Sveri-yeaaahh: an exchange student in Uppsala

It's just, like, memories.

Mon, 20 Feb 2012 13:17:47 +0100

Apparently we’re cruising at an altitude of 40 000ft right now. We’re even running a little early. Thanks for the heads up, pilot. Now any chance someone could throw me a box of tissues, or a brown paper bag, because have a look at me. Yeah, that’s me, the pathetic mess in 26F. We just flew out of Sweden, and for the millionth time this week, waterworks. Well instead of replaying every happy memory from the last year in my head, maybe I could get on to part 2 of the Uppsala nostalgia blog. Or maybe I can use my tears to clean my filthy laptop.

Anyway, my second semester’s “classic” moments, in vaaaaaguely chronological order. Let’s do this.

Watching movies til 4 or 5am most nights of the summer, rarely missing the sunrise.
Lying around on the grass at the lake with Steve and Lloyd, watching the (stupid, sexy) Swedes. We were the only ones in the shade, the only ones applying sunscreen. Also, the water was fresh. Weeeeeird.
Playing classic/obscure tunes out of Lloyd’s window ‘til 4am, then having eggs thrown at us. Highlights included the Imperial March, the Round the Twist theme and the song from the banana ad.
Drinking death buckets in Uplands’ beer garden. Trying to ride home afterwards. Failing. Leaning over my bike to vomit on my shoes.
Going on a cruise to Tallinn. Watching the kids in the ball pit for far too long. Realising we now feature in the background of a number of parents’ photos of their children, us staring on creepily.
Trying to walk up my corridor without slipping over after a gratuitous number of water bombs had been thrown around at Jesper’s birthday.
Waking up at 3pm, being incredibly bored, going back to bed at 4pm.
Chilling out at the viking mound, in glorious sun. Then spending half an hour walking up and down the aisles of ÖoB. Then coming outside to find the sky was black with clouds and it was pissing down.
Going to Julia’s birthday at her house in Tierp. Being incredibly amused at how beautiful, blonde and Swedish everyone, and everything, was.
Lloyd’s 21^st: drinking the rainbow. Trying to kick in the door of Johannes Grill when I found it was closed. Never being entirely sure if I made it to Snerikes. Rolling around in the grass at Ekonomikum. Worshiping at the porcelain altar until quite late the next day.
Realising if I positioned my laptop correctly, I could watch stuff on my laptop from the toilet.
Kräftskiva: smashing crayfish, being mistaken for a Swede and watching shooting stars on the roof of building 1.
Sitting alone in a park in Gothenburg, drinking cider, enjoying the sun, and resolving to never travel alone again. My god, I’m boring company.
Being completely frustrated by the new exchange students. Forcing myself to not be an arsehole.
Dancing around in a swimming pool, in glorious sunshine, in the middle of a music festival.
Witnessing some of the most incredible sunsets from the roof of my building.
Walking out of my first medial anthropology class after half an hour and never coming back.
Drunkenly sending Anna an email to say I’d be interested in becoming a club worker.
Walking the streets of Uppsala and randomly feeling incredibly content and home.
Having the most terrible, tasteless, mind-bogglingly awful, hilarious conversations at Norrlands on Monday nights. These conversations usually featuring Ben.
Watching the trees around the field I can see from my room turn red as the days got shorter.
Biking into the wind out to Stenhagen and wanting to give up and die because it was so much effort.
Screaming so hard during one Flogsta scream I lost my voice for the next two days.
My first shift in the bar, pouring beers terribly and being an overall terrible bartender. This hardly changing at all for the duration of the semester.
Screaming at the chillblaster, the oven, the veggie burgers and the grill any time I had to run the kitchen.
Being hungover at nearly every staff meeting.
Yelling “double rainbow” at Alex.
Playing Circle of Death at Kalmar sexas at least once a week. Finding out far too much about the club workers. Sharing far too much with the other club workers.
Getting awkwardly felt up by Rasmus and Tina. Constantly.
Being so bored working Saturday night shifts in the bar I think I set some sort of record for inane texts sent.
“Hi! This is Marita from Kalmar Nation calling! I was wondering if you’d be interested in working this week?!”
That night we went to Ben’s for dinner, which ended up at Palermo and us talking to some old guy with a dog. Working in the bar the next night and continually having to sprint to the staff toilet to puke every internal organ up. Then staying up all that night so I could be back at Ben’s at 6am for the Grand Final.
Getting a random facebook message from some lady to tell me she’d found my wallet next to the forest. Not realising I’d lost my wallet until then.
Jorge making me food whenever I was in the Cockholm kitchen, drunk at ungodly hours.
Working at the Höstgasque and collectively hating the people who organised it. Drinking ourselves into oblivion immediately afterwards to forget about what a godawful experience it had been. The night ending weirdly.
Screaming that I would not stay in Uppsala for another weekend. Boarding a flight to Munich 10 hours later with Cafran and KESLEY.
Having at least 10 assignments on the go for many weeks, at least 70% of them overdue.
Dancing on stage with Kelsey at Plattenbau.
Dropping in to Kalmar pub for a quick drink. Not leaving ‘til after sexa. Rinse, lather, repeat.
The 8:5 Corridor Crawl, featuring beer pong and flip cup by strobe light, musical chairs, a light-up fountain and Super Mario on NES.
Working the Ostkakegille and having ostkaka rammed into my face and up my nose by everyone’s favourite sexmaster, Alex.
Shamelessly singing Runke Ball. Yes, I know what it means.
Laying eyes upon the most amazing, Kath & Kim-style tracksuit in an op-shop. Wearing it out for a pub crawl. Being absolutely devastated when I couldn’t fit it in to bring it home.

