Is This Your Homework, Larry?

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My stay in Oslo was absolutely lovely, and the quiet, easy life with my brother served as a perfect hiatus from everything that’s been going on in my life since that tragic day at the Sydney Airport. Now I’m back in Malmoe again, mourning that the blissful existence with my brother didn’t last a bit longer. My days were beautiful in their simplicity; a morning walk in the Vigelands-park, both mind-cleansing and inspiring, and for the rest of the day I wrote, baked delicious bread, did laundry and cooked dinner for Christian and myself. I was one apron short of the perfect house wife, let me tell you, and a modern one at that; whenever I felt like I needed a break from being creative or doing chores, I’d pick up the plastic guitar and play a few songs on Guitar Hero, “Even Flow” with Pearl Jam being my absolute favorite. High score!
On the other hand, maybe it was about time I returned back to Sweden. The sparse selection of basic items in the Norwegian grocery stores frustrated me to no end. The lack of options almost made me miss the insane cereal aisles of America, even though their countless choices used to give me a headache.
And don’t even get me started on the vegetarian options. Or go ahead, get me started, and there, I’m done. I just covered the vegetarian assortment of Norway.

During one of my Oslo Saturdays, I went with my brother and his work mate Peter to Aker Brygge. We took a guided boat ride through the fjord and I learned all kinds of interesting stuff about Norway in general and Oslo in particular, none of which I remember, of course. With Wikipedia at hand at any given moment there’s really very little incentive to store any information in our brains. I do recall something about Oslo being the 5th largest European city if measured in land mass, which is an absurdly uninteresting statement. It’s as if they’re so desperate to be in the top five of something other than “the most obscenely expensive cities worldwide” (which you may recall they top) that they completely lose all sense of what’s actually relevant.
“We have Europe’s second largest collection of toe nail clippings!”

After the boat ride I bought six of the most expensive post cards available to mankind to send to friends back in Sydney, and then we went for an extortionately priced coffee followed by a slow, free-of-charge stroll.
My brother’s mate Peter was kind of cute, but I would never have guessed he thought anything of me. When he talked he hardly addressed me at all, and within the hour I started to feel like maybe I should’ve declined the offer when my brother had asked me to tag along.
This is why I was a wee bit surprised when my brother the next day reported that Peter had thought I was pretty, supposedly in that wink wink nudge nudge kind of way. This in itself is actually not that shocking, mind you, since I do have charming moments from time to time, but the fact that I would’ve assumed the very opposite based on the way Peter acted is simply ludicrous. Somehow it’s become cool to pretend to not have a single interest in anyone else, and your level of awesomeness is directly related to exactly how little you show you care about other people.
I swear, if it weren’t for alcohol, Scandinavians would never get it on with one another, and the baby-drought would be a fact.

Speaking of which; I have now attempted to go out and have a good time here in Sweden twice, with two very varying outcomes, presumably because of two very varying alcohol levels as well as two different types of venues.
Night #1 was the least successful one; it contained less alcohol and was primarily spent in a “normal” weekend setting, a pub. While sitting there it became glaringly clear to me just how different the pub scene here is from what I’ve gotten used to in Sydney. I can’t tell you exactly what it is, and I’m guessing it won’t make much sense to you even if I tried, but let’s just say the vibe here is a bit unfriendly. Or maybe un-inviting is a better choice of words.
“How do people meet other people in this country again?” I asked Elin as we were sitting drinking beers that I couldn’t really afford, in a pub where the music was far too loud for any verbal exchange to really feel worth the effort. She just looked at me, as deadpan as always: “What do you mean? They don’t.”
Oh. Right. I think I recall that, come to think of it.
Previously that night, on the fringe of the city outside of an obscure little hip hop-event we attended, Elin and I stepped outside for a smoke. A guy came up and started chatting, and this without being absolutely shitfaced, an occurrence that might sound like a small but important step towards some marvelous social revolution, something I should be thrilled about. But no need to get excited; this guy was obviously not Swedish. He was a musician from L.A. - J-Ro from Tha Alkaholiks to be precise - and when you’re from America it feels natural to talk to people around you, especially when at a party of some kind. He’s lived here for 5 years now, and I asked him what he thought of Sweden. He said he loved it, which surprised me at first, but then I remembered that Swedes treat other Swedes much differently than they do black rappers from Los Angeles. This got me thinking; maybe I should start speaking American English and claim I’m from California so that I too can get a social exchange every now and then. You see, I would really like to go out and have an unpretentious good time, effortlessly. But let’s face it, I don’t really want to do that in Malmö, ideally. No, what I long for is to get smashed and sing songs in unison with all other Aussie drunks at my local Surry Hills pub, then ride a shopping cart down the street in a drunken stupor, loose my phone and hitchhike with dubious characters to Newtown, walk until I end up outside Glenn’s apartment door where I pass out, just to be woken up by teenagers from a party down the hall, poking me with an umbrella to see if I’m dead, and invite me to come inside for another drink when realizing I was just fast asleep from having already had too much.
Yeah, that was a fun night.

