Big Matty

Ireland 2014 - Cliffs of Moher

It was a cool and breezy day in Doolin as we parked the car and looked for the trail. After a few wrong turns and a walk through someone's pasture, we came upon a somewhat ominous sign:

That was the trail-head alright, and a reminder that Ireland's approach to safety in the outdoors is a bit different that in the U.S. Rather than a lot of guardrails and fences and signs everywhere, one big warning then a "top o' the morning" and off ye go and be lively.

We headed on our way and it wasn't a few minutes before the thoughts of danger were replaced by sights of beauty. Still a few miles from the famous cliffs themselves, and the scenery was already spectacular. Dark layers of rock reaching like fingers into the roiling surf, the sea reflecting the slate blue of the sky.

Up we climbed, passing sleepy cows in muddy fields, looking at us with eyes that seemed surprised, though I am sure they had seen thousands of others on this trail over the years. With each gain in altitude, the views changed and the cliffs began to come into view, each glimpse more spectacular than the last. 

Up we went, and some parts of the trail were quite steep. My sporty little jacket has various vents, and I had pooh-poohed their existence when I bought it. But they were fully open now, and I was thankful that I had them as they were letting the ever-present Irish wind cool me down.

Along the way we met a heavy-set woman whose shoes were completely covered in mud. "There is a stretch of bad stuff just behind me" she said "but it is definitely worth ruining a pair of shoes."  

As we neared the end of the trail and the main visitors' area, the sky darkened and the wind grew chilly. A storm was blowing in. Despite the threatening weather, we lingered and took pictures, none of which would ever capture the magnificence of the cliffs. Massive, lush, layered in color and eliciting feelings of just how small one person actually is, they were, indeed, worth a pair of muddy shoes.

About a third of the way down the trail back to Doolin, the rain picked up in earnest. The sporty little jacket became a layer under my Barbour coat which, eventually, got soaked through. The rain was steady and soaking, but not unpleasant. In fact, it was rather transcendental - the sounds of the surf, the feel of the rain, my growing hunger and now aching feet, all of it putting me in a somewhat blissful state.  An hour and a half later we made it back to Doolin, drenched and hungry but happy. A sweets shop was open. We stepped in to be greeted by a near toothless woman who had to be near 90, standing with many others, everyone looking like they had had the sense to come out of the rain.

"Where've ye been?" the old woman asked, "as I think you might be crazy to be out in this rain." "We've just hiked up to the Cliffs of Moher and back" came my reply, in a loud, cheerfully American voice. "Ahhh, now I know ye is crazy," she cried, finishing the exchange with a big, empty smile.

The rain was letting up as we left the shop and headed for McGann's, a pub nearby that has a good reputation for food. We ordered the hardiest dishes we could find on the menu - lamb chops, stew, potatoes, Guinness, and ate it all without a second thought. I finished with a Jameson, poured from a tap at the bar. A little reward after a long, lovely day.

Related articles

Siena Style

Firenze Noir

From Doolin to the Cliffs of Moher

The Mighty Cliffs of Moher

Ireland 2014 - Eternal Rest

Driving along on the "wrong" side of the road, eager to get to your next destination or out for dinner or home from your daily excursions, it is easy to pass them by. Speeding, you catch a glimpse of an old tower, maybe a few tombstones, a small patch of barren stone and dirt amongst the rolling, verdant terrain. It is easy to overlook them. But you would be making a mistake if you didn't stop, even for just a few minutes, at an old cemetery in Ireland.

History, beauty, myth and emotion all packed into often less than an acre, the cemeteries we saw while in Ireland rank, to me, as some of the most interesting things I've seen throughout my travels.

First, Irish history goes way back, as in 5,000 BCE back, and the cemeteries we saw had headstones from several centuries ago to the present day. From crumbling, unrecognizable lumps to Celtic crosses covered in lichen, to modern, slick slabs that shone in the sun. The past and present at the same place at once, making you wonder just what age you are living in.

The weather helps as well. At one old graveyard we had sun, rain, wind, cold and heat in a 30-minute span of time. Repeat that day after day and year after year and eventually everything takes on a weathered, "thousand stories" look.