Nick modelling The Tracksuit

Catching z’s on the couch outside of Anna’s office.
The pure, unadulterated joy of making 13 nations on a pub crawl.
Being super excited when the Christmas lights went up around town.
Screaming underwater in frustration whilst being stuck behind hopeless swimming Swedes at Centralbadet.
Drinks at Nick and Anneli’s crazy awesome apartment. Feeling like a proper adult. Sorta.
Skipping the line at Stockens with my KK card. Feeling incredibly smug. Not remembering much after that.
Tällberg. A weekend best encapsulated by this photo:
Getting super excited when the snow came, then being totally devastated when it melted. Again and again and again.
Predrinks using Anneli’s amazing wine glasses (2 glasses = 1 bottle of champagne).
10 minute intense party at Värmlands
Hank’s magic.
Screaming the words to Helan whenever given the opportunity.
Drinking bubbly out of the bottle at Luciagasque.
Lloyd and I ending up the only people at Kalmar, unattended and unsupervised in the bar. Our absolute incredulity that this had come to pass. Further shock when this happened again.
Total elation whenever I counted the money and had a diff of zero.
Dancing to the trashiest music at Stockens and Värmlands and being unable to wipe the idiotic grin off my face.
Sleeping through my final presentation for Utopias and Dystopias. Daniel being totally cool with it, and actually dismissing another assignment I had overdue.
Hating Sandeep, the worst resource I ever had the misfortune of working with.
Standing on my chair at the end of the dinner at the staff party, singing Gamla Klang, and sobbing like a little bitch.
One night of bar hopping in real-world Uppsala. Never finding out how much I spent. Never actually wanting to know.
Buying fireworks out of the back of a truck.
Dragging my couch in front of my desk for the week between Christmas and New Year and spending the whole week incredibly bored and watching movies.
Randomly bursting into tears with increasing frequency as my date of departure drew nearer.
Going to a family birthday celebration at Julia’s. So much blonde. So much food. So much lovely.
Lying on the bottom of a pile of clubworkers on the Kalmar pub floor, suffocating, but happy. Then travelling around in circles for aaaaages on a scooter.
Doing the “WHERE’S THE CHOIR?” dance with Catherine in the changerooms at Weekdays.
Trying to convince myself to actually do my assignments for In-between Cultures. Giving up and, instead, opting to attend a bunch of farewell events. Not regretting it. Yet.
My mad dash to clean out and leave my room. Heimstaden walking in whilst I was still in the shower. Realising I had no vacuum cleaner or mop. Giving up. Fuck Heimstaden.
Walking through Uppsala and being hit by memories at every intersection, every bridge, every major building. Laughing and crying at the same time.

So I guess I’ll leave it there. As long-winded as it’s been, it’s by no means comprehensive. I wish I could talk about more people, remember more stuff, convey everything better, but I have things to do. Haha, not really, but I have to stop somewhere. It was the most incredible year of my life. I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve said that since I’ve been back. Shit, I’ve been back a month and I haven’t shut up about it. I’m trying, but I obviously I miss it. I still cry. I still talk about the nations as if everyone should know what I’m talking about. I still act like a 13 year old boy. I’ll be back, Uppsala, but until then, I’ll be over there. By the pool. Quoting Simpsons and texting inanities.

2011. Yeah, I guess this sums it up.

Nostalgia-ing all over the place

Wed, 11 Jan 2012 22:55:00 +0100

It’s 3.30am. I put down my book half an hour ago and have been waiting for the sandman, but the realisation that I have 10 days left has flipped me out a little. The other day, my buddy, Julia, asked Lloyd and I what our top three memories of exchange have been. It’s an astoundingly difficult question, and one to which I have no definitive answer. We decided we could answer if we subdivided into categories, but, even then, found it troublesome. There are some answers that come straight away (Top 3 trips: 1. Croatia, 2. Travels with Steve, 3. A tie between Baltic Cruise and Munich), but others that spark serious reflection and consternation trying to differentiate memories (Top 3 nights out is virtually impossible). My other worry is trying to tell people back home about my exchange. How can I convey the amazing that has been the past year? So as I’ve lain (???) here every night, I’ve trawled through my memories, and figured I’ll just write them down here, the stuff that stands out, the stuff that has defined my exchange. I guess I’ll come back and edit it, add more stuff, but it’ll never be as comprehensive or as nuanced as I want, but, fuck, it’s better than nothing.

The more things I add to the list, the more I realise that I have to narrow this to specific moments.

A week later and I only made it through one semester. So I guess this is part 1:

First day, sitting on the train to Uppsala, watching the sun set… at 3pm. Freaking out.
Standing at the vice chancellor’s welcome reception with Caity and Lloyd, giggling at the serious guy, getting unintentionally drunk afterwards.
Standing in the middle of a frozen lake, somewhere north of the Arctic Circle, watching the Northern Lights appear, albeit weakly… and getting my lip stuck on my can of cider.
Screaming “FUCK YOU I WONT’T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!” with Lloyd at the International Gasque after-party.
Chilling in the waiting room at the doc’s with a very sick Caity.
The ridiculously intense feeling of cold on my legs as I walked through the snow between buildings 4C and 4B, wearing shorts, every Tuesday morning, to do laundry.
Repeatedly seeing a guy with long, blonde hair, who always walked around wearing leather pants or a leather vest. Nicknaming him “The Viking”.
After Swedish class one night, it began to snow as Caity, Jonas and I were walking past the cemetery. Sitting at William’s Pub, we watched it get heavier, massive, fluffy white chunks falling on the spires of domkyrkan. Too pretty.
Getting home after a 10 hour shift at Kalmar, sleeping ‘til 4pm the next day. My first experience of missing the daylight due to sleep. Being completely disoriented.
Walking home and always stopping next to the ice rink to watch the little kids skating.
Having brunch at GH with Caity and Kiri, feeling grown up.
Accidentally punching a girl in the face, green beer in hand, whilst dancing on St. Patricks Day.
Australian society, once a fortnight. Two hours of class discussion dominated by three Australians, and rarely actually discussing the assigned topics. Daniel Ogden. Greatest.
Writing my shopping list according to the layout of Willy’s. Speed shopping so that I’d be finished in time to catch the bus as it came back.
Sitting in Lloyd’s kitchen one lazy, Saturday afternoon, with Em, Taco, Olivier and Tina, hungover as hell, playing fuck the dealer in the orange sunset. Everyone struggling.
1.30am on a Monday, Lloyd and I lying on the boardwalk with our feet in the river, watching the moon rise behind domkyrkan, drinking bacardi out of coke cans, screaming, “WHAT IS THIS LIFE???” repeatedly. Then throwing (old, destroyed) bikes in the river.
Trying just about every shot on the menu at a bar in Tallinn. Then, early next morning, stopping every ten steps to vomit, including over the back of a Mercedes and in the middle of the road.
Wandering drunkenly up and down Nevsky Prospekt in St. Petersburg with Kim, desperately trying to find McDonald’s. Ending up at a Japanese place, drinking red beers, our food all containing dill.
Once again yelling, “WHAT IS THIS LIFE?” with Lloyd, but this time standing in the sun, soaked in champagne, at the Snerikes champagnegaloppen, for Valborg.
Finally making it to Värmlands on a Friday night. Getting promptly escorted out after projectile vomiting gummi bears whilst walking down the stairs.
Laughing whilst confetti fell on the crowd at the end of the Sufjan Stevens concert.
On the train to Stockholm, en route to Croatia, pulling a sprig of thyme out of my sandwich with my teeth. It being a never-ending sprig. Em watching on, in hysterics. Em’s reaction causing everyone else to lose their shit. Being unable to breathe with laugher.
Lying on the sun lounges at centralbadet with Kiri, making fun of the Swedes trying to swim, then teaching Mo how to swim freestyle better.
Sprite, bakis and malibu in a Max cup.
Sitting alone in the moonlight, on the top level of the temporary stands at the bandy stadium, chilling, before indulging in a little convictitude. Waking up the next morning with a massive pile of unnecessary stuff on my floor.
The stupidly good smell of donuts every time I walk down Svartbacksgatan
Standing with Michelle outside Ikea, watching it mildly blizzard.
Sitting by the river with Lloyd before Swedish class, drinking sugary ciders, burping, laughing and being generally obnoxious.
Lying in my bunk and drumming on the roof when I couldn’t sleep.
Throwing bacon & egg burger vomit sheets in the shower, leaving them for future-Marita to deal with. Future-Marita being distinctly unimpressed.
Playing hillbilly at Kalmar, over and over and over and over.
Sitting on the roof at Rackarberget. Walking past the next day (and every time since) and being incredulous and gobsmacked that no one fell off and died.
Lying in the park in the spring with Caity, Taco, Em and Lloyd. Sweating like motherfuckers in the oppressive 24 degree heat.
Dropping my phone in a glass of cider at some club night at Kalmar. Trying to drink it out.
Racing on the waterslides at fyrishov for Laura’s birthday.
Always being hungover at Eklundshov Sunday night dinners.
Lying in the sun at Kantorsgatan, surrounded by engångsgrillar, gagging at the smell of lighter fluid.
The collective happiness at the first rooftop barbecue, with everyone lying around in the sun in singlets and shorts, embracing the 14 degree heat.
Overdosing on waffles at ÖG.
Doing Stockens laps, completely lost, drunk out of my mind, wondering where the hell everyone is.
Dancing continuously for four hours at a rooftop party, refusing to leave until the police asked us personally.
Watching the sun rise from a balcony in building 8. Falling asleep with my head between the railings.
Desperately trying to find a seat in the ridiculously crowded beer garden at Uplands.
Looking up through the trees at the sky, lying in the dirt in the forest. Trying to stand up, then falling over in agony whenever I tried to walk. Sitting in the waiting room at the doc’s the next day with Lloyd, trying to piece the previous evening together. Emerging with my foot in a cast and still, to this day, unsure how the break actually occurred.
Catching the bus home with Steve at 7.30am after Wizard Pole Wednesday. Having to leave my wizard pole behind the bus stop. Sitting at Max that night to farewell Emma, in a world of struggle.
Stepping off the bus into sunny Uppsala, after an amazing couple of weeks travel with Steve, but feeling incredibly happy to be home.

