Countdown to familiar sounds, sights, and daunting expectations

I’m looking ahead to reentry.

Spring semester is drawing to a close back at UAF, along with my own experience studying abroad at Mid Sweden University. A month from now I’ll be departing Sweden. That prospect has me thinking about my return to American culture.

I long to be free of the need to pack my pocket dictionary on grocery store visits, so I can read the ingredients on food.

I look forward to hearing my own language in the background. I miss understanding every thing in that goes on around me, from what the bus driver says, to the person in front of me, to what my friends say on the phone. It will be a relief when I no longer hear my country as the butt of jokes about fat people or the political blunders of head political officials. No matter how much agree with these jokes they still wear on me.

Flying from Stockholm to Ostersund a few days ago, I received a copy of the New York Herald Tribune. The pleasure the gift delivered had less to do with the international news, but in knowing exactly what was being reported. I’m now well accustomed to looking at books and newspapers in Swedish. I can piece together the meaning of the foreign text, but nuisances and intricacies in the writing escape me.

I had all most forgotten what it felt like to read something easily.

My departure form Sweden also marks the end of my collage career. This astounds me: after five years of effort, spanning three universities and a semester abroad, I will be done.

Finishing school is bitter sweet. Part of me can’t wait. There is feeling of accomplishment that I can’t fully describe. At the same time, it’s terrifying.

I’m expected to take what I’ve learned and apply it in work place. Fear about what comes following collage has been creeping in on me for days. I am caught between worrying about this looming transition in to the “real world” and excitement about being done with university life.

I want summer so bad I can taste it. A Rare call from a friend back home coupled with a care package containing BBQ sauce left me longing for the laziness of American summer. Endless days of swimming at local lakes and Back yard BBQs with cheep American beer. In the last few days I have realized that it’s not this summer that I’m longing for, what I really miss is something that doesn’t exist any more. Times are changing among my friends; the coming of careers and in some cases families had brought an end to the lakeside debauchery that once meant summer.
I want this next month to go slowly, allowing me time for savoring Sweden’s language and culture. When I think about things I’m really going to miss it comes down to people. It’s the people here who have taught me the most about this country. People who have opened up their homes and hearts to me, helping me to feel like an insider instead of an outsider. I have made amazing friends I wouldn’t trade the world for.

This past semester opened my mind. It’s helped me to understand how the world works.
Humans tend to assume the way we are used to doing things is the only way. Living in another culture forces you to realize this world supports many different views.

One thing for sure: Sweden hasn’t seen the last of me.

Fanship a Way of Life

If you think that that American football fans are crazed, wait till a Norwegian biathlon fan greets you with a flag in one hand a beer in the other.
I used to think that extreme fan hood was a distinctly American cultural dysfunction. I’ve discovered similarly crazed fans at the world championships for biathlon, recently held in Ostersund.
This competition marked the end of this season’s Biathlon World Cup Races. For the athletes, it was the culmination a year’s hard work, and the determination of who would be named the world champion of biathlon. (The winner the day I went was a Norwegian by the name of Einer Bjoendalen.) For the town of Ostersund, it was its big moment to shine in the international sporting spotlight.
Fans seized the excuse to eat drink, be merry, wear silly patriotic things and stand outside in very cold weather.
If you are confused as to what biathlon is, you are not alone. The sport combines cross-country skiing and shooting. Depending on the race, competitors will shoot several times from either standing or lying. For every missed shot, competitors take a penalty lap, adding about 25 seconds to their time. This might not sound like much. But in a sport where races are won by a tenth of a second, one missed shot can mean the difference between glory and defeat.
Nothing says party like a cross-country ski race.
The number of fans that turned out for the weeklong series blew my mind. In Alaska, the main people who show up to watch ski races are parents, accompanied by the occasional friend or fellow competitors.
Here biathlon is a big business throughout northern Europe, especially in Germany and Norway. The local newspaper projected that the number of spectators passing though Ostersund during the world champion ships would double the town’s population.
I have yet to see final numbers, but judging by how crowded the little town suddenly became, the newspaper’s prediction looks accurate.
I attended the opening two days of completion. The sky was gray, reminiscent of most February days in Fairbanks. Hordes of Swedish, Norwegian and German fans packed the stadium, joyously waving flags in a plethora of colors. People carried banners with the names of their favorite skiers. Cheers resounded when the competitors made successful shots.
Nearby stood the true fanatic. Judging by looks, he could have been around 90, sporting a face wrinkled from years of snow and sun, yet remarkably spry. He wore a green hat with horns covered in Norwegian pins. A cape made of a Norwegian flag graced his back. In one hand, the fanatic gripped another flag. In the other, a large cowbell, which he used to loud effect regardless of what was going on.
Announcer: “ Bib number 15 is entering the stadium”
“Clang! Clang! Clang!” rattled the old fan.
Announcer: “Bib number 8 is leaving the stadium”
“Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!”
Eventually the incessant cowbell drove my friend and I into the beverage tent.
Extreme fanship’s isn’t solely the domain of drunked men in their mid twenties. As the old fanatic demonstrates, it’s a life long endeavor here.