 

The mythical mixing, though, is one of my favorite things. A collection of symbolism that provides a real glimpse into what must have been a rich, entertaining and possibly somewhat confusing guide for living and/or explanation of life. Take the figure below, for instance:

It is a Sheela na gig, and it was carved above the doorway of the very old and nearly collapsed chapel at one graveyard we visited. A shela na gig is a female figure with an exaggerated - how do I put this delicately - lady part, which you can still see in the figure above after centuries in the wind and rain.

Shela na gigs exist on many churches in Ireland and Great Britain, and it is said they were relied upon to ward off evil. Hmmm, I don't remember anything in the Bible about the power of the cho-cha in warding off evil. If anything, it seems a woman's body is one of the things the Bible tends to rank as evil in and of itself. So what gives?

What gives is the fascinating blending of beliefs, from Celtic goddesses to ancient ideas on fertility to desire to protect loved ones once they have left this existence. A flying goddess with an enhanced hoo-hoo guarding my soul as I rested from my life of toil and struggle on a tough little island that was constantly being invaded by some tribe or king or country? Yes, I think I would find that comforting. Thank you, Sheela. 

I didn't appreciate it enough before spending time there, but the history of Ireland is indeed quite difficult. The Irish people, for millennia, have indeed suffered, from a difficult (though beautiful) climate to a series of invaders and en-slavers from the Vikings to the British.

It is no wonder to me that they are generalized as being tough. They would not have survived as a people if they were not. It also doesn't surprise me that they are known as good storytellers. With such a rich mixing of history, myths and ideals, there is bound to be a unique point of view and a desire to share it.

I have some Irish blood in me. Many, many people around the globe, and especially the United States, do. For to be Irish has also meant, at times, to be one that must leave their home to seek a life elsewhere. Sometimes things get so bad you have no choice but to leave.

I am glad my Irish ancestors left their home. I wouldn't be here otherwise. But as I travelled their homeland I gained an appreciation of just how complex, interesting and rewarding the whole idea of "being Irish" is.  I hope that they eventually found rest that was every bit as beautiful as that which would have greeted them here.

Ireland 2014 - Take a Walk

Meet my new friend. Well, I wanted her to be my friend. She stood there, in the chilly Irish wind, stoic and wise and somewhat interested in what we were doing. I liked the look of her and her friends, in their thick woollen coats like a bunch of old Irish ladies waiting for the bus to take them to church, staring us down as if we were the ones behaving sheepishly.

They just kept watching us as we departed on our brief morning hike, or as they say in Ireland, a walk. This one was up to the top of a hill to see Eask Tower and to take in a fine view of Dingle Peninsula.

The walk ran through a family's farm. A shepherding family, from all appearances.

I was thinking about sheep for much of the way. I love to eat them and I wear clothes made from their fleece. Could I raise them? Could I spend long days out in this cold, wet weather tending to their every need, shearing them, healing them, killing them and butchering them?

Probably not. If I were to be a farmer I would probably raise beans, and harvest mushrooms and grow squash and kale and the like. But I would be sure to grow as much as I could, so I could trade for a regular taste of that tender, sweet lamb.

Hold on now, I hear you saying, that's in poor taste, talking about eating lamb while showing a picture of one of the adorable little squirts. And that is my point. I couldn't hurt that cute little lamb. But I could eat it, so someone would have to do the dirty work.

But let's keep moving. The hike to the top was beautiful, even in the wind and the clouds and the mud. We were outside, on Irish soil, breathing sweet fresh air and gazing over a million shades of green. Doing this walk left us wanting more, and we sought out the "Edge of the World" walk that our innkeeper recommended. The Irish weather, however, had other plans and heavy rain left us no choice but to drive home for a hot cup of tea and what looked like a long, lazy afternoon.

But wait, just as quickly as it had arrived, it blew away, leaving the grass sparkling in the sun and the earth drying out in the warm Gulf Stream wind.

Off to the "Edge of the World" we went.

In Ireland, the next place you look is even prettier than the last, and the Dingle Peninsula is one of the prettiest places on the island. A simple walk turns into a late afternoon dream, threading its way between sea-cliff and pasture, the sea several shades of blue, the sky a Disney-esque display of cartoonish clouds and the land a ribbon of soft green velvet.

We spent several hours out there, walking miles in the sun, passing barely a soul, until the light started getting low and the wind started getting cold and our thoughts turned to hunger and thirst and rest. Homeward we went, happy and grateful to have gone to the edge of the world, and to have found it more beautiful than we could have imagined.