First semester, in a nutshell.

Brevity, wha?

When I stop crying every 10 minutes, semester 2 memories n shit.

'Tis the season to be... wondering where the hell the snow is

Wed, 04 Jan 2012 00:50:38 +0100

Back home, amongst friends and family, I’m probably the biggest fan of Christmas I know. Well, over the age of 14 at least. Every year, come December, I’m the one hanging off the edge of the roof, dangling Christmas lights and finding replacement bulbs, the one blaring Christmas tunes in the lounge room, the one smiling as I struggle to find a park at the shops in Eltham on Christmas Eve, and the one who goes to bed that night still a little bit excited for the next day. I fucking love Christmas. But my 23rd Christmas on this planet was obviously going to be a little different from the preceding 22. Being on the other side of the world tends to have that effect.

Blurry, I know, but that’s my room at Christmas. Fairy lighty goodness.

During my first few weeks in Sweden, Mum was constantly asking me if I was happy and was there any chance I was going to extend my stay. For those weeks, I repeatedly reassured her that one semester would be sufficient, and, besides, if I extended I wouldn’t be home for Christmas, which was simply not possible for me. Uhhhhh so I guess the moral of the story is don’t listen to Marita. During my second semester I gave little thought to how I’d actually spend my Christmas, but was excited at the prospect of a white one. When you’re walking through the snow, next to a pine forest, looking at houses decked out in gold fairy lights, sparkling in the 3pm darkness, every Christmas myth, tradition and stereotype starts making sense. Except for that one about burning goats… It had been a late, warm winter, but every time we got a little bit of snow, my dream of a white Christmas seemed more and more real. As November and December progressed, and I was waylaid with a heap of uni and Kalmar work (and burnt through a fucktonne of money), it became pretty obvious I’d be in Uppsala, having a very Flogsta Christmas. Lucky for me there were quite a few people like me, and Katy, an exchange student from Perth, started making plans for an Orphans’ Christmas.

The Wednesday before the big day(s), Lloyd, Katy and I moseyed over to Stockholm to check out the Christmas markets and do a little shopping. Battling through masses of school children we browsed through stalls packed with nuts, cheeses, wreaths, flammable goats and loads of other crap. The markets on Gamla Stan were the prettiest, for sure. Cruising over to Södermalm, we hunted for the English Shop, chasing foods we’ll have in abundance in just a couple of weeks time. In an act of sheer decadence, we each forked out 59kr for tim tams (around $8. I’m not proud). Following a bit more shopping, we walked past the NK Christmas windows (NK is like David Jones) and suddenly everything felt a lot more Christmas-y.

The following morning a few of us caught a bus out to Stenhagen to do a big grocery shop. The number of people attending the Orphans’ Christmas was rapidly increasing at the last minute and some essentials needed to be taken care of. Hunting turkey in the frozen food aisle, a Swedish woman asked us which the best to pick, to which we helpfully replied that we were clueless and our mothers usually took care of such things. Nonetheless, turkey, ham, meatballs and veggies, as well as a heroic amount of booze, was obtained.

Just a sample of what was on the Julbord. Ohhhh, and thanks Bec for this and the next few photos. I’d use my own, but they’re in the possession of some evil bastard now.

In Sweden, as in many European countries, Christmas is properly celebrated on the 24th, not the 25th, so accordingly we planned to celebrate on both days. Katy bravely volunteered her corridor as the venue, so on the 24th we headed over for a traditional Swedish julbord. And it was huuuuuuuge. I think we had about 38 show up, and everyone bought food and, oh dear god, potato overdose. At 10 we headed up to the roof to put an interesting twist on the old flogsta scream: carols, roared from the rooftop. Hope the neighbourhood enjoyed our ear-splitting rendition of “Silent Night”. Anyway, at this point I’d like to send a little message to a certain someone or someones:

To whoever nicked my camera on Christmas Eve, while I was up on the roof, thanks. Thanks a whole lot. Fuckface.

