Two weeks and rain everyday. Ain't Sweden a lovely place in the fall? I'm glad I was only visiting. I was there to teach two classes on multithreading and visit a few friends. I was considering visiting Nilles Harpor up in Kiruna and Eva Rune down in the little town of Angered. I get so spacey right after the plane flight, yet I still manage to trot off to Skeppis to dance all Sunday night. See some friends, take a few spins around the dance floor, simply enjoy the music. I'll guess we get 80 musicians and 120 dancers every Sunday. It's a nice place. On the plane from London, I noticed a lovely young lady with backpack, and chatted her up a bit. Going to visit her boyfriend in Stockholm. Seems that the first place he decides to show her is Skeppis! How's that for a cosmic connection? I stay out in Viksjö with my friend Pat, so I need to catch the 11:52 train (Pendeltåg) or else. I leave with couples still spinning around the floor. Pat's become quite the popular lady with her friend Gert staying over the past few weeks while he tries to sell his chocolate shop so he can join his wife in Zimbabwe, and her boyfriend Bengt staying over, and now me. What must the neighbors think! Monday-Thursday I'm teaching a pretty intense class, so I don't get much chance to goof off. Pat and I meet with some other friends for dinner and discuss the Swedish witch hunt for the "HIV-Man". Seems that this fellow "James Kimball" has lured girls to his apartment, drugged some of them, and had sex. One of them called the cops, reporting rape, and the chase was on. He took off, they ransacked his place and found a black book with ~100 women in it AND AIDS drugs. This hits the headlines and women start showing up out of the woodwork who've slept with him sans protection. Hundreds. A 13 year old. Next we discover that the American James Kimball is dead, and this guy is from Iran and just used the name! He's hansome, 45, and a hell of a good talker. And boy! Are people pissed at him! Burn him at the stake! Thursday night the årsta polska group meets and I have to go there. It's the train out to Globen (where 10,000 small kids are just getting out from a performance and running wild), then a bus. The green line has just started running the new subway trains, which are BEAUTIFUL. årsta plan hasn't changed in ten years. We practice a Humpa and reverse Hambo. By this time I know half the folks there. We manage the dances OK. Kerstin and I sit down for fika time ('coffee break') and she shares a few oranges with me. Greetings are sent to Betsy and others. A new film by Moodyson was released this week, "Fucking Åmål" (as in "Why do we have to live in Jävla fucking Åmål?"). It's the life of young teens in a small town. There's lots of discussion and debate about it. The mayor of Åmål is very concerned about the appearance it will have. It's sure better than reading about HIV-mannen. Friday, Pat agrees to come with me to a concert. (I've known Pat 8 years and this is the first time she's ever gone with me!) It's two young ladies, Zara Wignall and Hanna Tibell from Malung's music school. I first met them in Falun 6 years ago, so this is a great pleasure. They're performing in the very crowded dining hall at Skeppis and Zara's 6 month old child is NOT happy about this. They share the stage with Mattias Helje and Anders Almlöf, playing Polskas and Springars and such. A hour there and we retire up to the dance hall where they and others play for dance for the rest of the night. Pat makes it clear to me that she is NOT going to dance. (She's not too hot on any music unless Springsteen plays it.) Well, I get a few different girls up and trip the light fantastic for a bit. (Stopping now and then to chat with Pat.) Suddenly, I come 'round the floor and she's gone! I hope she's not totally bored. I hope... and then I see her, dancing with a very hansome young fellow. Oh, ho! We stay a while, but leave modestly early. I tease her mercilessly. Saturday night Pat invites a few friends over for dinner. Leif I've known 10 years. His wife, Lucy, he met in a dance bar in Sunnyvale. He's known her for 20 minutes longer than I have. She's from Peru, and society in Sweden is not kind to foreigners. California is MUCH nicer. Camilla (9 mo.) and I crawl around on the floor while the grownups chat. Poor child is going to grow up thinking men speak Swedish and women speak Spanish. Sunday is raining cats and dogs. I arrive at Martin's for lunch looking like a wet mop. No worry. Linnea immediately needs to show me... Karin's crib, her own room, Kaija's room, her toys, her books (and she has to read some), then we really HAVE to draw some pictures together... I get a chance to talk to Martin and Elijca somewhat later. (Martin and I met 15 years ago under odd circumstances when I first came to Sweden. He is clearly one of God's favorite people, smart, hansome, hard-working, and lucky. Ever see Lennart Nilson's book of microphotography of the fetus? The cover shot is Kaija.) Martin has a copy of Roland's book on hiking the Appalacian trail which I've not seen before. It's true classic Roland style, including statistics for *everything* including "Sex on the Trail". 