A Symbol of Fertility

The midsummer pole is not actually the straight, plain log I had in mind.

'It's a symbol of fertility,' explained Elsa, the retired schoolteacher I met backpacking in Java months ago.

She and her husband graciously invited me to join their extended family for the Midsummer Solstice Festival, Sweden's cool pagan schnapps party.

'We want you to experience a real Swedish cultural event!' Per beamed.

So IKEA's twice-yearly sale doesn't count?

I didn't know real Swedish culture featured a 15-foot wooden phallus on the grass.

My kind of lawn ornament!

The Midsummer lunch was a smörgåsbord of meatballs, quiche, cheese, smoked herring, raw herring, herring cake, herring pie, green salad (with herring), and lots and lots of schnapps.

'Toot tooot!'

Per played his bugle to signal the start of the drinking games and raised his glass for a short group sing-a-long.

We took a sip or swig of Absolut. Five minutes later we did it again - we sang about nature. And again - cue the socialist ditty. The bugle intervals pared down to 30 seconds until we were summoned, tipsy, to decorate the pole.

By decorate, I mean Elsa's son cut down a real alder tree, stripped its branches and handed them to me with some twine. Because tradition dictates any phallic symbol with Midsummer's ovaries flopping in the breeze should look realistic...

Well, the significance of the two circular wreaths dangling from the pole's arms is really up for debate:

Opinion one - woodsy ovums, giving the pole that jolly hermaphroditic crucifix flavor.

Opinion two - dangling scrotum sacks blowing seed to the wind, allowing the perpendicular pole to theoretically get it on with mother earth.

Bow-chicka-wow-wow!

Suddenly, this is reading like The Smutty Traveler.

When we finished camouflaging the pole, we stood in awe. Forty four relatives of Per and Elsa, slick with schnapps or chocolate cake (or both) crowned with wildflowers, frolicking hand-in-hand around this Scandinavian sex symbol, topped with the Swedish flag.

That's when the singing started. Some tunes were like a public service announcement:

The bear is sleeping, the bear is sleeping
In it's calm den
He's not dangerous as long as you're cautious
But you can never trust him!

This lesson must have been learned the hard way. I liked the one with choreography:

Little froggies, little froggies
It's very jolly to watch them!
(hold your neighbors hand and skip to the right)
No ears, no ears they have
(ear cupping motion)
No tails, no tails they have
(tail pointing)
Oh, quack quack quack!
(hop in a circle)

Little piggies, little piggies
It's very jolly to watch them!
(now, skip to the left)
Both ears and tails they have
(more ear and tail pointing)
Oh, poink poink poink!
(more hopping)

Ancient Swedes apparently found frogs very disturbing creatures, pointing out their audial inferiority to swine and confusing their natural call with ducks.

It happens. Well, it happens in real Sweden.

Puritanical Icelandic library systems

Greetings all,

Thanks for all the e-mails from home, I really appreciate everybody writing to me! I am blogging/emailing to you from my friend Shivani´s email account, as mine
is considered obscene for the Akureyri public library, and it won´t let me
send. Sorry.

Iceland is treating me well. Sort of.

Since we last spoke, I think I told you about how I was going to climb
(okay, walk) on the largest glacier in Europe. Of course, I jinxed myself
when I had this conversation with Leif, our guide:



Me: So, has anybody ever been hurt on these glacier walks, as in they´ve
died Þ

Leif: Well, no. We have had some cuts and bruises, though, but in my 14
years leading this tour, nothing bad has happened.

Me: Yes, but I´m talking about death, Leif. Has there been any death Þ

Leif: (chuckle. uncomfortable silence. worried glances exchanged).

Greeeat. So we didn´t have to sign any waiver, nobody asked us if we had
high blood pressure or if we were pregnant, and Leif was the only guide for
about 15 people on the trip. No matter.