It was our first day of real walking in Ireland and it didn't disappoint. On the drive back I was wondering how it could possibly get any more idyllic. I am not sure how, but over the subsequent days, it actually did.

Related articles

Siena Style

Biking Along the Mosel

Dingle Peninsula, Ireland

The Allure of the Dingle Peninsula

Ireland 2014 - Dingle Town

The picture above was taken from our room at the Greenmount House, a family-owned and run bed and breakfast just up the hill from "downtown" Dingle, on the Dingle Peninsula, in County Kerry.

It gives proof to what I had assumed was more of a myth - that there are countless shades of green and Ireland captures all of them. There is nowhere you can look that does not have green. And throughout all of the countryside we visited, there is also nowhere you can look that isn't at least very pretty and likely exceptionally beautiful. The Emerald Isle is indeed a feast for the eyes.

This was day two of our trip, day one having been spent arriving in Dublin and promptly driving 3 hours to Kinsale, where a heretofore unknown to us Rugby Sevens tournament was being enjoyed by what felt like many thousands of drunken young men and the scantily clad women with whom they would've liked to sleep. Our brief stay in Kinsale included a narrow escape from bed bugs and an unfortunate sighting of an inebriated young man's penis.

As fun as all of that was, it was nice to now be smack-dab in the middle of such a placid scene, cup of hot tea in hand. Naturally, I was thinking about dinner.

Luckily, Ireland has a budding "food movement"(I hate that phrase but like what it represents, people learning about their own region's food and finding simple but creative ways to enjoy it) and the West Coast, including Dingle, is on the leading edge of it.

So our first night meant dinner at Out of the Blue, and some of the best seafood I have had in a long time. They cook what is caught that day and if nothing is caught, they don't open. Luckily, plenty had been caught the day we were there.

Then it was a leisurely walk around Dingle harbor, as the wind blew big, fluffy white clouds past the setting sun. Let's be honest, though, this was not a warm breeze. It was quite chilly, and our California-spoiled bodies needed an extra layer to stay warm. But the ever-changing light splashing across the water, the boats and the brightly-painted buildings of Dingle made braving the cool (it was not cold, we were just soft) evening air worth every shiver.

And of course, once the sun went down, it was time to stop into a pub for a pint and to listen to some music. We were guided to John Benny's Pub, a friendly spot for a drink, some live music and, as we would find out a couple of days later, good pub food, especially their fish and chips. Judging from Marissa's gesture in the video below, it is also a place where one may comfortably act silly.

And thus was wrapped a perfect first night on Ireland's Southwest coast.

Related articles

The best beaches of the Dingle Peninsula (PHOTOS) (IrishCentral)

The Friday Gin Review ~ Dingle Original Gin

The Allure of the Dingle Peninsula

Siena Style

Do the Pompidou

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.

Related articles

The Big Storm

Ballard, Seattle's northwest neighborhood, brings upscale dining to Scandinavian heritage (video)

Elvis Vive en el Parque del Buen Retiro

Eurovision 2013

Oh baby, what do we have here? The bass is pumping, the booty bumpin', Belarus must be in the house! Wait...what?

It's Eurovision, baby, the annual pan-European song contest. Born in the belly of the Cold War, it now encompasses the continent, with Lichtenstein and Vatican City the only countries not to have participated (at least according to Wikipedia).

Sweden had won in 2012, so they were hosting in 2013, on the very same day as the largest half-marathon in the world. So our afternoon victory party extended into an evening Eurovision viewing party, and several of us were glued to the T.V.

To a non-European (and maybe to Europeans as well, who knows?) it is both surreal and familiar. Familiar in that TV singing competitions are rather ubiquitous, from America to Zimbabwe, and surreal in the way that many of the countries choose to represent themselves.

Sure, many of the acts were pretty straight-forward pop acts, and by that I mean the watered-down, forgetful music one might hear on any radio station anywhere. Like this guy, pictured above. I have already forgotten his name or what he sounded like. I did - and still do - love his hair. That is good Euro-hair right there.

Then there were the slightly jarring but not terribly surprising acts, like Belarus, at the top of this article. I was not expecting a hot, hip-hoppy number from this Eurasian nation, but was quickly reminded that sex does indeed sell, the world over. I wondered to myself if it was the singer's vocal talent, or just her fabulous legs, that got her the gig. Since I do not remember what she sounded like, I am going with legs.

