Brännboll på Parentesen 2010

Last night one of the numerous blond, silent men sharing my corridor with me asked me what Germans associate with Sweden. The obvious answer was blond, silent men and moose (if you don't understand this, you're obviously not German. Live with it.) I realise that I was drifting into clichés, and that Sweden does have a lot more to offer than that. But never in my wildest dreams did I imagine this...

And yes, they made the poor German play as well:

Well, at least we didn't land in the Garbage Final. No thanks to me though...

The Karma (Bi)Cycle

I am already rather well-known here in Lund, at least in my student residency and in certain shops. No, I'm not talking about the National Alcohol Store, I'm talking about a bicycle shop in "downtown" Lund. Reason: I have apparently managed to set up the record of the fastest bicycle theft. They are pretty common here in the city which is also known as "Little Beijing", but usually you have the pleasure of using your bike for more than 3 hours before it's gone.

I bought my bike on a Wednesday and it got stolen on (badadadam) Wednesday. I was pretty pissed. BUT! Enter the Swedish police, my new friend, helper and hero. They managed to find my bicycle, contact the shop where I bought it which in turn contacted me and I can now go and pick up my beloved bicycle today or tomorrow. I must have done something right in my previous life...

Go Green

No, I haven't decided to sell my soul and internet space (thank God these two things aren't identical yet) to the Green Party. But I suppose I have been slightly infected by the lands of elves and fairies. And to keep enough trees for the creatures of the forest, here's my contribution: make it green. And for all of you who don't understand the website...well, stop surfing the internet and go learn German. Or use google translate.

Välkomna i Bullerby

Lund is picturesque. Quaint. Dainty, even. It is reminiscent of Astrid Lindgren and the perfect world portrayed in her story books.

From what I have seen in the last few days, between settling in and trying to get into the foolproof dumpster, everything seems politically correct. And, of course, good for the environment. Even the punks loitering in front of the train station seemed kind of cuddly and cute (don't tell them I said that, the dog was kinda scary after all).

My only hope is the students. When they come back I dream to be let into the world of seedy, grimy, smoke filled - wait, I mean smoke free and approved by the board of hygiene - but nevertheless smelly bars with disgusting toilets. Because if they sanitise the restrooms here EVERYWHERE, I'm coming back home. A person has got to have his standards.

It Just Won't Happen

What make travel account readable, in my opinion, is one thing and one thing only. We don't by books to read about sights other people have seen. That's what the internet is for, and the picture quality is usually better, too. So, why do we (or I, I'm just gonna go out on a limb here and assume) spend money on Paul Theroux and Michael Palin. Simple: because of the people they meet and the anecdotes collected along the way. A good bit of sarcasm and not too much self-respect can go a long way as well. Which is why writing a book about my experiences in India is pretty much out of the question. Firstly, cause I'm lazy. But also because although the number of people I met was big, they weren't really out of my comfort zone. Not like the guy I met in Turkey who's been travelling for 2 years now and never keeping still. Or the chef-cook who had given up the management of a star restaurant in California to work on a private yacht.

And in the end, like nearly everything (except Robbie Williams), it's better live anyway.

Photographic Evidence

For all you without access to a well-known but not to be mentioned social networking site: Impressions of India
Enjoy!!

"The Time has Come...

...the Walrus said, to speak of many things..."
Of leaving, for example. In my last hours in the India I have learnt to love. Well, not really, because I am currently in the fashionable part of Bangalore with the bleached Indians and coffee to go which has nothing to do with my village and the life associated with it.
In these past 8 months I have been frustrated, annoyed, angry, pissed off; I have cried more tears than in the last 8 years and I have been on the verge of physical violence. More than once. But I have also laughed until I cried, been stuffed with unbelievably good food and been on the receiving end of indescribable hospitality and kindness.
In general, hearing the soft whup whup whup of a fan is, for me, the sound of adventure and romanticism. At least in my imagination. As so often, imagination and reality don't really match up. Fans there were plenty, but neither was the sound they made soft, nor did they cool me all night, what with power cuts and what have you. And try sleeping with 30 degrees C and 90 % humidity. There's nothing romantic about that, believe you me. But on the other hand, memory and reality don't really math either, so in a few months, India will have fulfilled all my adventurous needs.
So thank you all for being faithful readers. As I shall still not be in Cairo after I back I shall keep this blog. Though I doubt the Swedes have so much story material as the Indians. But you never know. And I still have a few back issues that I haven't managed to post.
Dhanyawada and namaste.