you lose it. If you book more than twice a month, you lose it (assuming you don't resort to sneaking down at night or worse, pretending that you mixed up your booking time and stealing a slot from the old lady downstairs. Not that nice people like us would ever do that, even when we have to catch 5am flights the next day and have no clean clothes for our travels).

On Sunday we cooked pancakes over an open fire in the snow, complete with kaffekask (vodka and coffee). One of Irina's friends couldn't come because she was washing. Last night Jarvis Cocker was in town. One of Irina's friends couldn't come because she was washing (no, it was not the same friend).

I have to go now since Miss I. is summoning me to remove our laundry from the drying room. You have one hour to remove it after your agreed time slot. We don't know what happens if you fail to do this, but we don't want to have to wait another two weeks to find out...

Champagne and Mushy Peas

As I get used to the idea of leaving my beloved Sweden, at least for a while (more about that later), I try to come to terms with potential life in the UK - the land that traditionally Australians behold as the butt of bad-teeth and cricket jokes, and, if we are to be fair, progenitor of such classics as Blackadder and The Young Ones. Tonight I had a Monday champagne or two (oh how I will miss those overpriced champagnes) with Angus and Clara. Angus lives in London, and we came up with the idea of a fantastic restaurant, where we would serve very classy champagne, and then ask "Would you like a bag of chips with that darling?" in a horrible Cockney accent, while dishing up radioactively green mushy peas, sausages (including vegetarian options) and for the Swedish, my favourite rice porridge (maybe even extending to the oat variety for Scots). I have agreed to cultivate the most horrendous British accent (which Angus thinks I already have, judging by the way I pronounce "pasties") and use it at blatantly inappropriate moments (such as when ordering pasties). Still, I am rather heartbroken at the prospect, and have already booked a series of Swedish lessons since my lack of Swedish seems to be hindering me here immensely, in the hope that one day I can sweep back in and shock some kind of million dollar contract out of Sony Ericsson. I guess only time will tell, but right now, I'm stocking up on as much Swedish cuisine as possible. I might even see if the local ICA supermarket has a few hundred bottles of glögg left in the basement...

Snow angels

2am, after 4 bottles of wine between three of us, and a lot of bruschetta, Miss I. and I decided to go frolicking in the freshly fallen snow, and I fell in love with Stockholm all over again. I've been having a hard time deciding if I really should try and stay here forever, or if I should cut my losses and hit the bigtime in London (or get really depressed after spending 4 hours of every day on the tube and talking to Eastenders who omit all required consonants). JonJon says I should just stay in one place for a while. I. agrees (although perhaps has ulterior motives, since we have just settled in here and committed to learning how to DJ so we can perform a set called "From Helsinki to Sydney" at our friends' new nightclub. Until then we have committed to drinking wine the way only Finns and Australians really can, in order to keep the owners happy). My parents and ex-boyfriend (of the pizza-less fridge) think I should go and get myself some pounds in the bank. I am torn in two. I really don't know which way to go here, and find myself doing anything to not have to think about it (including watching VERY bad tv thrillers with titles like "The Seductress", frolicking in the snow, and drinking wine like only Finns and Australians can). I am hoping some miracle occurs to make my mind up (the emergence of a valiant Viking would be nice) but failing that I'm going to have to do some hard thinking in the next few days. Is it actually possible to ever be nearly a Swede?

Fear and loathing in ... Oslo

[Pic: Note that in Oslo, you can apparently only cross the road if you are Frank Sinatra, or have similiar mafia-approved dress sense]

Seriously, I should have seen this one coming. Abandoned in my ex-boyfriend's posh house in Oslo with no phone and nothing to eat except a giant box of Scottish porridge oats and some canned soup (which I haven't actually been able to find). My Norwegian friend Jonas skyped me (thank god for skype!) and said, "Look in the freezer - there's always a frozen pizza in any self-respecting Norwegian's freezer". Sadly, my ex is not Norwegian, and does not seem to have acquired the means of survival in Arctic temperatures. The driveway is iced over and we are in a place with no streetlights and only one store which I doubt is open this time of night. I don't intend to try to reach it. ...Besides, I don't have my 1950s mafia outfit with me so probably wouldn't be able to cross the road, ice or not.

Meanwhile he's off living it up with the lads (at least, I hope it's the lads...I know I shouldn't hope that, but I do). "I have a life you know," he would say, if he read this. Yes well, I had planned to have a life too. I think Swedish Rail -- who have cancelled my train back to Sweden and don't have much to suggest as an alternative -- should give me the last several hours of my life back along with a complimentary cup of their unique brand of super strong coffee and a sound slap on the wrist for staying at my ex-boyfriend's house in the first place. I should be at home with Miss I, leaning over the balcony in Stockholm guiltily sharing an ill-begotten cigarette and dissecting the emotional rollercoaster of the last few days apart. But no. Thanks to a giant storm that has ravaged Sweden, I'm here still. I don't think it's too much to ask for my ex to invite me, Miss Abandoned Guest, along for at least some red wine. I'd even quite happily settle for porridge if I had company.

There were telltale signs from Day 1 really. On the way here my colleague and I were so excited to be travelling first class on the train for once in our lives. There were a few indications that not all was well - I realised I'd lost my mobile phone, there was no internet on board, no credit card accepted at the kiosk (which did wonders for his diet but not for my blood sugar). And then the train stopped, we stood outside for 40 minutes in the rain waiting for a replacement bus and endured a farcical series of bus drivers who were convinced they were NOT going to Oslo. My colleague began an enchanting rendition of Singin' in the Rain to pass the time though.