Night #2 was far more victorious; early in the week Elin informed me that we had been invited to a party on Saturday. It was a party for the release of a skate clothing brand, held at a tattoo studio a bit outside the city. I pictured scraggly dudes with trucker hats. Tall, scruffy men with bushy masses of unkempt facial hair, plaid shirts and loose-fitting pants. In other words, my kind of guys. “Count me in”, I said to Elin and made a reminder in my phone to shave my legs.
Malmoe is currently dishing out one full serving of Indian summer, so when Saturday finally arrived Elin and I spent it strolling about in the beautiful sunshine, walking all the way down to the harbor for coffee, and then back home for delicious pasta. By the time the sun set we were playing music in the kitchen and getting ready for the festivities at hand. In my case this was a quick and easy process, as I have a very meager selection of clothes at the moment, much less dressy party outfits. Luckily scruffy dudes are pretty chill with chicks in casual clothing, so there was no need to worry about feeling out of place. Also, Carl and Elin had brought back some 10.6% beers from Copenhagen for me the previous weekend, and after I had downed two of those in rapid succession I would’ve felt like I fit in anywhere, be it the Nobel Prize Dinner or a skate party. Drunk Annis knows no limits, and she’s convinced everyone loves her unconditionally without ever having met her before. It’s a good feeling.
As for the party, I trust the pictures suffice in communicating what my night was like. Poor Elin tried to keep track of where I was, which apparently was near impossible because of my dedication to the self-proclaimed mission of running around taking pictures of myself pashing on strangers, as well as some other rewarding mischief I got myself into.
At least the road to alcoholism is fun.

Being hung-over gets a bad rep as typically being pretty miserable, but it doesn’t have to be that way. It can actually be really great, and it’s all a matter of who you’re hung-over with. More than anything, it’s imperative to not try anything advanced; horizontal is the way to go. Elin and I followed these simple rules; we didn’t do anything but lie on a blanket in the grass right outside my apartment all day. Elin played tunes for us on her iBook, and we just enjoyed the coffee and sunshine and each other’s eminent company. Simplicity is happiness, and less is more. See, if you do it right, a hangover is really a privilege; your body’s too feeble to do anything demanding, so you simply have to take it easy. When we got hungry we stepped inside and cooked up pasta that we mixed it with pesto, feta cheese and capers, and when we had finished that feast we returned to the grass and devoured some chocolate. Whatta marvelous day.

Poverty greeted me like an old friend when I moseyed back to his neighborhood a while ago, and by now we’ve become quite chummy. I really don’t mind him that much, and I make a point of reminding myself that I prefer his company to that of Disease and Depression, those filthy bastards. As long as they don’t visit, I have nothing to complain about.
But clearly I need an income of some kind, so before I left for Oslo I went around and handed in my resume to a bunch of places, and I’ve now landed a job in a fair trade coffee shop in downtown Malmoe. The manager called me up while I was still in Oslo, and that conversation was the main source of inspiration for an improvised little choreography that I put together. I like to call it “Happy Spasms Galore (feat. I Have A Job)”.
I’ve chosen to only work part-time so that there’s time to focus on writing on the side, since I simply find it too hard to manage to spew out any kind of creativity after 8 hours in a bustling coffee shop. I’m typically pretty drained as far as energy and alertness goes when I get home from that. But don’t get me wrong, this is just the type of job I wanted, and I’m really happy to once again get to work in a lively environment where time flies as if it’s just grown wings and is eager to try them out.
Less hours obviously mean less money, but as long as I earn enough to cover rent, I’ll manage pretty much anything else. After all, I am now well and truly settled in that un-padded seat of a stripped existence, and once you get used to the notion of being completely broke, it’s pretty easy.
In this current state of “yes-money-is-most-definitely-an-issue”, I feel almost sheepish for all other times I’ve claimed to be broke. Talk about crying wolf! Sure, I wasn’t aware then that I would be even worse off at a later time, but I can’t help but smile a patronizing smile when looking at what I used to think of as financially challenging times. Really Annis, you thought that was bad? Good lord! Then what must you think now that you’ve exhausted every single source of money and you still have no idea on how to make rent for October?
(By the way, is prostitution illegal in Sweden? Or is it just frowned upon?)

I’m really trying hard to get acclimatized to being back in Sweden, but there’s no escaping how much I miss Sydney. Ever since being deported I’ve carried a vague sense of being punished, of not belonging anywhere. I feel like a Gypsy, destined to forever trample along like a dirty vagrant. I’ve now stopped hoping that the feeling will fade away with time, and I’ve decided to simply allow that strange sadness to be a part of things.
More than two months after being back I still experience mornings where I wake up unsure of where I am, and sometimes my ever so optimistic brain uses these few seconds of somnolent confusion to seduce me into hoping that I’m home, back in my Sydney. But then the fog of semi-subconsciousness lifts, and I recognize my surroundings. When preceded by that irrational hope, the impact of reality smacks me hard in the face and fills my mouth with a sour taste. Good morning.
Sometimes this happens daytime, too, especially if I’m deeply engrossed in something. I’ll look up from what’s been claiming all my attention for a while, and I try to take in my setting to deduce which reality this is, but I’m oddly perplexed by everything that surrounds me, and the periphery feel fuzzy. What language do we speak here again? English and Swedish intermingle and at times it takes me a few seconds to remember which is which. How long will that go on?
Still, it gets a bit easier every day, and I’m sure that even though this process has been a bit harder than expected, I will be comfortable and content with things in no time. After all, re-adjusting and re-adapting is what I’m good at, it’s what I do. Or at least this is what everyone expects me to do, and to make it into something positive.
I’d like nothing more than to live up to that image.

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Photos

Jesus attended as well
He was stationed by the sink all night, filling jugs with water, supposedly really offended that no one showed interest in any of his skills other than the "turning water into wine"-trick.