I *hate* Stockholm in November. It's miserable, grey, cold, and wet. People don't have anything to look forward to, just misery. Everyone is greyest in November. December brings snow and the promise of Christmas. Even in the bleakest January, there is that knowledge that good days can abound even when freezing your toes off. I didn't see the sun once the whole week. (And I worked for Sun!) The trees were all dead, the ground was mud and dead leaves. A cold, wet wind blew constantly, bringing drizzle and humidity. Great mists would gather in the evenings and you would ask yourself, "Why go out in this?" No amount of heating could keep the busses from that hungry, oozing "Dimma". Even that word, "Dimma" is more ominous than a mere "fog". It's a cruel, menacing word that conjures up Ronja's worst nightmares in the form of the unseen, evil, laughing "Viltonerna" who threatened to tear her to bits. Courage is perservering against those things you most dislike and fear. Dimma... None-the-less, not once, not twice, but three times I got to spend the evenings dancing with people I like. Yes, Sweden has not died! Even in the worst of it they still come out and dance. Two hundred out of 750,000 might not sound like much, but these are the two hundred I care about. Ain't dancing great? (I never understand how so few people care to dance. Life without music and dance? Ush!) I just love it so much. It's movement... it's being physical... an animal... a human being... it's LIFE! So I had a pretty good time. Got off the plane, went to Pat's, then straight into town to Sheppsholmen. That's the greatest island. It has a wonderful personality -- calm and assertive. It's above all that hussle and bussle in the city. It ignores the trival and stands proudly, self-confidently. About 2/3 of the usual mob was there. Oh! Yes! Many greetings are sent to many people here. Let's see... Kerstin (with glasses) to Linda and Jim, Kerstin (without glasses) to, ah Henry, and, um, the Melparing to Nobi, and Brooke, (or was that from Kerstin?). Roo, and Bruce, and Judy, And then there was.... Oh bother! If you know anyone in Sweden, they told me to send you greetings! And we danced, and talked, and everyone was playing everywhere and lots of people were happy to see me, and lots of wonderful women danced with me, and I'm just **so** happy! (And somebody did these little, soft torts in the fika rum. I love going down there! I used to do it myself.) I love that place. I am part of the gang there, just not around much. Nobody ever talks to me in English, or ties to speak simple Swedish. They just take me as one of them. It's a nice feeling, though I do kind of miss the special consideration that "Foreigners" get. (It's actually a very interesting experience to accepted by both the native and the non-native communities as "one of us". You get some unique insights into the society.) I go out of the way to greet any Americans who turn up. This time there's a nice fellow there. Seems he's staying with Izzy Young. So, yeah, dancing. Cool. The usual suspects playing sets, a few newcomers who are *so* nervous, but so into it. Sometimes you dance with beginners and you're working hard to get them into swing of it. "That's OK. You're getting it. Just keep that foot even, don't twist your shoulders...." It feels good, but it can be exhausting. Then you get to dance with some old friend, and the floor is as smooth as silk. You're turning together as a single entity. Nothing shakey, nothing uncertain, no doubts, just a whirling perfection. Gliding together, soaring across the floor. (What an invention the floor was! It made possible all sorts of dancing that the ancients could never haved dreamed. You can't do a Polska in the dirt. I've never seen a single couple turning dance in any National Geographic Special. No floor -- no Polska.) (Why do people have carpets?) Got home at 1:30. The next day I slept. Pat's daughter dropped off the keys (Hey Pat! I've just dropped your keys in the mail. Sorry.) and we gossiped a bit. Both of them have new boyfriends. We're all going to have dinner Saturday. Then we both crashed. "What time is it? You're kidding!" Tuesday, it's Pierre's new music shop. (Pierre Alwert and I spent a year going to spelmans stammor together. I had a car, he had CDs to sell. So I'd drive, help him set up, then go dancing. I'd spell him every now and then. Finally we'd pack up and he'd spring for the hotel. It was great.) The store is *beautiful*! It's