Having said that, I think Oslo is fantastic. And despite the ups and downs with the ex, we did have a lovely fireside lunch yesterday overlooking the whole of Oslo (before struggling with the Frank Sinatra impersonations on the way home). Tension mounted as the girl he is seeing was blatantly unhappy with my being here, going so far as to drop a single IKEA bed over for my comfort and enjoyment. Thanks. I could maybe forgive a Swede for that on the basis of nationalism alone but a Norwegian - never. At least I have learnt that being friends with exes is bound to be doomed to failure (at least if you are an emotional person like myself who listens to too much Jarvis Cocker.)

The one piece of advice my ex has given me in the last few days which I think I will now live by, are from what I strongly suspect is a self-help book but which I think might be useful anyway.

1. Be impeccable with your word
2. Don't take anything personally
3. Don't assume
4. Always do your best

However I think they should add in something about:

5. Be kind and put yourself in other people's shoes especially if their train has been cancelled and it's cold
6. Keep a frozen pizza in the fridge at all times
7. When depressed, you can't go wrong with Depeche Mode

Oh - and when travelling to Oslo, take a fedora hat and snappy tie.

...The Extraordinary

In the absence of Christmas and New Year tales (which will come soon, I am awaiting photos of the stunning snow made from soap that was showered upon us at midnight on New Year's Eve) I want to tell you about a disturbing experience I had today when I was persuaded by curiousity and confusion to call a psychic. I have always been open to the existence of strange phenomena, even before my teenage crush on David Duchovny. My Sven-finding friend Jeanna and I used to fill our pre-university mornings feasting upon a cheap television series hosted by a bald guy in a trench coat. It was called "...The Extraordinary" (pronounced pause The ExtRORdinaryyy). We sat glued to our ancient tv set, feasting on strong coffee and chocolate-digestive biscuits. We were thrilled to hear tales of hauntings and coincidences, our personal favourite being when Telly Savalas (aka Kojak) found himself in the limousine of a falsetto-voiced ghost driver, inspiring many a drunken exclamation of "IIIII'LLLL give you a ride!".

The problem is, no matter how much I want to believe, I remain unconvinced, and after today, a bit stressed. Last year a psychic told me that Australia was merely a place to recharge my batteries, but my spiritual home was in Europe. That I should go to Europe and rekindle a lost love, and that I would look out a window here and know when I'd found "home". (She also told me that she'd send me a pack of tarot cards, and never did. That should have rung a ghostly alarm bell).

Today I rang someone recommended by a friend. She told me that I had at least two friendly helpers on the Other Side, including a 25 year old guy with fair hair who'd died in a car crash who was keen to help me. I told her I didn't know anyone who'd died in a car crash, apart from my university friend who died in a taxi in London at age 17. She had dark hair and er...was female. The psychic told me a few things that could be true I suppose - my motherly instincts (check, despite years of denial), my tendency to choose boys intsead of men (check check check), my need to sort things out with my family - especially the roles of women in my family (check) and ... that I needed to move back to Australia. Now, you could say that to pretty much any expatriate Australian, except me. I've been there done that. I went home to put down roots, spent far too much money on a stainless steel fridge and a nice cutlery set, and could right now be working in a cosy job as a web producer in a funky urban Sydney agency. But call me a snob, the day that The Australian, our only national newspaper, put the headline "ATM FEES GO UP TO $2" rather than "HAMAS ELECTED IN PALESTINE" I decided to cut my losses and head off for my ill-fated adventure in Tokyo.

Anyway, with me writhing in horror, the psychic went on to say that home is where the family is (her opinion, not necessarily anyone on the Other Side). While I miss my family, I don't think living in their immediate vicinity is necessary to belong to them. Not to mention it being physically impossible - my mother is in China, my father in Brisbane, my sister in Sydney, my grandparents and aunts sprinkled between Darwin, North Queensland and the Gold Coast.

It got worse. I have to be more needy and ladylike or men won't feel appreciated by me. But I am apparently to end up with an Australian man, something which challenges my entire view of myself -- I'm not sure I can even handle Australian vowels any more, let alone men. What happened to the tall valiant Viking who was supposed to come and rescue me? (If pushed, I would however accept Hugh Jackman as a substitute).

And I am supposedly going to give up work and have at least three kids. For a girl who's had only one long-term relationship and is currently being ignored by Mr Unrequited, this came as something of a shock. Why oh why didn't I stick with the bald guy and Telly Savalas for my supernatural fix?

As I discussed this on the balcony with I. over chocolate cake (which she sweetly baked since she figured I might need it), I suddenly remembered something that will give the EXTRAORDINARY guy a run for his money. When I was about 5, I was running mischievously around a hospital while my poor baby sister was being treated for a bowel problem. I remember pulling back a curtain and seeing a ... 25 year old fair haired guy lying there covered in red stitches after being in a car accident. He smiled at me and so did the doctor. The doctor seemed to think it was cute that I was there to cheer up the accident victim. He seemed like he would survive, but the image was burned in my memory forever. Could he be my spirit guide? Or is he in a pub in Brisbane having a pint of VB in a pair of stubbies* and maseur sandals?

So I'm not sure how I feel. Will my horror at this become a self-fulfilling prophesy? Or should I just take the key elements: there'll be some kind of happy ending but I need to deal with my feelings towards motherhood and culturally confused Australia first. And that I need a man instead of a boy. I'm leaning towards that, unless some noble Viking drags me by the hair onto a Qantas flight bound for Sydney.

*stubbies - Australian for very short shorts.