Just some of the Aussies present. Katy (hostess with mostess), Lloyd and Bec. I don’t know when I got sunburnt.

So yeah, I left sorta early, tired and needing to skype with the family at 3am or something. After a little nap, it was lovely to talk with everyone back home, despite the terrible quality of the first call. I missed you all, and I’m a little worried my cousin Aimee no longer has any idea who I am. Back to bed til 9am, then back at Katy’s by 10.30 for the real proper Christmas Day. Peeling veggies, watching Home Alone and Elf, we lamented our green Christmas. That’s right, Christmas in Sweden with no goddamn snow. A little bit devastated, but we made the best of it… by staying indoors and ignoring the outside world. Lunch was a smaller affair than the previous evening, but more relaxed. Special mention to Katy’s amazing ham, and Kevin’s equally awesome turkey. I didn’t think we’d be so successful in the absence of real adults. The day disappeared into a slight boozy haze, with games of flunky ball and cheeky naps keeping us kicking on. Around 2am, I struggled through gale-force winds back to my room, content with my first Christmas away from home.

It was a distinctly cosy affair.

However the festive season doesn’t end on Christmas night. The proceeding days I really lived it up… by lying on the couch and watching movies. For daaaaaaaaaaaaays. I was soooo boooooored. I did have one super productive day, in which I got up, paid rent, went for a swim, and, finally, went inside domkyrkan (the cathedral that is, essentially, the focal point of Uppsala). It was beautiful. I reflected on the year that was for a few minutes… then realised how freaking hungry I was and made tracks. Anyhoo, next thing you know, it’s New Years Eve. The thing I was most amused by was fireworks. Between Christmas and New Year a truck sitting next to the supermarket opened up and anyone over 18 was free to go in and buy fireworks. We tried it out on the Tuesday night and it was ridiculously fun and exciting for the Australians (“YOU CAN JUST BUY THEM? OUT OF THE BACK OF A TRUCK?!”). The plan for the evening was to hang around Flogsta and see what happened. I started off at Lloyd’s (“wanna come over for drinks and ham?”), before we checked out the party in 1:7. The crazy-drunk Swedes seemed to be getting on fine without us, so we jumped over to 8:5. Between 10 and midnight, I’m assuming I sat at a table and played drinking games, as I remember doing nothing else. Next thing you know, we’re out into the brisk night air, heading up to the roof of building 12. It was up here that we rang in the New Year to the most spectacular view. All of Uppsala lay out in front of us, and we virtually had 360 degrees of fireworks being set off. I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face as I traced the hundreds of lanterns floating across the sky. I spent a new year’s eve in Disney World and I reckon that wasn’t half as impressive. Pretty soon we realised it was too fucking cold to be outside (somwhere between -6 and -10 apparently), and we headed back to 8:5. Hours more drinking games, and next thing you know it’s 7am on the first day of the new year and time to crash.

Our view from the roof. (Nicked this from Lloyd, who nicked it from someone else, who nicked it from someone else… or something. Either way, cheers to whoever took this).

So that was my festive season. It’s been quiet and boring at times, but definitely different and worthwhile. I’m some 15 600km away from my family, and I survived, which is something of a personal achievement. Now my exchange is winding up, and I leave here in 12 days. Time to get those assignments done (kill me), moved out of Flogsta, and enjoy my last few days in the bubble.

The aimless post that turns sentimental

Wed, 21 Dec 2011 03:31:02 +0100

I’m lying on the couch in the TV room at Kalmar. I hate this couch. It’s not long enough. I’m feeling sleep-deprived and reflective. In the past four days (Saturday - Tuesday), I have spent over 44 hours here. I can’t remember the last time I cooked a meal at home. I don’t blog often because I feel like I’ve got nothing to say (“Yesterday I spent far too long at Kalmar making terrible jokes, screaming for the sake of noise and eating out of the corn chips box. Again.” Rinse, lather, repeat), but that’s a lie. I have stories. I’ve been doing stuff. The biggest problem is that realising how stupid, inane and alcoholic a lot of my behaviour sounds when I write it down.

Case in point: today. Why am I here, on this couch, when my shift doesn’t start ‘til 16.00? Because I just finished off my terrible assignment that was due four hours ago that I left unfinished here last night. Why’s it overdue? Because that’s become a habit this semester. And because I completely slept through my alarm and missed the class. Why? I worked last night. And then had a sexa (knockoff drinks). And then went to the Snerikes nollfyra släpp (after-party for a gasque that goes ‘til 4am). And then came back to Kalmar with Lloyd to continue beverage-ing. And then got home at 6am. But you knew you had class today? I planned to be here at 9.30am, finish my assignment, go to class, come back here, sleep for 4 hours, then start my shift. You do realise you’re a moron, right? Shut up.

Typical sexa. Cheers for the photo Kelsey.

Aaaaaaand now it’s a week later. Tuesday night and I’m just home from what was apparently the last corridor party for the year. And I’m absolutely exhausted. Writing the previous paragraphs I knew I had a big few days ahead of me, but I didn’t know just how big. Last Wednesday night was my final shift working in the pub, and half of Uppsala decided to hit Kalmar. We were still kicking people out 25 minutes after close. And a bunch of second curators (one of the “bosses” at a nation, in charge of money stuff) showed up from a dinner they’d been having, pretty damn wasted, looking to kick on. So we had a sizeable sexa, and I was given information as to how I could stay in the nation beyond the alarm being set. This is probably the most dangerous information I’ve been given all year, and it was probably all for the best that I was’t given it earlier in the semester, otherwise… well, shit, I don’t want to think about it. Anyway, got home at 7am. After a cheeky dinnertime nap on Thursday evening, Lloyd and I hit Stockens… for five minutes. Cloak room full? Fuck that shit, I’m going home. Well, Kalmar. That’s home, right? Sexa til 3am? Whyyyyy am I doing this? Ugh, don’t think about it. Just get your room tidy on Friday for all the people coming over for predrinks, then final Värmlands (good, in the trashy, best way, and I didn’t projectile vom down the stairs this time. What a woman). Saturday, maybe should take it easy…. or go to the corridor party in building 8. But Sunday? Surely sober Sunday? Nope, back to Kalmar for cleaning day!!!!! Yep, clean the entire building for personalfest (staff party) the following night, even though we have to clean it all over again on Tuesday. Ughh. Pizza and beers. Fuck, Swedish pizza is terrible. Then it’s here. Monday. Staff Party. We’ve been planning it all semester, and I feel sick as a dog, and I have to do a presentation on a book that makes zero sense, and there’s so much to do, and stress stress stress. But it all comes together. It works. And the dinner part of the evening is so much fun and I’m laughing my arse off at everything and we’re all so relieved it’s ending, but next thing it hits you whilst you’re singing the final song for the night: it’s ending. “Ohhh jeruuuum, jeruuuuuuummmm, jeruuuum…” *massive sobs*. This is it.

