Big Matty

Return to the Land of the Black Hole Sun

 

That is not me. That is Leif Erikson, symbol of all Scandinavian peoples in Seattle. He stands watch over the harbor at Shilshole Bay, not far from the formerly Scandinavian enclave - and now home to hipsters - Ballard.

This was my first time back to Seattle since 2006, and only my second time since leaving in 2004. I had lived there for 14 years. Long enough to call it my second hometown. Definitely long enough to tell people I was "from" Seattle.

I had been gone for 10 years. That's long enough to now see it as a new place, for two reasons. The first, because by 10 years whatever psychological or metaphysical associations you have formed have had enough time to, if not vanish, completely fade into the background. The sharp emotions related to favorite places or tied to events that happened on specific street-corners have now softened, like color fading from a favorite garment as it gets worn over and over, so many times you begin to forget when you bought it or why you liked it so much.

The second reason is that a city like Seattle, situated on the Northwest Coast of the United States, looking West to the Far East, North to Canada, and South to California and even Mexico, and home to more immigrants than natives, a constant give and take of newcomers vs those moving on, is a city that will change a lot in 10 years. Much of my second hometown was, by now, completely foreign to me.

But some important things were still familiar. Puget Sound, that placid, silent expanse reflecting calm through downtown and up into the surrounding neighborhoods, perched on their hills. And Lake Washington, gently cradling Seattle's backside and taking the sense of zen to even deeper, stiller depths. These are two Seattle truths that will never change, and that I gladly looked upon from every angle as we motored around, gawking at everything else that had.

Another thing that has not changed is the multiple variations of darkness. If Scandinavians have over 100 words for snow, I think Seattleites could have as many for the varying shades of the dark.  The sparkling of a cloudless nighttime, the blanket of nighttime with clouds, nighttime with rain, dark but shiny, late afternoon with rain, a time when the darkness is diffuse and blended, dawn with clouds - the dark struggling to keep the light at bay, and 5PM on Halloween, when darkness drops suddenly like an anvil on a cartoon character's head. All of them, and hundreds more, their own unique shade of dark.

Once when we were living in Seattle, a brother came to visit from Las Vegas, where he was living at the time, boating on Lake Mead, dining al fresco, flirting with golf, etc. On the second or third day of his visit, literally in the middle of the day he exclaimed, not kindly, "It's like permanent twilight here. Where in the hell is the light?"

Now we were there at the end of January, and his comment kept coming back to me. In my mind I had associated this lack of light with unhappiness. I am not sure why. This time I found the darkness comforting.

It could be that we were spending time with friends and family, and that brings warmth to the darkness. For instance, it was the start of the Chinese New Year, and one of our dearest and oldest friends invited us to her family's house for a Chinese New Year feast. Sitting around the table, eating at least a little bit of each of the eight dishes prepared (there has to be eight, it is a timeless tradition) while the rain fell feebly but the wind blew icily, I couldn't think of anywhere else I would rather be.

It wasn't just the food, as fantastic a home-cooked Chinese New Year Feast as it was, but the feeling of being with friends and the people who raised them, enjoying a tradition that had been repeated for decades. In this situation the darkness envelopes you, and holds you comfortably in a warm embrace.

Another great way to experience the power of darkness is to drive around on a winter's day. Not just any day, but one of those days when sunshine, clouds and wind all try to outdo each other. The shadows get cast about in so many different ways its like watching a movie in the middle of your own reality. The shadows improvise on themes coming from your own brain. When I had lived there I spent days like this looking for the sun, hoping to catch it as it shown intermittently. This time I watched the shadows.

Oh, and it helps if you stop for excellent coffee (available literally anywhere) and delicious pastries (in the picture above at Honoré Bakery in Ballard). That makes everything more interesting.

Or you could spend the evening in another friend's basement, re-done in warm dark tones of brown and orange, listening to music on vinyl, eating a comforting pork-chop meal, finishing the evening with a 30-year old Armagnac. 

 

On an evening like this, everything is dark and all colors blend and sway, as if you are standing at the bottom of a warm sea. It is cold outside, and the sky is almost pitch black, save for a faint glow that seems to emanate from deepest space. The big Washington fir trees appear black as well, at first, but then their muted green begins to distinguish itself as they shimmer in the wind.

On nights like this you dance and act silly, laughing while the trees sway. Then you sleep late and wake when the sun is high overhead.