We trekked for about 3 hours round-trip and everything was amazing - mounds
of ice towering above us, crevasses plunging below, all of us precariously
balancing on ridges... everything was going great until I stopped doing my
John Wayne walk as directed and caught my cramp-on on the strap of my other
boot. Then splat. I fell on a rock-hard glacier. On my knees, no less.

Leif, my knight in shining armor, didn´t even notice. Nothing broke (I
don´t think) and I continued down the trek until I crumbled in the bus - no
crying, thank you very much. Just a few agonizing gasps here and there. I
couldn´t walk the rest of the night and my knees swelled up like
grapefruits. Of course, that was like four days ago and I´m very resilient
- all that´s left are some huge purple bruises and a lovely splattering of
yellow, which is making me look like I have jaundice.




Luckily, we moved on to Lake Myvatn, which is a serious attraction for the
locals, as well as swarms of tiny flies who live in the grass. Myvatn has a
lot of cool stuff around it - bubbling pools of mud, lava sculptures, an
imploded volcano, craggy fissures... but the best part of all was the hot
spring lagoon.

Perhaps you have seen such things on television. The water, which stinks
like rotten eggs thanks to the sulphur, has so-called healing powers that
sure did a number on me. The sun was setting, as much as it can in this
country of 24-hour light, the mist was rolling in and I was sitting in a
pool of milky moonstone-colored water for hours. Lagoons are as to
Icelanders as bowling alleys are to Americans. They are everywhere, the
locals hang out there, and I want to be a local! It was the most beautiful
night we´ve had here, and despite the $18 entrance fee, we went back the
next night for more. Hey, its got healing powers...

Other notes of interest: we saw 2 humpback whales on a whalewatching tour
in Husavik, a bay in the north where the whales frequent. We only glimpsed a
fin and some tail, but it was pretty majestic.

Much more majestic, however, was the trip to the Phallological Museum
beforehand, where we saw penises encased in formaldahyde from nearly every
mammal in Iceland (except for a human. luckily a guy in Colorado who has
named his penis Elmo has agreed to donate his specimen upon his death.
apparently Elmo was a model for the adult industry for many years. how
charming). Naturally, this was a very educational experience for all of us
and we acted like complete adults the entire time. Did you know the Sperm
whale has a much larger penis than a Blue whale, despite being smaller in
stature Þ Fascinating.



The smallest specimen was from a hampster, we had to look at it through a
microscope. Poor guy.

We only have 2 more days of camping before we head back to Reykjavik for
some TLC in an actual bed. The nightlife in Reykjavik is rumored to be of
the best in Europe, although things don´t really get started until 1 a.m.
We are moving further west through the fjords today, and we´re on the hunt for
more hot springs. So far, we´ve found a new one every other day, and we
even managed to do some sunbathing in Akureyri, Iceland´s second-largest city
with 15,000 people. A big city is a relative term.

Hope all is well for you!

p.s. I do apologize for not using the question mark in this e-mail - I
can´t find it on the keyboard.

Lewd and lascivious - thanks, Spain

After nearly a week in Spain I have several tales to tell fine art, street hustlers and public masturbation.

I spent four full days in Barcelona after a tumultuous train ride from Nice (which is another story altogether, involving a Frenchman on speed). My first day in Barcelona I devoted to Gaudi, zipping around the Sagrada Familia -- the church that has been under construction for nearly 100 years, don´t have to cover up your shoulders to go in there, haha -- and poking around Parc Guell, both equally awe-inspiring works if architecture and art. I am officially a Gaudi fan, so it was a good thing I went to Barcelona because he´s everywhere.

The next day I did Picasso, visiting the museum and being somewhat impressed by his transformation from a classically trained painter during his teenage years to a complete nut by the end of his days. That was the fine art portion of this posting.

I took a third day to pop around Las Ramblas, the main market street that has a lot of FBC (that´s Barcelona futbol for you ¨football¨ fans) jersey shops adjacent to Cartier and Louis Vuitton. An interesting mix.