A Beautiful People

Feb. 6 is set aside as a national day in Sweden, celebrating the Sámi.
The Sámi are Scandinavia’s indigenous people. Archeological digs place their ancestors in the region as early as 9000 BC. Today the Sámi people occupy northern parts of Sweden, Norway, portions of Finland and eastern Russia. The larger community’s population is divided into four groups: north Sámi, south Sámi, Lule Sámi, and east Sámi. Each is known for speaking with a distinct dialect though the language of all is closely related to Finnish.
Ostersund, where I’m attending school, is located in the area that is populated by the south Sámi.
The Sámi have a beautiful and complex culture, the type that inspires jealousy among American’s whose cultural roots are spread thin. In the first written record of their presence, the Roman historian Tacitus described Sámi living a subsistence life style.
Traditionally, they herded reindeer, but few still make their living that way.
Holidays mean food. I love to cook. So when friends invited me to help preparing a traditional national day dinner, I was all for it.
I had no idea what I was in for.
Trying to fit reindeer meat to feed 40 people in to a five-gallon pot is a bit of a logistical problem. The feast prepared with my Sámi friends, David and Inga-Lisa, also included carrots, potato and rutabaga , knickabrod (rye crackers) and klump, which is similar to dumplings.
Once the meat and vegetables started to boil, the aroma was delicious.
Before other guests arrived, David and Inga-Lisa changed into traditional dress. Their colorful clothing, bright reds, blues, greens and yellows, made for a festive atmosphere. It’s apparently possible to tell what type of Sámi someone is by their traditional dress. Comparing Inga-Lisa’s north Sámi attire with David’s south Sámi clothing, I could see subtle differences in decorative patterns and designs.
Inga-Lisa doesn’t speak Sámi. “I wish I did,” she explained. “My parents weren’t allowed to learn it.”
The language deficit is a reminder of the Swedish government’s dark history with respect to her own indigenous people. As part of its efforts to assimilate the Sámi, government policies sought to eradicate the Native language and culture. Other policies led to forced relocations and what amounted to substandard education. Reading about this history, I was reminded of our own government’s treatment of American Indians in the late 1800 and 1900s.
Today, Sámi culture is experiencing a renaissance. People my age are working to keep the culture alive and pass it along to future generations.
The Sámi parliament of Sweden was established in 1993; it governs cultural issues for the Sámi but has no real political power. The Sámi Parliament seems to hold a similar place to Alaska Federation of Natives. Universities in both Sweden and Norway are offering degrees in Sámi language and culture. It is comforting to see the resurgence of Sámi coulter. However all is not perfect, racism still exists and stereotypes persist among the wider Swedish population. Modern Sámi face many of the same obstacles and stereo types as Alaska natives do.
Joining in this effort the Swedish government is now helping to preserve and protect the right of a beautiful people that they spent so long trying destroy.
With the guests present and the food laid upon the table, it was time to eat. There were heaping platters of meat and bright orange carrots, yellow turnips and potatoes. The guests served themselves tentatively at first, trying little bits of the meat and vegetables, they were even less sure of what to expect then I was. The mildness of the meat combined with the almost sweet taste of the carrots surprised me. It was plain simple but absolutely wonderful. As I ate my meal, I pondered my food. The simplicity of the meal was a reflection of the Sámi’s ancient substance lifestyle.

For better or for worse its still school

School is school no matter where you go or how it is organized. I’m not quite sure why, but I thought school would be less monotonous in Sweden.
It’s more confusing. I get lost more; look dazzled or confused more often. But whether it’s delivered in Swedish or English, school still brings more homework and early morning classes.
I was surprised to discover Sweden’s university system is completely different. Classes consist of five-week sessions and there are five of those sessions per semester. (One interesting linguistic note: Semester means vacation in Swedish.)
Students take one class per session. At the end of every session, there is a large exam. If for some outlandish reason you fail, the exam can be repeated at the end of the next session. So on and so forth it goes, through six allowed tries, until you do finally pass.
Exams here seem to cover material in more depth then the finals I faced at University of Alaska Fairbanks.
I told my Swedish flat mates that in the U.S. you get one try at an exam.
“That’s ridiculous,” they cried.
I do like the idea of having the option of retaking finals. Even better, I passed my first one without need for that luxury.
This system has its perks and its drawbacks. I find that it is nice focusing on one thing at a time. There is more knowledge to digest, and less busy work. Learning is very self-directed. For someone like me, who is easily distracted, that requires a lot of discipline. It gets boring at times. I find myself longing for the variety and structure of our American university system.
There is also less time for extended projects, which means less research and no long papers.
For the past 10 weeks, I have been taking “Svensk For Ulanderska Studenter,” or Swedish for foreign students.
It’s been grueling, boring and rewarding all at once.
While I now make some sort of sense in Swedish, I still commonly say, “Kan du saga det en gang till,” (can you say that again) and “Kan du tala langsammare” (can you speak slower). It’s an improvement, but I have a lot of work ahead if I want to be conversational.
Yesterday was my fist day of a new class, it was a familiar scene: Students hunched over their desks hurriedly taking notes as the professor lectured. The one person in the back of the classroom who cant seem to stay awake, counterbalanced by the over-eager student who asks questions just to hear themself talk. Had it not been for the posters in Swedish on the walls of the room, I could have sworn that I was back at UAF in one of the dimly lit rooms in Bunnel building.