And there Leif stays, watching over seemingly all of Puget Sound. When I first saw this statue I found it a bit menacing, as if Leif was sizing the place up for a good old fashioned midnight Viking pillaging. But I was mistaken.

Looking at this statue now, I saw Leif as a protector, holding evil at bay so his beloved Seattleites could live in peace and contentment. As long as he watched over us, we had nothing to fear, not even the dark.

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GöteborgsVarvet - The Mother of All Half-marathons

The athletes stop for a pose, smiling gamely as they work to stay relaxed. It is a very warm, humid Gothenburg morning, and the largest half-marathon in the world - which had already started as this picture was taken and would continue in waves for several more hours - lay ahead of them in sweaty anticipation.

The GöteborgsVarvet, or Gothenburg Half-Marathon, is indeed the largest half-marathon in the world. It began in 1980 with just over 1,000 runners. Today over 60,000 people run it every year, and this time Marissa, my wife, was one of them.

How did this happen, you ask? The Marissa we know wouldn't run if chased, you say? Well, that was true of the old Marissa. But this Marissa had made friends with a certain Swede whose optimism surpasses even my own, and who believes that anything is possible if one simply follows-through. It was this Swede who had said, about a year earlier, that she and her husband were going back to Gothenburg to run the GöteborgsVarvet - and that Marissa had plenty of time to train so, hey, why not join in as well?

Something clicked and Marissa said yes. Even this certain Swede, who is the most positive person on the planet, was a little surprised by how quickly she said yes. But she did, and months of steady, mostly patient training later here she was, about to run her first half marathon, and the largest one in the world at that.
One last bit of calm before the run.

Though I was not running, I was quite nervous. I knew she had trained very thoroughly, but that was in temperate Bay Area climes, with plenty of rest and plenty of hydration. For the few days we had been in Sweden she hadn't slept much, and now the weather was freakishly warm. Actually, it was hot and humid - more like Atlanta in May than one would ever think Scandinavia could be.

I kept nagging her to drink more water, stay out of the sun, sit down, conserve. I was trying to sound casual about it, but I was anything but on the inside. This was the kind of weather that felled experienced runners easily.  I was seriously worried about heat stroke. But it was now time, and the runners left us in our cool, shady spot to take their place at the starting line.

Then a small (though apparently not unexpected for Sweden this time of year) miracle happened. Not long after I took this picture, the breeze stiffened, clouds rolled in and a clap of thunder ushered in a luxurious downpour. It lasted just long enough to bring the temperature back into the 70s, where it stayed for the rest of the race. Hallelujah, I thought.

And they were off! Starting with a smile and an easy pace, looking fresh and fit. She gave us a big smile and flashed some fun rock-n-roll hand gestures our way as she went by.

I was hanging with Theres, the beautiful best friend of the Optimistic Swede, who had her own grueling adventure only a few weeks away (an ultra-long bike race that would take over a dozen hours to finish) and her boyfriend Antti. We ate lunch together on the grass, enjoyed the brief rain shower, watched our loved ones take off, and then headed for a good place to cheer them on to the finish.

We chose a spot at around Kilometer 18, which would be just under a mile to the finish line. Along the way we saw the carnage that the earlier heat and humidity had wrought. I counted easily a dozen runners who had collapsed and were now getting fluids - and consolation. And so close to the finish line, too, I thought. I also began to worry again, just a little. Though it had cooled considerably it was still humid and I remembered how hilly the course was. How would she be after 18 kilometers?

Then we saw her, trucking along like it was mile 3 of a 5 miler on the San Francisco Bay Trail near our home. Not a care in the world. She did some disco moves and cruised right by us. I was in awe.

After that, the three of us worked our way back to Theres' apartment, where Antti and I had a couple of Latvian beers, and then we went home, where a big post-GöteborgsVarvet party was to be had. This was also to be combined with a Euro-vision party, a bizarre spectacle if ever there was one, but that is for another post. What is important is that all of the runners I cared about finished the race with no lasting damage, that Marissa actually had quite a good race, particularly considering that she chose the mother of all half-marathons as her first, and that I got to witness one of the biggest events in the running world first hand. It was a great day.

 

Here's to the medalists! GöteborgsVarvet 2013!!!