Las Ramblas has the best street performers I´ve ever seen. I think I´ve found a new calling in life because the job is simple: dress up like your favorite historical character, don´t move and people give you money. Jesus and Mary were particular favorites of mine, as well as a man painted white, sitting on a toilet reading the paper. Give him 50 cents and he mimicks constipation. Genius.

The people in Barcelona are smart -- they know stupid tourists are easy to rip off. There was a street game that always started as randomly as it ended involving three boxes and a little ball. You are supposed to find the ball, the catch is you have to pay 50 Euro each time to do so. Sometimes you win; often you lose because the other people playing with you are not in fact tourists, they are in on the scam. It looks like they´re winning all the time, and to the average joe, that means you could win too. I watched a poor Polish guy get suckered out of 150 Euros this way.

All in all, I really enjoyed Barcelona and met some very nice Australians to scout out the city with. The shopping there has so far been the best I´ve found, the mom and pop stores are unique and cheap, lots of jewelry and tapestries.

I must note that the Barcelonans are pioneering the fight to bring back the 80s. I´m calling it the Mullet Movement, because men and women alike, clad in striped 3-inch headbands and one-shoulder sweatshirts paired with stretch pants were walking around everywhere in Barcelona. Without realizing how horrible they look. I was thoroughly disgusted to see this trend, which should be quarantined in Sweden, infiltrating the rest of the world.

From Barcelona, I decided to travel to Madrid. But sometimes the journey is more important than the destination...

I hopped on a train thinking with my Eurail pass, I wouldn´t need a reservation.

Wrong.

I was quickly kicked off the train and told to make a reservation for the next one, which was coming in an hour. Fair enough, said I, but the next trains were booked solid until 11.30 at night. I would have to take an overnight train to Madrid and waste about 10 hours in a city called Tarragona, also on the Mediterranean coast.

Being the resourceful girl that I am, I decided to spend the day on the beach doing some ¨tan maintenance¨ after it dared to rain in Spain during my stint in Barcelona. After about an hour of basking near the rocks on an otherwise sandy beach, a huge wave came and threatened to draw my unsuspecting purse, clothes and lunch into the warm Mediterranean water, never to be seen again.

Being agile as usual, haha, I managed to catch all of my things but not before they were sopping wet with saltwater and sand. During the whole process, I managed to smash my knee into a rock and was gushing blood (I apologize if this is too graphic, but it gets worse). Disgusted with the day´s events thus far, I managed to collect my things and lay them out to dry. My camera doesn´t work anymore, my railpass and passport were soggy and my poor journal was dripping.

Well if that was the worst that could happen, I would be okay, right? God, who has a really sick sense of humor by the way, heard me say that to myself and decided to teach me a lesson.

Not more than five minutes later, I was nursing my knee and a dodgy man in a speedo emerged from his tent from down the beach and plopped down ten feet away from me. Being the sweet, innocent flower of a girl you all know and love, I wasn´t sure WHAT he was doing. At first I thought he was massaging his inner thigh with his fist; upon further inspection, I realized he was massaging a very different muscle. Definitely NOT something Don Juan would do.

Completely fed up with the whole day, I glared at the nasty old man, grabbed my wet stuff and headed for the hills. People were staring at me all day thinking I was a vagabond but I didn´t care. If they dared look me in the eye, they pretty much got my best ¨look of death.¨ I was in no mood to be friendly.

Finally I arrived in Madrid this morning and found a very lovely hostel to stay in. Madrid is lovely, the people here have been very nice so far and I have spent the day looking around the Sunday flea market and getting lost in the Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza, which has a Degas from his ballet sequence (whoopee!!!).

Tomorrow I will take a day-trip to Toledo and Tuesday I am heading up to Burgos to stay with a relative of a friend. Am looking forward to eating a home-cooked meal and being surrounded by actual Spaniards -- not more tourists.