like you just look at the place and you know that the happiest man in the world must own it. It is perfect. All of his CDs, all in glorous array in the custom wooden shelves. The posters of the music Pierre likes the best adorn the walls. The newletters, the magazines, various small items on the counter, announcements posted by the door. A few instruments such as Jews' harps, pipe flutes, bones, and cow horns. He knows every single CD in that collection. He knows exactly what he likes and what you probably will. He always seems to find some CDs I never thought of. Then suddenly that group shows up. Just go down, tell him what you already like, then say "Please select 75 CDs that I'd like." (The exchange rate is really good right now. Better buy lots before it gets worse!) You won't be dissappointed. If you're reading this mailing list, you want to go there. REKLAM!! REKLAM!! REKLAM!! REKLAM!! REKLAM!! REKLAM!! FOLKMUSIKBUTIK I VASASTAN Rotespel Tulegatan 37 Oppet Vardag: 12-18 Lordag: 10-15 08 - 16 04 04 www.rotspel.a.se Storsta Sortement i Norden REKLAM!! REKLAM!! REKLAM!! REKLAM!! REKLAM!! REKLAM!! (Sorry. I get carried away... Ann is well, the little one is not little any more. Life is good.) So that was Tues. I thought I'd get some wine for dinner. Guess what. System Bolaget is still there. I kind of remember that being one of the issues that helped pass the EU referrendum. EU rules said "No State Booze Stores." Seems the goverment managed to get an EU exception. Friday is Astrid Lindgren's 90th birthday. The whole country is getting ready for it. Big spreads in the papers. All of her books in the store windows. TV programs, interviews. She won't be in town. She won't be *anywhere* that day. She's honored, but would rather relax. "Att bli gammal ar skit!" she's quoted as saying. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday I teach (that's what I do -- teach advanced computer science). Thursday I join Kerstin (no glasses) at Melparing. Visiting lessons on Follinge dances. (I still don't quite have that foremes.) Friday night is a meeting with the Stock Exchange guys at a Japanese restaurant (Shogun. I didn't like it. Bad rice. The Swedish waiter does speak Japanese though. He was interesting.) After leading one of these really long, intense courses I am *tired*. But there's a concert at Skippis! Can't miss that. Off I stagger. Miss the concert part. Don't even remember their name. For dances afterward, they play all these tunes that carry the phrase across the measure. Jamtland? More old friends. Lots of dancing. A great trio of young girls do the intermissions. The last Pendletag is at 0:52. I hurry off. The station is jammed with young, ugly, jumpy thugs-to-be. All drunk. Hitting folks up for money. Arguing, yelling, being "tough". Everyone telling them to bug-off, turning their backs on them. Police everywhere. I hate this part of Sweden. Saturday, I'm up bright and eager at the crack of noon. Help Pat a bit, then take the Pendletag out to Kungsangen where my old friend Linda picks me up. (I had intended to call from the station, but they've done completely away with cash pay phones. It's a card or nothing. grrr...) Torbjorn is just back from Kabal where he was researching an aid project. He had a beard. All men must wear beards in Afganistan. We visit the farm, chat about whatever, play with the kids. Torbjorn gets down on all fours and he and Siri bump heads playing "Billygoats". I've brought the most classically "American" thing I can think of -- giant Hershey Kisses. Then Linda drives me home. At about 40km the whole way. The "Dimman" is tight. Linda's washers don't work. Dinner with Pat is great. Wonderful food, good friends. (Ulla and Lars are from work. Sue is English and recovering from cancer. She's bald, but beautiful.) At 9 Madde calls. Frederik has had a concussion in the Hockey match. We won't be meeting him tonight. Pat teases me about the night before I returned to the states. (Bosse and Sture and I hit the bars. The bars hit back. At bar #4, around midnight, I slip into the mens room to take a leak. I stay a little longer as my stomach settles. I come out... the bar's empty! The lights are out! They're locking up. Waddayamean 3am??? It's -10 and I don't feel so good. Everyone at work was looking for me the next day. Oh, oh, oh.) Then Pat pours me another. I stagger onto the plane at 11 Sunday. Finally! I can relax. A quiet, pleasant 15 hours in a small aluminium tube... -Bil