And then there were the ones that made the whole contest very interesting...

...like Romania! WOW! The performer's name is Cezar and he was done up in a fantastic disco vampire kind of number that looked as if it might sprout wings and fly off into the night, hunting for prey in the Swedish wilderness. And the song itself - WOW! Lots and lots of falsetto. Falsetto! This was awesome! I did not actually like the song, but I loved the originality and now I must go to Romania, if only to see where all of this came from.

A close runner-up to Romania, for me, was Azerbaijan, with a truly creative (and I am not being snarky here, I found it very interesting, if not completely understandable (OK, that was a little snarky)) number being sung by one man while a little scene played out involving another leggy blonde and a second man - his shadow, I believe - trapped in a Plexiglas box. The creativity seems to be coming from the East. And more power to them.

I noticed that most songs were sung in English, which I found disappointing. However, there is more to the story. In WhatsApp'ing with my cousin in Spain - she was mildly interested in the fact that I was interested in Eurovision and I appreciated her indulgence - I mentioned that I was proud the Spanish group had sung in Spanish. Her reply revealed my naivete: "It is because they do not know English, like too many Spaniards. Not enough education..." A light-bulb. An a-ha. Eurovision is indeed a showcase for what each country has to offer the world, and those that can connect using the global lingua-franca obviously have more to offer. Eurovision 2053 will probably be won by someone singing in Mandarin.

Despite the important lesson in international political economy, my favorite song was sung in Greek, by Greeks, and I truly dug it.

"Alcohol is Free" by Koza Mostra featuring Agathon Lakovidis. A raucous, ska-drenched number that, though I don't speak Greek, I am confident had to be an up-yours to the European Central Bank. They rocked with punk humor and fury and it was the one song of the night that stayed in my head. I was pulling for them to win.

But alas, the winner was Denmark, fronted by yet another willowy blonde singing in perfect English. I've forgotten how it went. You can look it up if you like. I am sure it was pretty.

I did not forget the competition as a whole, however, having fully enjoyed almost every minute of it. I couldn't help but wonder, as I was watching, how a US version would be. Could our country pull off an Amerivision? I don't think it would be that interesting, or that much different from the current crop of talent shows we already have. Now a continental version, maybe, but I don't know. There is a rich history of conflict, consanguinity and contrast in Europe that, to me, adds just that much more depth to Eurovision and in a way that isn't easily replicated. Now if they could just reward better, more original music...

Related articles

Eurovision Times: 2013 Site in Review

Romania Confirm they will be at Eurovision 2014

Eurovision 2014 : Italy Confirm They Will participate at Eurovision 2014

Copenhagen sets progressive agenda for Eurovision

 

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!!!

Related articles

 

Göteborg a go-go

Winter had been long and harsh and spring reluctant to make itself known. Even just a week earlier there had been flurries and icy rain. On this day, however, the temperature was in the 70s and the color green was everywhere. As if knowing time would be limited, every plant in Sweden was racing to sprout, grow and reproduce. Swedes, pale from the long winter, were occupying these green spaces in hushed excitement, removing layers of clothing slowly, tentatively, as if understanding that this warmth and sunshine could disappear in a flash.

Göteborg is a seafaring town, and we took a tour of the harbor. Ships in dry-dock, being repaired and cleaned up. Coast guard types practicing rescue scenarios. Tourists in tour boats, snapping pictures of Swedish girls sunning themselves. The sun flashed brilliantly off the water, highlighting the colors of the boats and the cranes and the workers on the docks.

 

And this is the Feskekôrka- literally, the fish church - a fantastic hall filled with delectable delicacies from the deep. Beautifully, simply designed, it was a cooling, calming retreat from what was becoming almost a hot day outside.

The air was humid and we got sticky as we strolled through the cities high points, like the massive statue of Poseidon, standing proudly with a shell in one hand and a big fish in the other. Families were out and about, gathering for lunch and posing for pictures.

It reminded me of my university days in Iowa, when the icy winter wind finally subsided and I could walk to class without a parka. I knew what these Swedes were feeling right now. I'd been there myself. 

You can tell that this degree of warmth had come on suddenly, as the trees were just barely beginning to show their budding leaves. That bright, almost electric green is one of my favorite colors, and one of my favorite things about spring. It is the ecstatic expression of living itself, and the continual promise of new beginnings. No matter how cold and long a winter might be, once that special spring green begins to show, you know you are going to be alright.