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Swedish Seaside Massacre

Long flight from San Francisco, bleary-eyed breakfast at Heathrow, then the connection to Gothenburg. This time there was someone waiting for us. There she was at the arrival gate, waving two Swedish flags and lighting up the room with a smile. Jennifer, bonafide Swede, happy to see us and ready to take us to one of her favorite places in the world, her family's summer home in Bovallstrand.

So we got coffee to go and hit the road, arriving 90 minutes later for a brief stop at a lovely row of cottages overlooking the most placid sea. This was going to be our resting place for the night, but we were just stopping to air it out, put away some supplies, and sweep up fossilized flies from last summer. In a few weeks the place would be hopping with Swedes on summer holiday, but it had been closed up for most of the year and for now we were practically alone, this pre-holiday visit planned exclusively for us.

It was then off to another small town just a few miles away, and usually reached via boat. We drove to this spot partially for Jennifer to share tales of her youth - the illicit first drink, the random make-out, etc. but also to pick up the necessities for our first night in Sweden, and our night alone in a secluded cabin by the sea.  

This was the most important destination of the day. The seafood vendor.

And these were one of the reasons we had come here. Fresh crawfish, pulled from the Atlantic ocean and boiled in their own seawater.

And these beautiful shrimp, just as fresh and given the same simple treatment. Succulent and tasting of the sea.

One always hears about how expensive Sweden is, and it is true. However, these fabulous creatures were not necessarily more expensive than they would have been in San Francisco, and they were so beautifully fresh. But wait, don't let me spoil the best part...

...We were picking out the shrimp and the crawfish, and some Swedish seafood salad, all the while eyeing this legion of crab on ice, staring us down like a frozen mob of soccer hooligans. One of us casually mentioned the crab, all the while assuming it was going to be expensive. Jennifer inquired, Swedish numbers were thrown around a bit, and then she gently but firmly took us both aside, telling us in a low voice,

"Um, okay, the crab is one-fifty a piece."

At first I though she meant one hundred fifty dollars per crab, thinking to myself that we had not brought enough money to last a day. But then she tried again,

"No, a dollar and fifty cents per piece."

I then thought she meant it was $1.50 per lump, or leg or something like that. So I said, "well, hey, let's get a couple of claws or something just so we can try some", now believing we could afford to eat reasonably well for about a week.

"But they are $1.50 per crab. The whole crab is the equivalent of one U.S. dollar and fifty U.S. cents!" her voice rising, tinged with a mixture of disbelief and excitement. "I didn't expect this... maybe it is because the summer season hasn't yet started and it is almost closing time and...and..."

"How many should we get?" the three of us said, almost at once, as it dawned on us just how good a deal we were being handed.

Long story short, we had already gotten a lot of crawfish, shrimp and seafood salad so we limited ourselves to two: one massive crustaecean that had to be a couple of pounds and one smaller, more dainty one. And they threw in an extra pair of claws. Big ones.

We gathered up our new hostages and headed quickly to our quiet little cottage. We had work to do.

This is what it looked like before the carnage: Crawfish, shrimp, creamy seafood salad, a huge wedge of cheese, bread, massive, angry-looking crab, a little green salad (for show, mostly) and a sampler pack of Swedish aquavit - liquor that has been distilled using a variety of herbs and spices.

We opened the first little bottle, toasted ourselves and our good fortune, and knocked back the inaugural  shot of what would be many. Jet-lag and the extended hours with no sleep might have called for moderation at this point. Whatever. The herbal flavors filled my sinuses, the liquor warmed my chest and the alcohol went straight to my brain. We each started reaching in for the food and things quickly devolved into mayhem.

I went with crawfish first, tearing off heads and sucking out brains, exoskeletons dropping to the table like the armor of fallen crusaders. My fingers grew sticky with the salty juices of shellfish. The same with the shrimp, and then on to the crab...

Both of the women I was with come from cultures that know how to eat crab. Every ounce of meat on those two poor creatures was systematically stripped and consumed. And the fat - that gloriously rich, creamy, essence-of-crab substance that so many people ignore, or even despise - well, we ate all of it, and these women dictated my actions until every bit was mopped up with bread and devoured. Like other men have claimed at the end of various massacres, I was just following orders.

More than once we would crack a shell too hard, or pry open too forcefully, and crab fat and salt water would explode into the air, splattering against whatever lay in it's path, usually one of us. My sweatshirt was speckled helter-skelter with the precious fluids from innocent sea creatures. It was gruesome. It was delicious.