Charting the Known!?

I was recently in Stockholm on my way to Italy. I stayed with an Alaskan friend. Over dinner and a bottle of wine, we discussed our current life situation, her graduate school, and my semester aboard. Our desires to leave a mark on this world.
I told her about this blog. I was surprised when she asked me why I named it Charting the known. Another surprise: I had no answer.
Her question stuck with me. I pondered it on my plain ride to Pisa; I tried to write about it on a very bumpy train from Brendizie to Rome. I thought about it as I passed the Medici palace, running my fingers over the rough sandstone, and nearly hit my head on a 650-year-old wrought iron hose support because of it.
Here’s my thinking on that name up top.
It’s 6:30 in the morning. I can’t sleep. The train car is stuffy. These seats aren’t built for a restful passage. I open the window and peer out. Dusty Italian countryside slips by in the early morning light. The train rushes past shabby buildings, olive groves, and small herds of goats just beginning to wake up.
The sun rising over the fields makes me feel like an explorer seeing new territory for the fist time. For an instant, even in this ancient country, I think I grasp what Americgo Espogie or Cortez felt when they first saw the New World. Every thing out this train window is exciting and new to me.
The train passes a citadel built high on a hill; I want to know its name, its history.
Of course, there is no new territory in Europe, uncharted rivers or vast wilderness to explore. There are no immense unmapped distances full of great unknowns awaiting this explorer.
In the less then the time it would take me to drive between Fairbanks and Anchorage, I go from Italy to France, or Austria. If I’m disoriented in the winding streets, there are guidebooks, maps dotted with symbols denoting important historical sights and helpful locals to point me in the right direction. These places and spaces have been inhabited for thousands of years. Untold numbers of people preceded every step I took in Rome.
Yet, for me, it is all new, worlds I’ve only read about in books, or seen in movies.
Though I know these places exist, to make them real, I need to see and touch them for myself.
I am charting Europe for myself. Every experience, every vista, and every blunder down a wrong alley--all I see and do is incorporated for use navigating these well mapped, till-now unknown, seas of culture.

Thin Ice

In a town that is known as ‘winter city’ and derives most of its tourism income from this picturesque concept, climate change is a hot topic.
It is early February. Ice has finally frozen solid. Construction of a veritable playground on the adjacent frozen lake has begun.
In winter, this town centers on the lake and it has become an intrical part of my own life as well. I walk across it to school and any other activity that requires going into town. It cuts my travel time in half crossing the ice rather than using the footbridge that connects our island to the mainland.
Nonetheless it’s still a 20 minute walk. That gives me plenty of time to contemplate the state of the 20-30 centimeters of ice that separates me from the lake’s cold waters.
When I fist arrived in mid-January, the ice was unsafe. There were huge soft spots. Water freely flowed under the footbridge. The lake finally froze in mid-December. However, it later thawed and refroze only recently.
On one of my recent forays, I started to wonder if it was normal for the ice to freeze this late. Is this just an unseasonably warm year? Or am I witness to the effects of a long-term warming trend.
Another question rolled around in my head: What would global warming mean for this area?
Seeking answers, I recently sought out Andreas Gyllenhammar. His job is monitoring climate change and how it directly affects Jemtland.
I went to meet Andreas on gray day that felt more like late March than mid- February. A light drizzle of sleet fell spitefully from the sky. The ice looked shakey at best. I took the longer route.
“Statistically it has to be a blip,” Andreas explained regarding this year’s warm weather. “Otherwise it’s really scary. If it’s a trend, then we don’t understand the climate, then something is really really wrong here.”
He pointed out that climate models forecast a gradual warming trend for the region. “That’s the only way to rule out years like this year,” he said.
According to those models, Jemtland is basking in a warm weather “blip.” That assumes the models projecting slower rates of change are sound. Not everyone shares that view.
“Some people think that this is happing faster then we think.”
As it turns out, Andreas uses the lake as an index tracking other warming trends. The lake’s freeze and thaw patterns have been recorded for the last 170 years.
Since 1870, according to the data, the lake’s mean date for thaw is May 18.
Andreas showed me a graph of the thaw dates. There were several deviations, so called “out liars” in statistical parlance, reflecting years when the lake’s thawing bucked overall year-to-year patterns. Since the 1970s, however, the tend shows the lake’s ice gradually thawing earlier.
“Thawing is a better climate parameter, then freezing,” Andreas explained, “freezing takes special conditions: very cold and no wind.” This means the lake’s freeze-up dates more often varies for reasons other than temperature.
The climate in Sweden is getting warmer faster on average then elsewhere in the world. (http://www.ipcc.ch/)
Ostersund spends half of the year below freezing; current projections about the warming trend indicate that in 80 years the Jamtland’s climate will be 5-7 degrees warmer. This would boost the area’s mean temperature to what’s now seen in the southern tip of Sweden, a region comparable to our Pacific Northwest.
“Those months where we are below zero are disappearing,” said Andreas, as he searched for another diagram illustrating projected temperature changes. “So my theory is that Ostersund is in a bad area because we still have winters, but they are disappearing.”
On my walk home, I found myself thinking about what he had said about
Losing winter.I grew up in Anchorage. Part of my identity is built around winter. What would my world be like without snow? The identity of the people here is also intertwined with ice and snow. When climates change, everything else does too. Seasonal patterns are shattered. Biodiversity of a whole region is subject to upheaval. However a more immediate concern to me was loss of my shortcut to school and the vast play ground that the lake provides.