Weekend at Alex’s gradparents’ cabin in Tällberg. Ridiculous awesome was had. Clockwise from bottom left: Catherine (US. Caffran!), Lloyd, Kelsey, (US. Kesley!), Alex (France/Sweden), Viktor (Sweden. Lammkött… among many others), Christina (Sweden), Anna (Sweden. Fergdogz), Lucas (Germany).

So why the epic emotional retardation? Sure, I’d had a big week, I was super tired, I hadn’t eaten all day and sobriety was a distant memory, but that doesn’t really cut it. At the start of the semester, when I signed up to be a club worker, I was told the klubbverk would become like my family. I almost scoffed. Then the semester actually happened and I realise there’s no better way to describe it. I saw these people nearly every single day for the past three months, and many of them have become my closest friends. It sounds wanky, but the depths of these friendships are ridiculous. We know far too much about each other. The in-jokes run thick and fast, especially amongst my Munich bitches. A day without a boob- or arse-grab is a strange one. There’s been nudity, retarded nick-naming, gratuitous numbers of drinking games (circle, anyone?), and so much screaming. And somehow they’ve survived with me. They accepted the burping, danced to my tunes (sorry about the excessive hip hop), deciphered my speech, mocked the way I say “no”, tolerated my bitching, supported me through my worst hangovers, put up with all my stories starting with, “So Lloyd and I were doing blah blah” (and ended up basically adopting him as one of us anyway). I’ve had many Kalmar-related rages during which I’ve bemoaned just how much time I spend there, but it’s never been an issue with seeing too much of these people. Sometimes I just want to be in my own damn room.

The entire klubbverk, before the KMK-bal.

So, christ knows where I was going with this post, but I guess it’s become a love letter to the klubbverk and an explanation of why the hell my semester has been so totally different to the last. I’ll never forget the sexas, working gasques, the crazy that was Luciagasque, dancing with the djs at Plattenbau, Tällberg, Munich, cleaning days and so much other stuff that… I’ve forgotten, hahaaaa. Mum, this is everything I’ve been up to. Not quite sure why it was so expensive, but it was worth it.

As I was lying under the massive pile of bodies, struggling to breathe from a combination of laughter and compression, I realised how lucky I’ve been this term. So glad Viktor was able to grab a pic of this moment of reflection.

Hey kid(s), this one goes out to you.

München 'n' Crünchen

Sat, 26 Nov 2011 15:33:37 +0100

November arrived and I hadn’t left Sweden since a cheeky booze cruise to Tallinn in early July (thank you so much, migrationsverket). Shit, I’d hardly left Uppsala except for a weekend down in Göteborg. So it was planned. A booze cruise to Riga. It would be cheap, easy, drunken and… cheap. Or so we thought. The dickhead who planned the trip (yo!) didn’t book tickets early enough, so they got ridiculously expensive, sold out and there were no last minute deals. The Thursday before we were supposed to leave, Catherine, Kelsey (fellow club workers, Americans) and I sat around, resolute that we would not stay in Uppsala for another weekend. After our shift had finished we trawled for last minute flights… and ended up booking flights to Munich, 11 hours before the plane was due to depart.

New Town Hall, Marienplatz. Saaa prettaaaay

Up disgracefully early the next morning, we made the inescapable drop-in at Kalmar and jumped on a bus to Arlanda airport, giggling like idiots, overjoyed to be getting out of Uppsala. Waiting to board, we were still a little surprised at how our plans had turned out. Two hours later we touched down in the Bavarian capital, kinda buzzed for a variety of reasons, playing on the travelators and trying to work out how the hell to actually get to the city. Ohhhh, the S-bahn to the Hbf? Easy (Train to central station, of course). More giggling on public transport. Indulging in a couple of pretzels whilst trying to find a map, we began to realise how much cheaper than Sweden things were. And Munich is supposed to be pretty expensive. We checked into the hostel, south west of the city centre, met the three Americans in our room (argh, surrounded), and ventured out into the streets, hell bent on getting pizza. We trawled the most food-barren area of Munich, it seemed, but finally, on the home stretch, found super shitty cheap awesome pizza. A cheeky radler and mcflurry to finish the binge, then we craaaaaaaaashed. No, that’s a lie. We got back, had a nanna nap, got up, played pool in the hostel bar and watched…. Blade? yeah, i think so, dubbed in German.

Beers with Annelie, Kelsey and Catherine in the English Park.

Out and about and staaaaaaaaaarving the next morning, we moseyed up to the actual city centre, hell bent on a serious breakfast. Saturday morning, there was a buttload of people out shopping and we were struggling to find a restaurant cheap enough, beery enough and all day breakfast-y enough for our needs. Eventually we settled on place staffed by people in lederhosen and sunk our first litre of the day. Outdoors, beautiful sunny day, a hilarious street performer/busker dude, good schnitzel led to the inevitable second litre. We met up with Annelie, a friend from last semester who recently moved to Munich for her master’s, and tried to do a little shopping. When I realised I couldn’t stand up straight in a shoe shop we decided to head up and look at the university and the English Park. We walked past some impressive historical sites, like where Hitler was arrested, saw a cool staircase and grabbed some frozen yoghurt. Seriously, we spent so much time eating. In the park we found a giant rubber mat-type thing on a hill that little kids seemed to be sliding down… so we had a cheeky slide with them. Then out to a beer garden, moaaaar beer and food. Farewelling Annelie, we found another bar that was super quiet, relatively cheap and played a few rounds of hillbilly. Following their directions to the nearest Thai place (because when you think Germany, you think good Thai), we gorged on pretty good food and cocktails. Goodbye, money. The trip home was… retarded. Hilariously retarded. Back at the hostel we tried to get last minute flights back home. Not a chance on Sunday. Or Monday. Faaaark. Ended up booking way too expensive flights. Eh, you only live once.