 

Of course, there are certain things that are unbelievably good all year round. Case in point, the hagabulle shown above. What is a hagabulle, you ask? As far as I am concerned it is the worlds largest and tastiest sweet roll. A delightfully chewy pastry laced with cardamom, cinnamon and sugar, and sold at Cafe Husaren, "home of the hagabullen." The small chocolate thing next to it was good too, but really just an afterthought when paired with that bohemoth bun. The three of us managed to make a dent, but had to take the rest home for breakfast the next morning.

A warm Spring day in Gothenburg. The world buzzing to life in a frenzy of color. I am glad I was there on that day. I wouldn't mind being there again and again, in each of its remaining seasons. But I bet I will like spring best.

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.

Related articles

Seafood of the Week - Crab

Ten reasons Sweden is the best winter country

Seafood Boil Party & Seafood Dinner Party

Cray Cray Crayfish

Elvis Vive en el Parque del Buen Retiro

A sunny April morning in Madrid. Marissa was training for a half-marathon, so we were following our usual training regimen: she runs, I wander.

Wandering, for me, usually means carrying my camera around and trying to take interesting photographs of places and the people in them. Often I just end up watching the people, as their own personal dramas act themselves out and I let my imagination provide the back-story. Buen Retiro Park, or El Parque del Buen Retiro, is one of my favorite parks in the world - a leafy green oasis in the heart of Madrid, offering Madrilenos and their guests a place to go for quiet, exercise, romance or fun with the children - and a great place to people-watch.

But this day was a little different. As I meandered along the main through-way - a long, straight lane lined with trees and demarcated with fountains, I kept hearing strains of music that sounded simultaneously familiar and out-of-place.

As I drew nearer, I could hear the harmonies and flourishes of a decent-sized ensemble. When I came upon them I saw the uniforms - heavy blue coats with red collars and white, braided epaulets. The music came to a swell as I snaked to the front of the crowd and then it hit me - they were playing the songs of Elvis Presley!

Hound Dog, Blue Suede Shoes, You Were Always on My Mind - all of the King's greatest were being recreated by a large ensemble in the middle of this fine Spanish park at 10:30 in the morning. One word slipped loudly from my lips...

"Awesome."

The brass section did a fine job with Jailhouse Rock's funky bassline, and the crowd clapped and swung with the beat as the conductor infused as much emotion into the morning as he possibly could. I don't want to stereotype, but if anyone can infuse an outdoor, morning rendition of an old Elvis tune with emotion, it is a Spaniard in a fancy coat. I immediately thought of my uncle Manuel.

The group was set up right there on the pavement - no stage or risers - and one could walk up as close as one liked. So I made my way over to the section I had been in when I was younger - the woodwinds.

I was hoping for a saxophone solo. I would have loved to have done one - a loud honky-tonkin' wail in the middle of Blue Suede Shoes, or a schmaltzy, vibrato-filled run during "My Way." But this was all orchestral work, and the reed players stuck mostly to their flutes.

I lingered just behind the woodwind section and just to the right of the rhythm section and took it all in. As I did I was transported back to my school band years, remembering the feeling of the horn in my hand, my eyes on the music, my toe keeping time. For a moment I was absorbed into this band, the melody surrounding me, an occasional out-of-tune note reminding me how difficult it is to play in a group, outside, with the sun in your eyes and cute girls walking by.

I felt a camaraderie with these guys (it was an all-male ensemble). I shared something with them through our common experience playing - admittedly somewhat cheesy - music for random people in public settings. I wanted to tap one on the shoulder and tell him about that time the Murray High School Jazz Band played a set of old swing tunes at a local elder-care facility, wherein one resident kept shouting that it was "too damn loud" but the rest looked like they had gone back in time. And as I looked out over those watching now I could see that they were really enjoying this unexpected, and rather non-sequiter, show. Even the young families, with their lovely Spanish children in their strollers and strapped to their chests, were stopping to listen and smiling as the next classic hit was recognized.

The medley ended with a big, Vegas-in-Madrid-on-an-April-in-the-morning finale just as it was time for me to get back to my meeting spot with the runner. I left, reluctantly, feeling refreshed and inspired and more connected to the city of Madrid than I ever had before.

Such is the power of Elvis? Such is the power of music, more likely.

Related articles

T.W.O. in Madrid

Madrid