Olaf's Bones

The definition of an old building depends on whom you are asking.
Being from the West Cost of the United States, I tend to define an old building as one built before 1920. Even that seems ancient compared to the circa-1964 architecture of Fairbanks. All of it starkly contrasts with my surroundings on the island of Frösön.
From my bed room window, I can see a hill on top of which are ruins of a fort so old no one remembers what it is called. The entire island is dotted with Viking and early Christian ruins.
If you were to ask some one in the nearby town of Ostersund what is an example of an old building they would point to the old church on Frösön. Services are still held in the church that was built in 1305; in fact it is one of the most popular places to get married in Sweden.
On Sunday, I walked up to the old church. It occupies one of the highest points on the island. The sign at the top says that on a clear day it is possible to see all the way to Trondhime, Norway. However, I couldn’t tell where the soft snow-covered hills of Sweden ended and the frosty mountains of Norway began.
When the church was built Jamtland was a semi-autonomous part of Norway. It didn’t surprise me to discover that the land supporting the church has a history all its own. The church rests upon an Iron Age burial ground. My research turned up a most interesting fact:
“In the place where the earliest high altar is likely to have been located, the charred remains of a wooden stump together with large amounts
Of animal bones, mostly bear were found. These finds have been carbon dated to the Viking Age and this site has thus been seen as ‘incontestable evidence for cult site continuity’ from pre-Christian to Christian times.” (http://www.arkeologi.uu.se/publications/digital/sanmark/Sanmark2004_OPIA34.pdf)
Archeological artifacts are to be expected in light of the island’s history as the trading center of Jamtalnd. What I find more surprising was the willingness of the early Christians to build a church on a top of a highly sacred place. Realizing this, I began to draw connections between the landscape recycling here and other holy places around the world. For example, in the city of Jerusalem, there are places where churches were built by the Crusaders on top of Jewish temples. In turn these churches were replaced by mosques.
The Frösön churchyard is covered with closely set graves. Head stones barely poke though the snow. Older Viking graves in and around the churchyard are visible in the summer. Dominating the church yard is a freestanding belfry. This was erected relatively recently, I’m told, sometime in the 1700s. The elaborate shingle work on the belfry contrasts with the simplicity of the old church.
The church itself is an unimpressive structure. It was built for function more then beauty, perhaps that is why it has withstood the test of time. The walls are made of thick stone white-washed 150 years ago in the wake of a fire. Inside the woodwork is painted Jamtish blue, a color characteristic of this area of Sweden.
Hidden near the altar is a little alcove in the wall that contains a chest. The contents of which is supposedly the holy relics of St Olaf. Namely parts of his hands and feet. I looked him up in Wikipedia (by all accounts a highly unrelable source, so take this next bit of information with a grain of salt). St. Olaf had a turbulent rule that lasted from 1015 to 1030. He is given credit for uniting inland and costal Norway, along with Christianizing its people. St. Olaf had a reputation for being a rash and brutal ruler. (Doesn’t that make his sainthood slightly ironic?) According to a local tour guide, the saint’s body was exhumed from his grave in Norway in the 1950s. When they examined it he still had all of his fingers and toes. If his fingers and toes are still attached, then what is in that chest?