Walking home was possibly the most entertaining part of the day

Sunday morning. Check out. Head up to Marienplatz. Free walking tour? You know it. A tiny Irish guy showed us around parts of the old town, reconstructed buildings, and shared interesting info. Sadly we had to leave early so we could grab a train out to Dachau. It was worth it, though. The Dachau concentration camp memorial site was one of the most moving, overwhelming, depressing and unbelievable places I have ever been. Walking through the main gate, we arrived in a massive open space administrative buildings on the right, barracks on the left. It was startling how big the space was, trying to comprehend just how many people would have been imprisoned in this camp in any one time. The old admin buildings have been converted into a museum that provided masses of information. I gave up about halfway through. Too depressing. We walked past row after row of empty concrete slabs, representing where the barracks used to stand. The crematorium we saw last. It’s one of those things I hesitate to talk about because I don’t want to come across as too condescending or glib or idiotic. There was a woman who was posing for photos in the gas chamber and in front of the furnaces. It made me super uncomfortable. A difficult afternoon, but, like I said, worth it.

Entrance gate at Dachau

Train back to Munich, Catherine and Kelsey getting told off by old ladies for putting their feet on the seats, idiotic laughing, craving pretzels. Ahhhhh, familiar territory. We checked in at a new hostel, hit the bar then met Annelie for dins. Kelsey couldn’t handle her spicy pasta. We wanted more food. We ventured back to the the train station to try and get shampoo and junk food. Yeah. Should probably mention Munich is traditionally super Catholic and EVERYFUCKINGTHING is shut on Sundays. Except for the shops at the Hbf. Thank god. ‘Cause I was a greasepig in desperate need of a good shower with shampoo and conditioner. We said toodles to Annelie, a little sad to do so. (Come to Aus next year, lady!). Showers. Retardation. Bed.

Eating. Again.

Final day. Flight’s at 2.30pm. Plans? Shopping. Booze. Then home for Catherine and Kelsey to work, and me to Norrlands. I heard Kelsey needed boots. We weren’t 100% sure about that, but there was definitely a rumour about Kelsey wanting boots. Kelsey, boots? (Ahhhhhhhhhh yeah). S-bahn back to Marienplatz. Bakery! Food! Of course. In a mad search for a supermarket we ended up at the viktualienmarkt, looking at all the knickknack-y shit. It’s 12.30. Let’s get out to the airport at 1? Yeah. Hang on, just check that flight time. Wait. 1.15pm? “CATHERINE! OUR FLIGHT LEAVES IN 45 MINUTES. RUUUUUUUUUUUUN!” Sooooo, sprint 20m. Realise it’s a 40 minute train trip out to the airport anyway. Get angry. Get sad. Get nervous. Giggle like bitches at our stupidity. Hit ourselves in the face. Try to avoid thinking about money. Get nervous about getting home. Get on the train. Build the kinder surprise toy. Get to Lufthansa desk. Cheapest flight to get home tonight to Stockholm? 900 Euros. Eat. A. Dick. Last minute flight people? A little bit cheaper, but needlessly tricky. (Could you spend the night in Amsterdam? And leave super early next day? Eat a dick. Again). Internet ourselves. SAS website. Can get significantly cheaper flights back to Stockholm tonight. Yes please. Website is a dick. Flights disappear. Finally. 6.30pm flight to Copenhagen, then straight on to Stockholm. Sweeeeeet. Let’s kill four hours and hate ourselves. Ooh, food. Supermarket. Food. Kahlua. Find a sweeeeeet spot on the airport floor. Boooorrrred. Wait. Supermarket. Milk. Kahlua. Bathroom. Concoct. Airport floor. Time machine. Check in already? (Mum, if anything, be happy with my inventiveness).

Why catch your flight home when you can look at these super cool apples?

Duty free, then runway, then fog delays, then Copenhagen, then straight on to next plain, then Arlanda. Fairy lights, beautiful people, the 801 to Uppsala. We’re home. Well not yet. Sexa (after party) at Kalmar? Sure, now we’re home. We did it. We got out of Uppsala. Now let us never speak of it again.

Hooooooooooooooome

Exchange application essay

Tue, 18 Oct 2011 20:05:49 +0200

I just found this from July 1st, 2010. It’s weird to think about how much has happened since I applied for exchange. I’m on the other side of the goddamn world. That’s kinda cool.

Marita Battles the Exchange Conundrum

Once upon a time there lived a young woman named Marita who lived a very happy and comfortable life, but it was not the most exciting of lives. When she reached her 21^st birthday she celebrated 21 years of living in the same country, in the same state, in the same suburb, in the same street, in the same house (15 of those years in the same bedroom). And as wonderful as those 21 years had been, she couldn’t help but feel that she was stuck and resolved that the only way to remedy this slump was change. But what sort of change? Should she move out of home? Take a semester off and visit her best friend in Europe? Change course? Or what about the option that would essentially allow opportunities in all these avenues: exchange?

Marita thought long and hard about the idea, swinging between a manic drive to escape to foreign lands to a paralysing fear of everything that could go wrong. Why would exchange be such a great help? She considered her studies. Throughout her primary and secondary schooling she had been a very hard worker, high achiever and leader, and everyone who knew her, including herself, expected she’d continue on this trajectory when she reached university to study Arts/Science. However she burnt out, found new friends and discovered the joys of a Big Night Out. Her attention to her course dwindled; lectures were regularly attended hungover, entire subjects studied the morning of an exam and when results came out all she desired were passes. In her 3^rd year, undertaking a pathology major had necessitated her pulling her head in, but her passion for learning was still yet to return. Now she found herself in the 4^th year of her course completely clueless as to what she wanted to do post-study, but she realised another solid year and a half of the same would be almost unbearable.

She often discussed this with her parents, which caused her to reflect on how totally codependent she was on them. Marita was an adult and her mother still made her lunch! (Not that she minded). She had no real plans of moving out any time soon because she had it so easy at home, but she often was mocked by her friends for lacking ambition to fly the nest. However living in a close-knit family of six could sometimes be a little suffocating; perhaps a little independence wouldn’t go astray. Thinking about the small trip she’d taken to New Zealand with friends the previous year she recalled the excitement of visiting a place she’d never been to before and the thrill of doing it without parental assistance. Imagine a whole semester of independence, but in a place like Europe! She’d be mad to not at least try.