The slaughter eventually slowed, then stopped. We did our best to dispose of the evidence, then took a walk around this rugged, spare, beautiful place, letting our heads clear. If the scent of crab, shrimp and aquavit hadn't been hanging over us like Pig-pen's dust cloud, one would never had guessed the terrible wrath we had just spent the past few hours delivering. The sun began to go down (at around 10:30PM, only to be back up at 4:15 AM) and we finally made our way to bed.

I awoke the next morning and looked out the window. The same placid scene greeted me and I remembered I was in Sweden. I really was at a cottage by the sea. I really had devoured countless and incredible creatures last night. The disorientation wore off, and a smile crept across my face.

Hello Sweden, and thanks for having us over.

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A lone musician plays his guitar while one couple looks on lazily and another sits by the ancient well, gossiping. A handful of people pass by, an occasional child laughing or crying. Otherwise, the only noise is the wind blowing the occasional wisp of cloud past the sun. It is just after lunchtime in a very quiet, somewhat sleepy, beautifully sun-drenched Montepulciano.

We come down from the roof and head over to the well, which is topped by two lions that look, despite their faded and pock-marked appearance, as if they might spring alive at any moment. I sit and stare at them, in silence, for several minutes.

But then the quiet is shattered. Two women, bickering loudly in southern-twanged American English (Oklahoma? Texas?) about somebody being rude to someone else or something similarly unnecessary for the rest of the world to hear, walk by, on their way to shop.

See the looks on the lions' faces? That mixture of curiosity, disdain and disgust? I swear they weren't wearing that until those women walked by. I look at the lions, they look back at me and I mouth the words, "I'm sorry."

The tasting rooms have not quite reopened, and the loud ladies are just the warning shot that a tour bus has arrived, so we take the time to walk down the little city's steep alleyways until we reach the bottom of the hill. Eventually we make our way back up, try a few tastings of Montepulciano Rosso, buy a bottle, and head for the car. We've got things to do.

The monastery is nestled at the bottom of a hill and a lane runs down through trees, gardens and a very old but still functioning man-made reservoir. There is a delicate balance between order and unconstrained growth, as if the grounds have been maintained for centuries but by increasingly fewer and older hands.

It is quiet. We snap a few pictures and ponder the life of a monk: rise, meditate, eat, work, pray, sleep, repeat. Somewhere in there you probably make and drink wine. Sounds nice, until one remembers the celibacy part. I am not sure I could do that, particularly if wine is involved. Wine and celibacy do not mix. Not in my world, anyway.

The serenity of this place is seductive, as is the beauty of the grounds and the art that adorns it. I particularly like a ceramic of the virgin and child, sitting atop the exit gate. Who created it? How old is it? I will never know.

It is time for gelato, and we have heard of a good gelateria in Pienza. We arrive in the late afternoon and the sun is streaming into the shop. An older, wealthy looking trio is ahead of us. They try everything they can, repeatedly asking for flavors that aren't on offer. "You don't have the violetta?" they say, in their New York accents, for the third time.

When he finally gets to us, the proprieter looks like he is ready to cry, or kill someone. Somehow we manage to help him remember why he got into the gelato business, and as we leave with our double-scoops he is asking how long we will be staying and inviting us back later in the week when he will be trying some new flavors. High on gelato and good will, we walk through the town of Pienza.

Pienza, as everyone but I apparently knows, is one of the centers of the pecorino universe. It is pecorino heaven, pecorino nirvana. The streets are lined with pecorino shops. We shuffle along timidly, the two scoops of gelato taking up residence in our bellies, until we see a friendly looking little spot, with a sign that can't be ignored: Assaggi di Pecorino - Taste the Sheep Cheese.

So we do. However, the owners of the shop, a cute little lady and her husband, a friendly looking man with a barely disguised fascination with Asian women, have a different idea of what "taste" means. She cuts piece after piece after piece, until we have tried almost every variety of cheese in the place. Each is delicious, each is different than the last, and I happily test the theory of "too much of a good thing."

Staggering out of the shop, we stumble into the sunlight and a view unfolds in front of us...
Senses on overload, it is time to move on.

Montalcino, the home of Brunello di Montalcino, one of Italy's finest wines. It does feel upscale here, the shops offering fancy clothes and designer glassware. But it does not feel pretentious, just wealthy in a matter-of-fact sort of way.

