you're a red pants wearin man!

You believe Swedish children are born on skis...

Two weeks into my stay in Sundsvall, I was once again sitting in my Corporate Culture class at Mid-Sweden and being told about American business practices, having to verify from time to time if all American companies would sell their employees for cash or explain the phrase "rugged Individualism."  Near the end of the lecture when we we finally began discussing Swedish culture, it became apparent that only two people in the room including the professor had actually been skiing.  "What kind of culture course does not encourage the students to experience a vital part of the local culture," expressed my professor.  "What if I asked you all to read the material for the next lecture on your own this weekend and on Monday we took a class trip to one of the local slopes?"  Seeing a chance to get out of class experience something new and exciting, the decision to go skiing was unanimous.

After a fun filled weekend involving schnitzel and absinthe, I donned my brand new, police-light red snow pants and was tromping across a frozen lake on my way to the nearest ski slope.  We had decided to arrive at 5 o'clock to avoid the rush, which turned out to be the right choice because we had to rent all of the necessary equipment (skis, poles, boots, and helmets).  After getting sized up and geared up, we made our way out to the little clearing between the ski shop, the lift, and the bottom of the slope.  My teacher believed this mostly flat area would be a good chance for us to get used to the feeling of skis and cheered us all on with the encouraging words, "Don't worry when you fall, I completely expect you to be absolutely awful at this."  Ah, the invaluable honesty of Swedes.

I'm now going to simply share the following stream of thoughts that I believe captures the sheer raw wonderfulness of this learning experience.

Okay she said it was like skating and you've done plenty of that back home when you were younger and they played backstreet boys over the loudspeakers. Keep moving your legs back and worth, use the poles! they're there for a reason.  Stop, whoa whoa stop, plant the poles to keep yourself from sliding back any further.  Why is it so hard to just move five feet?  How's everyone else doing?  Good,  just as bad.  Oh what the crap?  That kid doesn't even come up to my waist, he's probably missing more teeth than are in his mouth right now and he's moving faster than me, he doesn't even use poles! Are these people genetically engineered for this kind of stuff? Follow him, follow him! Casually stumble up to the lift and go to the top like you aren't terrible at this.  Let's be real, you're definitely not get any better down here, try and salvage some pride by being the first one out of the rest of them to get the nerve to go down the mountain.

Okay, where do you get on?  No benches, what kind of lift is- oh grab that thing coming around the bend, um, maybe if you just, lean against it and...okay.  We're good, we're good................. Well this is nice.......You can do this, you'll just get to the top and slowly make your way down.  No problem.  You pick up on things fast anyway and you might be really good at this.  Oh shoot, time to get off, steady and...okay.  Whoa! keep from doing the splits, you'll definitely feel that tomorrow.  Easy now, slide up to the edge of the hill and....shoot.  Can I do this? I barely know how to stop and that looks way steeper than before.  Why did I have to learn on this hill?  Oh there go some more little kids, with no hestiation whatsoever.  Come on, man up, the only way down is down.  And...go!  Okay, okay, so far so- ughaf! Pleh, well that's one.  Again.  Plow, plow, change directions, don't even out too much! Fall before you crash. Ofhh-ow... Line the skis up, get up. Again.

I have to admit that after the first time down, which took me about 20 minutes, I was pretty discoruaged.  I must have fallen close to ten times and felt no more confident my second time up the lift.  But things got better.  I only fell three times during round two, and only once on rounds three and four (when I tried to stop at the bottom).  By the fifth time, I was be no means a master but actually started enjoying myself.

I went down a couple more times, dodging x-games-esqu munchkins, and ended up having a great time.  I realized that there is a "feel" to skiing that you can't really explain to someone who's learning, no matter how red their pants are.  I'm definitely looking forward to my next attempt at skiing though, which if I'm lucky will be Saturday with all of the nice snow today's blizzard brought in.

your grill site is somewhere beneath 3 meters of snow.

One evening while enjoying some Chile con Carne prepared by my neighbors, I was invited to a German barbecue that upcoming weekend.  Now, I sometimes feel a little silly about this obsession I have with barbecue, but I promise it's not an exaggeration.  I said goodbye to two of my best friends before leaving by enjoying some good KC barbecue with them.  Although it may be the cause, I never cease to count myself lucky to have grown up in a barbecue city.  I've learned that if I don't devour a respectable amount of barbecue (and I mean good barbecue- I'm looking at you Iowa) I start to have pervasive barbecue cravings.  There are times when I'm sitting at my computer, or running, or just hanging out with friends when I can't get the hauntingly delicious image of ribs and pulled pork out my mind/stomach.  So when the word barbecue reached my ears, I was automatically lost in a daydream of burnt ends and onion rings.  I came back to earth when I learned the primary food at a German barbecue was, of course, bratwurst.  I have to admit, I was a little disappointed, but I quickly wiped the drool that had suspiciously formed around my lips and accepted the invitation.  I even said I could bring something for the barbecue, maybe to counter balance all of the sausage.

The day of the German barbecue came, and I made my way to the store still a little unsure of what to bring.  I knew there would be copious amounts of meat, so that was out of the question.  And I feel like everyone in my hall has potatoes at least every 4th meal, so I wasn't too jazzed for potato salad either.  I ended up deciding on grilled bananas.  They're easy, delicious, and would do fine with being carried around in the cold while we walked in the snow to the grill site.  I got back to Norrmalm at 3 o'clock thinking that I had some time to eat and prepare the bananas, but when I walked into the hallway, I realized that everyone was already ready to go.  The sleds brimming with pale, uncooked bratwurst that filled the hallway gave it away.  I rushed into my room, put my other groceries away, pulled on my awesome red pants, and went into the kitchen with my ingredients.  Some of my friends who were waiting for the last stragglers like myself came over to help, and we assembly lined the bananas with honey, sugar, and brown sugar.  By 3:30, we were heading up the mountain with full sleds and empty stomachs.

We eventually made it to the top of the mountain and turned to look out on the city.  It was a beautiful site.

There was just one problem.  Do you see that snow mound in the foreground of the picture?  Imagine a grill buried somewhere in there, most likely about 7 feet down at a minimum.  The decision by the grill masters was that the expedition would continue on in search of a more suitable site.  We found one about 10 minutes away on the outskirts of a park.  We dug out one of the slightly buried (but still visible!) grills using the sleds, and before long, we had a nice firing going.  We immediately began cooking up the bratwurst, and no

German event is complete without beer, so we opened those too.  I'd like to think I've learned a lot about my German friends in my short time here, but one thing has stuck out more than anything else.  You must always have a beer in your hand.  It isn't an overwhelming alcoholism, but more of a sign of fellowship and just the modus operandi of every social situation.  And they are incredibly generous among friends, congenially thrusting a new beer into your hand as soon as you dispose of your last one.  I have to say, you learn to pace yourself or before the end of the night, you're past 7 or 8 and wondering how it happened.

Before long, all of the bratwurst and rolls were gone, and we were enjoying the bananas with melted chocolate or a little brandy on top.  We stayed until we had eaten and drank everything we brought and burned up all of our wood in a great bonfire.  It was great night, especially since a light snow had been falling since we left the apartment.  We all left satisfied and with full stomachs, racing down the mountain on our now empty sleds.

That's about it for now.  I'll leave you with a parting picture though.  Feel free to make up some wild explanations.  And yes, the brown parts are its wings.