Europe offered many diverse exchange destinations but one country in particular had captured Marita’s attention: Sweden. When she was in year 10, a girl from her class had visited the Scandinavian nation on exchange and spoke with such passion about it that she couldn’t help but be intrigued. Throughout year 11 and 12 some of Marita’s favourite bands hailed from Sweden and she began to take a greater interest in the country, and when she was accepted into the University of Melbourne she discovered she could undertake beginner’s Swedish and thought to herself, Why not? In the small class of eight or so she soon discovered she was the only person who had not been to Europe, let alone Sweden, but the manner in which her classmates discussed the country of ABBA, Ikea and egalitarianism made her decide she had to visit at some point, lest render her Swedish lessons completely frivolous (which didn’t bother her overly, as she’d had a lot of fun learning anyway). Perusing the Melbourne Global Mobility website she discovered she had two options in Sweden: Uppsala or Lund. It was at this point she discovered her greatest difficulties would lie in leaving her exchange so late. If only she’d been motivated to go earlier, as leaving it ‘til her final year left her battling all sorts of red tape and unfinished points requirements. Undaunted, Marita threw herself into the Lund and Uppsala subject catalogues, discovering all sorts of Humanities-based gems offered at Uppsala, such as “Genocide and Mass Violence in the Modern World” and “Australian Society”. It felt good to be once again excited by the prospect of studying, something that had not happened for many semesters. But at this point our fair protagonist came across her biggest obstacle: IF she wanted to graduate with psychology as her arts major and IF she also wanted to go on exchange she’d have to extend her degree by another year in order to accommodate the compulsory subjects that were apparently very difficult to find equivalents for overseas. She thought long and hard; she’d come too far to graduate without an arts major, but another two semesters (albeit only one subject in each) seemed a daunting prospect. Sweden! Was it really worth it? Yes, Marita decided, it would be. Every person she knew who’d been on exchange could not speak more highly of the experience and she knew she’d regret it for the rest of her life if she didn’t apply.

Battling through all the forms and requirements she felt her resolve occasionally wavering, but she pushed on. If she were accepted as an exchange student, she’d be off to the other side of the world. And she’d be on her own. And she’d be terrified. And she’d be so far out of her comfort zone she’d forget the meaning of the term. And she’d be meeting new people. And she’d be a long way away from her mum. But it would be a change, and after all, wasn’t that all she’d been wanting? She sealed her application, handed it in and hoped for, not necessarily a happily ever after, but at least a different ever after.

I just found this from July 1st, 2010. It’s weird to think about how much has happened since I applied for exchange. I’m on the other side of the goddamn world. That’s kinda cool.

The blog post in which I write a whole bunch about nothing

Sun, 09 Oct 2011 22:00:00 +0200

Updatin’ the bloggins so I can try and work out what the hell I even did in September. Honestly, not an awful lot, yet I’m still going to write allllllll about it. The four most likely places I could be found the past few weeks have been work, bed, the pub…. and occasionally Engelska parken for classes… ha. What’s that you say? You want me to elaborate? OK THEN.

I work hard for the mone- ohhhhhhhhh, wait.

Anyone perusing my facebook profile of late may have noticed a wee change in my employment situation: “Klubbvärd at Kalmar Nation”. As previously mentioned, I started working as a club worker at my nation in August, I was still getting a feel for it, and, to be honest, not 100% sure what I was getting myself into. Well, now I’m a lot more sure. In the first couple of weeks I definitely questioned my decision, as we were understaffed and still learning the ropes. One week saw me work no fewer than 40 hours in 4 days, whilst struggling with a cheeky chest infection. This is a pretty big deal for a girl accustomed to 2-4hr shifts at the pool.

Chillin’ like a villain in the bar

A typical shift goes something like this…

I get to Kalmar a bit before 4pm, get changed, hang up a load of washing and put another load in. If I’m working in the bar, I pump the tunes (the ones I’m not allowed to play in the pub), count the till, check through all the drinks and restock, set up the pub and generally panic that I’ve forgotten something. Whilst the pub is open I serve drinks (my god, I can’t pour beer for shit. So ashamed!) and take food orders, change kegs as required, and generally try not to chuck tantrums at the cash register, which is a relic from prehistoric times. If a pubcrawl comes through, I hate the world. Being in the bar is improving my Swedish a bit, but every now and then a customer says something that throws me and I have to drop the old, “Jag pratar inte svenska.” At the end of the night I clean the bar and count the till. It is something I loathe, because 98% of the time I’ve fucked up.

Lorenzo in ze kitchen

Or I could work in the kitchen. 4-6pm is food prep with the three or four people who signed up to work that night (the “resources”). We make burgers, wedges, taco meat, veggie burgers, and dressings, all from scratch. Those two hours fly by pretty fast. During pub hours the kitchen can get pretty chaotic, and I tend to run around yelling “FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK” a lot, but it all works out in the end. Most people understand that this is a nation, so it’s students cooking and don’t expect perfection. The worst is the cleaning. Every surface, every dish, every drain has to be cleaned, and it takes forever. I’d say the kitchen cleanup is the main reason I prefer working in the bar. At the end of the night, after knockoffs, the lockup round happens, which involves checking that every room in the house is locked and that there’s no one left inside. The alarm is set, I go home and sleep for as long as humanly possible.

Pub!

So why do it? For what we get paid in the end, it may as well be a volunteer position, there are some pretty serious responsibilities, and a shift will never be any shorter than 9 hours. Well, on a good night it’s a lot of fun, and it’s a great way to meet new people. I’m learning some mad work skillz and I kinda like being a leader bean. Also, it’s ‘cause of the love. Sounds lame. Is lame. But true. I work with some really lovely and awesome people, who make it worthwhile. Oh, and the KK-kort. That’s nice.

Zzzzzzzzzzz

I go to bed usually some time between 2 and 4am. Get up some time after midday. I never said the exchange life was particularly difficult. The problem is the winter. It’s coming. The hours of daylight are rapidly decreasing and it’s getting cold. All I want to do is wrap myself in a doona and engage in sweet f.a. It’s only autumn and it’s as cold as a Melbourne winter. Save me, Jebus!

I’ve been watching the autumn invade from my window. Pretty. Pretty terrifying.

“Hmm… perhaps I’ll wet my whistle.”

It’s 6pm on a Monday night. I will be at Orvars, the pub at Norrlands nation. It was a tradition last semester for a bunch of exchange students that has been continued by those of us still here. Ben, Hank, Nick, Anneli, Lloyd, steins, lyx burgers, the old glasses guy, the Snerikes librarian, the baby, cat videos, magic, that’s Mondays. Uplands is good if you can get a seat, especially out the back in the bunker. One night Lloyd and I were there when a bunch of Swedish guys stood up on the tables and started singing Backstreet Boys. Of course.

Hanging with Jorge at ÖG

There have been some pretty sweet club nights. Wilde at Kalmar last week was crazy fun. One of the nations, ÖG, has a room that, on club nights, is referred to as “the Sweat Chamber”. The walls drip. Yeah. I’ve been going out less compared to last semester, which my bank account appreciates, but I also know far fewer exchange students this time around *sad face*. But, hey, I’m still having a ridiculous amount of fun.

Ben and Lloyd, keepin’ it classy

School?