We walk through the streets and up and down its hill, getting confused for a bit as to which church is the main duomo and which is just merely a lovely old church. Then we remember that we are indeed in Montalcino so the important thing to do is try the Brunello.

I like this town quite a bit. They are all gorgeous beyond words, but something about Montalcino speaks to me differently. It has a dreamlike quality, as if it might all shimmer away into nothingness just as you fix your gaze on it. Will I shimmer away with it, lost in an eternal twilight of soft breezes, warm sunshine and full-bodied wine?

Holding my glass, tasting the fruits of a labor of love that has been perfected over centuries, I get a bit lost in my thoughts. I do not dissolve into the Tuscan sunset, and Montalcino remains standing as firmly as it ever has. My head clears eventually. We walk back to the car and drive back to the villa, ready to see what tomorrow might bring.

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Siena Style

Siena. Nestled on a hillside in the heart of Tuscany, it is one of my favorite cities in the world. In fact, when my ship finally comes in, I am going to buy a cute little place in some 500 year old structure and spend all autumn there, sleeping late, eating wild game and drinking fantastic wine.

For now, spending most of our Sunday there would have to suffice. This means parking just outside the wall and winding our way through narrow streets and alleyways until we reach the heart of the town: Piazza del Campo.

"Freaking spectacular" (only I don't say "Freaking") is what comes out of my mouth every time I walk back into this square. A wide open semicircle, paved in brick during the 14th century, sloping down to the Palazzo Publico(seen here) and filled with every stripe of humanity, from Angola to New Zealand.

The palazzo itself is quite cool, with an open courtyard in the center, where you can sit under the watchful eye of the tower as the clouds swoosh by.

You can spend an entire day in this square, and lots of people do, moving with the shade from one side of the square to the other. We prefer to mix it up - enjoying the ambiance from the ground within the square and the view from one of our favorite bars in the world: Bar Paninoteca.

Just go there. Order any of the fine German beers they have on tap and head out to the narrow little balcony. Watch people in the square. Watch the animals and birds. Talk to the strangers you meet on the balcony. Take everything in while you get a little lightheaded from the beer and the sunshine. But don't linger too long. Others would like to come out there and besides, you don't want to get drunk. There is too much more to see.

This fine day was a Sunday, and there were lots of people from the surrounding area in town, in addition to all the tourists. As the afternoon grew late and we approached 5PM, the passeggiata began. What is the passeggiata? It is the time that Italians take to get out and, literally, stroll through town.

Young families with baby strollers, older couples, arm in arm , single guys out on the prowl, it seems like everyone participates in this early evening ritual - a mixture of walking, shopping, gossiping and gelato (or perhaps an aperitivo). The narrow streets get crowded and the foot traffic moves slowly, groups stopping to say "Ciao!" as they see their friends or neighbors.

It is a great opportunity to stop and watch people.Which is why I, after a delicious cone from Grom, perched myself on a bench and observed, while the rest of my party did some shopping.

A river of humanity flowing by me, I asked silent questions: "where are they all going? What are they thinking/talking about? What are they having for dinner tonight?" and pictured myself in their shoes: "I'd be heading to my friend Paolo's right now, to help prepare the antipasti for the party this evening. We will open a fine prosecco and wait for all of the beautiful people to arrive."

I got a little bored with the fantasizing and decided to see what it would be like if I were a paparazzo. I got out the camera and began taking shots of people on the sly. Actually, let me correct that - I started trying to take pictures of people on the sly. It is not easy! Papparazzi might be kind of sleazy, but one can't say that they aren't skilled. I did manage to get two shots that I was happy enough to keep, and I think each tells its own little story of intrigue:

Photo #1. A lovely young Italian actress visiting from Rome for the weekend. She is looking for some quietude and to get away from that horrible Silvio Berlusconi, who has been pestering her to date him for the past year. Crazy, dirty old man, she wouldn't dream of it! Who cares that he is one of the most powerful men in Italy - he is a pig! She thinks the red-framed sunglasses will disguise her, but she is wrong. One papparazzo has already seen her and is sneaking up behind, his camera out and ready. And now I have spotted her and fired off the perfect shot. This could make my career. But no, I will keep it to myself. She deserves a little privacy.