4:30 is a Par Halling class of very elementary level. Then the regular Skeppis activity starts. My least favorite person is in attendance. I avoid eye contact, hoping he won't remember me. He's also a Yank, he's come to Skeppis for at least five years and still can't manage a Scottish. My impression is that he's there to hit on girls (which he does poorly) and he's generally negative, unfriendly, and boorish. He does recognize me and calls me by name. And he's actually quite pleasant. We chat a bit and then wander our respective directions. The next turn around the floor revels that Karl Philip and his wife are here! We first met in '92 and have always enjoyed each other. They're up in Uppsala and only get down here twice a year (when I saw them in June and now!). So that's a joy. Then I hurry off to the Pendeltåg. It's a lovely walk from Skeppsholmen to Centralen (when not raining), past the Royal hotel, around the Opera house and the ever-crowded Opera Kjällerin. Lines of taxis await their well-heeled customers outside. (Is this one of the places HIV-mannen stalked his victims?) Across the middle of town, down past the Sheraton and up to the station. A modest ride out to Jacobsberg and I hop the 553 bus home. I get out two stops early and float home in the light rain. Monday it's back to work. A three day class in Java threads. Elly is in from the US to teach Perl. Her classroom is freezing and Louise distributes Sun logo sweaters to everyone. The next night Pat, Orvar, & I go over to Leif's and Lucy's to watch movies. I really wanted to see "Fucking Åmål", but it was sold out. Lucy's headed back to Peru for the winter. We watch "Night on Earth" which follows five cab rides in LA, NY, Rome, Paris, and Helsinki. It's great because someone in the room knows every city. Wednesday we finish the class and I jump the train out towards Kungsängen to see Torbjörn and Linda et. al. I cleverly purchase a phone card for 30:- so I can call. (Phones don't accept coins any more.) It's a new fangled card, no chip, just dial an 0200 number and use the PIN. Unfortunately, I don't figure this out right away, and I'm trying to put it into the phone like the other cards and getting frustrated. I try reading the instructions. I try following them, but no luck. The train arrives. OK, I'll call from Kungsägen. I spend 20 minutes trying to figure out how the !@@^%!*&! card works to no avail. (Damn! I'm supposed to be smart enough to figure this out.) Customer service informs me that they can send me a replacement card, but they can't tell me if it's faulty, nor can they call for me!!??! I use my credit card (another new development). It's raining worse than ever as Torbjörn pulls into the bus parking area (illegally) to pick me up. The farm is as lovely as ever. It's all covered in mud, the sheep are muddy, the barn is muddy. It's Sweden in the fall. But we pass a nice evening. Siri is getting big and we have to read "Pelle Svanslos" (because I never read it). A late fika, chit-chat, a Seinfelt rerun, politics. Morning is rush, rush, rush. Three kids on höstlov makes for much work. We dash to the Pendeltåg and kiss our goodbyes. After taking a run and cleaning up, I wander into town. More rain, which I escape by taking a matinee seating for Åmål. (The joke is that old folks are asking "What's 'fucking' mean?" and the kids are asking "What's Åmål mean?") GREAT FLICK! It's even greater because my niece plays the lead role! (Odd, how Mo learned Swedish so fast. Grew her hair out too.) A bit of shopping (finally bought a "Fjäll Räven" backpack), then to Westmanska Palace for the "WOMEX" concert. (Isn't this the organization Judy Weiss worked for? (Hi Judy!)) It's about 100 yards from Olof Palme's grave and where he was gunned down on the street in the mid-80's. I'm way early and there's zero problem with tickets (I once waited 2 hours in line and got the last ticket to a Väsen concert). I walk in and... Eva & Rickard! We chat. Eva's in a new group and Rickard is playing in Groupa that night. Alright! I don't have to go to Angered after all! There's five groups, each one gets 1 hour and we swap the two stages. The first is a English/Swedish combo who are OK. Then a Norwegian with two friends (inc. Mikkel Marin) playing Reinlanders and Springars. (Geez! What's wrong here? Nobody's dancing! Hey, you wanna dance?) Soon the floor is packed with 3 couples. So far, I've only recognized one dancer and a few musicians. Odd. I drag a bunch more willing victims out for a spin. I notice a name tag "North Side". "Hey! You that guy from Minnisota?" He is (don't ask me his name) and we chat a bit. The next group is dancible, then it's Groupa. No more floor space to dance in. :-( I don't know what I think of their present music. Nice, not outstanding. The final group is "Transjoik" who works hard to maximize volume and drives half the audience back to the bar. Oh! It's time to boogy! I come huffing into the station with a few minutes to spare. Out to Jacobsberg, take the 951 night bus home and crash. Friday morning I pack up, return the keys, leave Pat the phone card, and jump into the cab. It's been a grand time. I'm happy to be headed home, but it's been swell in any case. Happy and tired, I settle into the plane and pick up Aftonbladet to peruse the news. I'm expecting to kick back and relax. Not. In hugh letters, "60 UNGA DöDA I STORBRAND". (At least 60 teens, many from Angered, killed in disco fire.) I stare aimless at the paper for hours.