Photo #2. Another lovely lady, this one looks like she isn't from Italy. Paris perhaps? Maybe Singapore? No, I know, the West Coast of the US! Yes, she is definitely an American. Shopping for leather goods today, she will return to her villa later, to a meal of porchetta, peperonata and Chianti Classico. She has come to Tuscany not to escape life, to experience it. She is beautiful and she wouldn't give a guy like Silvio the time of day either. Whoever is lucky enough to be with her is to be envied. She is one of a kind.

Leather belt purchased, it was time for us to walk back to the car and head home, to the villa, where, as I mentioned, we had a meal waiting...

 

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The view from the grounds of Arco al Poggio, our home away from home in the heart of Tuscany. Every morning, even before making the espresso, I would just put on my clothes and wander through the grounds. The early sun hitting my face, I would walk from the driveway past the herb garden and up to the vineyard, quietly mumbling to myself like some gently demented old codger, "this place is too beautiful, how the hell did I get here?"
But here I was, with my lovely wife and dear friends inside, preparing a breakfast of hard-boiled eggs, leftover bread, cured meats, yogurt and fruit. I'd make coffee, we'd eat at a leisurely pace, and then finally get into the car and drive to somewhere else just as lovely.

The same daily grind: a morning stroll, a hearty and delicious breakfast, a trip to another ancient and beautiful town where lunch is had (possibly a porchetta sandwich with skin AND bits of liver mixed in), an afternoon beer is drunk, and a five o'clock gelato is consumed with a devotion and gratitude that verges on religious fanaticism.

Then the trip home to prepare dinner and pour a local wine.

Take a look at the gooey white stuff in the plastic container next to the sliced meat. That is stracchino, a fresh cheese that, it seems, holds a very emotional place for every Italian man I know. Having spent a few evenings with the cheese now myself, I understand why. It is mild, but buttery, a little salty and just ever-so-slightly-funky. Its texture is soft, spreadable and just a fraction past solid but a whisper from liquid. Every bite is both comfort and seduction, like being 12 years old and getting a hug from your 17 year-old baby sitter.

A quick internet search will find plenty of these kinds of places in Tuscany. Old, old farmhouses, restored with care and offering a level of pleasure that just can't be had in a hotel. Sure, you might find a more comfortable bed at the Four Seasons in Florence, but you won't get a chance to watch lizards sun themselves while you strain to hear even the slightest sound and realize that you can't. The scene around you is so quiet you find yourself holding your breath in order not to disturb it.

You can build your own fire in your own fireplace, prepare your own meals with fresh, local ingredients, and decide, if you want to, to just stay put and do nothing. And it is rather affordable, less than most decent hotels and much less than fancy ones. You don't have to be wealthy, but you will feel like the richest person in the world.

Our spot was completely safe, with a locking iron gate. Just inside the gate is a fully functioning pizza oven, with charcoal provided. We did not use it, but we all agreed that next time we might. Next time we might also spend less time checking out surrounding areas (as wonderful as they were) and just hang around our little villa, making pizza, drinking Chianti, watching the clouds pass overhead and listening to the breeze through the olive trees. We might not even go on to Rome, or spend time in Florence. Next time we might come straight here and stay until someone forces us to leave.

Swedish State of Mind

One of the things I am liking about California is the tremendous mix of people. This great big jumble of humanity is considered normal inside California, though I know outside one hears about it frequently, mostly in over-simplified terms. When I lived in Nashville, some folks would not-so-subtly allude to California's diversity as a warning to us all. California = multicultural. Multicultural = evil. Therefore, California = evil.

Aside from the idiocy of claiming that multiculturalism is evil, multiculturalism is one of California's greatest strengths. Case in point? The Swedes.

We have been fortunate enough to have met some real, dyed-in-the-wool (and if anyone knows about wool, it is they) Swedes. I don't know if our new friends are representative of all Swedes, but if they are, I understand why Sweden has one of the highest standards of living in the world. Intelligent but modest, clever but soft-spoken, open-minded but game for debate - they are wonderful people.

A few weeks ago, our new Swedish friends kindly invited us to experience a Swedish Christmas with them. This meant going to the Swedish Women's Education Association's (SWEA) 28th Annual Swedish Christmas Fair in San Francisco and then a week later to their apartment in Mountain View for a cozier, homier version.

The Christmas Fair? Awesome. Complete with a Lucia procession (seen above), Glögg, baked goodies, and traditional music and dancing. According to Jennifer, one of our Swedish tour guides for the day, this fair is the most traditionally Swedish Christmas event she has ever been to, including in Sweden.

As fun as the fair was, however, the small open house was even better. We stayed for hours, eating homemade Swedish treats (Martin, Jennifer's husband, made saffron buns that all of Sweden would be proud of) drinking homemade Glögg, and enjoying intelligent, thoughtful conversation. One thing I learned at the party? Swedes are not crazy about the Swedish Chef.

"Why couldn't they get someone Swedish to do the voice? There are millions of us to choose from, you know," said Martin, Swedish heads around the room nodding in agreement. They take it in stride, but I could see that the Swedish Chef is a bit of a sore spot. And while I am as big a Muppet fan as anyone, I can now understand why. "Hor-dee-hoo-dee-hor..." Swedish sounds nothing like that. 

I also learned a new word: lagom. The word lagom has no translation, in English or any other language, but I am told it is at the heart of what it means to be Swedish. It is a close approximation to say "not too little and not too much," or to refer to balance, diplomacy, or to simply say "just right." My favorite description of lagom is, "enough is as good as a feast."

That, to me, is a great way to go about life. It also reminds me, strangely enough, of one of my favorite lines from the Tao te Ching: "He who knows enough is enough will always have enough." Ancient Chinese philosophy and the roots of Swedish culture describing the same outlook on life? Sounds awfully multicultural to me.

So, where does this story lead? What does this all mean in the end? In addition to showing us a great time at the holidays, and contributing to California's wealth of diversity, our new Swedish friends have moved their country way up on the list of places I must travel to.

And just to make sure I am ready, I am practicing a little Swedish, beginning with the following phrase:

Att Svenska Kocken, vad en bastard. Translate.

 

All content and photographs (with the exception of "The Swedish Chef") copyright 2012, Big Matty.

Ronda and the White Hill Towns

If you have to go from Granada to Sevilla, I recommend driving. The road winds under the broad Spanish sky, along windswept rolling hills and through steeply thrilling turns. Get into the spirit by loading your iPod with flamenco, or Bizet's Carmen or the Gypsy Kings. I listened to this song by Rodrigo y Gabriela, and now I relive the drive every time I hear it.

We spent the night in Ronda, a lovely town straddling a spectacular gorge. It is a touristy town, with throngs taking day-trips from the Costa del Sol. But the views are spectacular and the streets and alleyways filled with attractive taverns, restaurants and shops. We had the good fortune of getting recommendations from a local, via a new friend of mine from work.

As the sun went down and the air cooled, we crossed the plunging gorge and walked beyond the center of town, leaving most of the touristy spots behind. Just as we were wondering if we had made a wrong turn, we found it. Bodega San Francisco was packed with people watching soccer and we were lucky to get a table across the street, under a small grove of trees.

We hung out into the evening. The night grew darker and more quiet, the soccer game ended and the crowd thinned out. We walked back home, taking time to enjoy the entirely different feeling the town had at night.

The next day, the drive continuedfrom Ronda to Sevilla. First stop? The nearest market to pick up jamon, salchicha, cheese and bread. Picnicking in the hill towns is the way to go. The only thing missing was a good bottle of Rioja, but then again, I was driving.

We ate lunch in Grazalema, walking up the hill until we found a quiet spot next to an old church. Along the way we passed quaint courtyards and beautifully tiled stairways, along with sweet old abuelitas and fascinating remnants of ancient civilizations. The fountain above was constructed out of a solid piece of rock by the Visigoths, sometime around the 7th century AD.

Next stop was Arcos de la Frontera - a spectacular city perched impossibly on a steep hill with a cliff. We parked near the bottom and grabbed he soonest bus that came along. This was the bus ride of my life, as it wound its way through the tiniest alleyways and sharpest turns I have ever seen. We all held our breath, waiting for what surely had to happen - the scrape/crunch of automobile against ancient wall. But it never did, as the driver handled the bus like Paco de Lucia handling the guitar.

We were so enthralled with our ride that we forgot to get off the bus, and soon we were back to our original stop at the bottom of the hill. That thrill-seeking tour was enough though, and a quick, quieting afternoon beer was in order. Then it was off again.

Next stop: Sevilla!

Spain 2011 - Granada

Seated majestically on a hill overlooking a beautiful Andalusian valley, the Alhambra ís a sight I will not soon forget.

I won't forget the city of Granada, either. It straddles the hills around and across from the Alhambra and bathes decadently in the Andalusian sun. Its stone alley ways are filled with young college students and hippies, with dogs wandering around and guitars playing down long narrow streets. We even heard a clarinet being played very, very well behind a shuttered second-storey window.

After a relatively brief bus ride from Málaga, we rolled into town in the late afternoon. The air was warm and the shadows getting longer and more interesting as the sun slowly made its way to the horizon. We walked up and up, making our way to the view where the above picture was taken, then on to the Albayzin, the surviving Arabic part of town.

We stayed at the view area for a long time, watching the changing light as it washed over the ancient wonder across the hill. This spectacle, of course, made us hungry.

A couple of platters of grilled seafood and una caña (a glass of beer) and we were sitting pretty. This we enjoyed at Cafe Bar El Ladrillo, in a quiet little square in the Albayzin. It was early on a weeknight and we had the place mostly to ourselves. So we sat in the courtyard and gorged on whole fish and shrimp, sucking the lovely juices out of their heads. It seemed to be a family-run place, with nephews coming and going and our hardworking hostess/server as sweet as could be.

During our stay in Marbella, the Duke of Marbella had taught us about the chupito - a small, small glass of local liquor to be taken as a digestive. In Granada that liquor is made from Manzana Verde and we received a complimentary chupito upon finishing our meal. It was lovely - kind of like a green apple Jolly Rancher only better, and with a kick.

This mellow evening was just the thing to fortify us for the next day and our visit to the Alhambra - a topic that deserves its own post.

Spain 2011 - Marbella

 

This is the old center of Marbella, a Mediterranean coastal town that has been around since Roman times (don't let the modern tourist-friendly sounding name fool you). Marbella is a mix of many things - ancient and beautiful Spanish architecture, elegant seaside restaurants, tacky tourist traps, high-end shops, too many Brits, not enough Spaniards, and a healthy dose of Middle East oil money.

Most importantly, it is the second home for two of my favorite relatives, my Aunt Tammy and Uncle Manuel, whom I now refer to as the Duke and Duchess of Marbella.

We arrived late on a Sunday afternoon, particularly drained as this was our first trip abroad since moving to the West Coast. That extra 5 hours of flight time (and 3 additional time zones) do make a difference. But the Duke and Duchess gave us some time to freshen up before serving a fantastic bottle of Ribera del Duero alongside tasty chorizo, idiazabal cheese, jamón ibérico and green olives. After that it was off to La Pesquera, a delightful restaurant on the water, the waves of the Mediterranean Sea softly crashing in the dark as we ate our meal. It was a lovely introduction to the south of Spain.

As we walked down the hill towards the sea we passed a mosque, just as dusk descended. I happen to love Arabic/Muslim architecture and design, which was one of my main motives for this trip. We would be visiting the Alhambra in Granada and La Mezquita in Córdoba within a few days. This pretty, modern mosque was a welcome preview.

The Duke of Marbella regaled us with stories of the Spanish Foreign Legion and the differences in several southern towns' Easter processionals. I do not remember exactly which town it is, but one of them uses the image of Christ just fresh from the cross, i.e., dead. Manuel's description, with his suave Spanish accent and its rolling Rs will always, for the rest of my life I am sure, make me smile,

"The Christ is dead. I mean, he is rrreally, rrreally dead. He is flat."

Maybe you had to be there. I am just glad I was.

 
The next day we took a morning tour of old Marbella. The Duke (pictured above with Rob and myself) and Duchess took us strolling through its old streets, lush gardens and many shops. We took lots of pictures, but didn't have our act together enough to actually buy anything, a fact we came to regret later.

Finally, we had just enough time for churros y chocolate, before heading off to Granada. It was technically not the right time for churros - "actually we should be having a sherry" said the Duke, but this particular churreria - Churreria Ramon - is known for having some of the best around. Indeed, they were the best of our entire trip, and we ate a fair amount of churros y chocolate...

 
It was a fantastic beginning to our Spanish road trip. Our only regret? We didn't stay longer. Next time, no matter where in Europe we go, we are going to end our travels here, spending several days living the good life with the Duke and Duchess of Marbella.