“Writing American Selves” and “Utopias & Dystopias”. Two subjects. Four hours of class a week. Not complaining. Helps that I actually enjoy them. Got a few more starting up in a month or so. I think they’ll run into January, then it’ll be time for me to leave. Sad times.

I wish I had better stories to share, but I’ve been in Uppsala for ages now. I’m trying to get my shit together to go somewhere/do something, but I dunno. I’ll do it this afternoooooon.

Summaaaaaaaaahhhhhh, shit, it's gone.

Mon, 05 Sep 2011 02:03:17 +0200

I thought August in Sweden was going to be like February in Australia. Y’know, when the real heat arrives, but it’s still holidays, so everything’s lazy and awesome. I thought wrong. For me, August was 4 weeks of doing a lot, yet not much at all, largely mediocre to shitty weather, being frustrated with the noobs (please don’t make me write ‘n00bs’), getting my uni shit sorted, some nuggets of awesomeness and, as always, much bitching about not having my residency permit extension (stiiiiiiiillllll!!!). For a further breakdown of my August, read on. Otherwise, here’s something else.

Göteborg. I already told you about that. Here’s another photo, though.

Yes, I totally want to go to a disco on a boat named after a neural development disorder. Or do I?

Kräftskiva

Alrighty, so this was awesome. A kräftskiva is a traditional Swedish crayfish party, held at any point in August, involving, you guessed it, crayfish, booze and associated merriment. Over the summer I hung out a bit with the remaining Swedes in my corridor and some of their friends, so they invited me to their kräftskiva on the roof of building 1. It was pretty much the most Swedish thing I’ve done all summer, if not all year.

Come at me, bro!

The weather was beautiful, eating the crayfish was hilariously challenging, I got to wear a matching hat and bib, we sung Swedish songs and drank schnapps, and all the newbies coming up on the roof mistook me as Swedish. Awesome. Just on 10pm the sun set, Lloyd arrived straight from Amsterdam, we partook in a sizeable scream and pumped the tunes. I thought I saw one or two shooting stars out of the corner of my eye and we soon realised we were witnessing a meteor shower. In true eloquent style, I think the most we were able to say was, “duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuude!” File under: what is this life I’m living?

These kids. These kids right here.

New Kids on the Block

Sooooo, as I’ve mentioned to my mother quite a lot, it’s been a summer of a hell of a lot of sweet f.a., kicking around in largely empty housing estate. But the past few weeks Flogsta has been slowly but surely filling up again and there’s a whole new crop of Internationals to meet. Which should be totally awesome. And it can be. But… but… but… Ughhhhhhhhh. I remember O-week in January. It was crazy. And busy. And fun. And I met so many people. I was so excited because everything was new and unknown and so paranoid about being lonely that making friends was pretty much my number one priority, but now going through that whole process again is a little draining. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve met some really cool people the past couple of weeks, but I’m not as bothered about trying to meet EVERYBODY. I am making an effort to not come across as an arsehole, though.

I have no photos of me meeting noobs. Instead here’s a photo of the amazing peach melba/death buckets deal at Upplands. Marita uses these to enjoy a Tuesday evening out and about in Uppsala. It’s super effective.

Klubbverk

I’ve discussed nations before and last semester I mentioned a couple of times that I’d been working a bit in the kitchen at my nation, Kalmar. It was occasionally hard work, tiring, long and the pay was shit, but I kept doing it because the people at my nation are awesome. There was a lot of love, mainly due to a bunch of people known as klubbverkare (I thiiink. I never know how to use that word correctly). Basically, club workers. As there was short of new club workers for this semester, I am now one. I’m supposed to work a couple of times a week, running either the bar or the kitchen at the pub, plus find people to work in the kitchen every night, which scares the shit out of me because I have to use the phone. I’m a bit worried about how much work this is going to involve, as there’s a fair amount of responsibility, but I have to do something with my spare time. Plus I’m learning some vaguely useful skills. Plus it’s actually quite fun. Ohhhhh and I get a KK card, which is this beautiful piece of laminated card that lets me into any nation club for free, ahead of the line, with a friend. So that’s nice.

…and if anyone asks me for coffee whilst I’m in the bar, I’ll get employ a little of this.

Popaganda

Or: how to massively emphasise how Australian and Swedish music festivals are ridiculously dissimilar in just two days.

Swimming pool at a festival. Does not compute.

The last Friday and Saturday in August, Lloyd and I headed into Stockholm for the music festival Popaganda. With a pretty sweet lineup, and the summer drawing to a close, it seemed like it would be a good way to wrap up the holidays. That turned out to be the understatement of the month. We arrive in the early afternoon, finally shaking off the seediness from the previous evening, just as the sun switches into warm mode. As we enter the festival site we’re pretty damn surprised to find it’s an outdoor aquatic centre, and that the smaller pools are not completely fenced off. Tick 1 in the “this is definitely not an Aussie festival” box. Moving amongst the small crowd, we grab a couple of beers, watch the first band (very average) and, once they finish, realise something else: silence between sets. There’s no music at all and the crowd chatter as people move between the two stages is eerie. “This is definitely not an Aussie festival” box receives its second tick. Dangling our legs in the pool and reading the festival info sheet (in Swedish, awww yeaaaah) we realise that you are allowed to swim in the pool. YOU ARE ALLOWED TO SWIM IN THE POOL. CAN YOU IMAGINE IF THEY HAD SOMETHING LIKE THIS AT BIG DAY OUT??!?! CAN YOU IMAGINE A FEW THOUSAND DRUNK BOGANS BEING GIVEN ACCESS TO A POOL???!? Tick 3.

Arcade Fire. For the second time in the summer. Amaaaaazing.

So yep. Other things alerting us to the fact that we were not in Kansas anymore:

Shit crowd. Swedes, you are bad at being a crowd. Make some noise, especially between sets! Lose your shit a bit more. Polite clapping is for the golf.
Stupidly well-dressed crowd. There were people in goddamned suits. It’s bad enough that you’re all retardedly attractive, but do you have to dress perfectly as well? And stop adding more fuel to the never ending game of GoS!
You could come and go from the festival as you pleased. So you could go get drunk in the park, shoot up, commit random acts of violence in the streets of Stockholm, whatever, walk back into the festival and then do it again. And again and again.
NO ONE WAS USING THE DAMN POOL. Over the two days I’d say no more than 50 people in total would have used it. Whaaaaa?!??
A lack of ridiculously drunk/drug-fucked people.
Synchronised swimming. Yep. On the second day, the Stockholm men’s synchronised swimming team performed. It was mind-blowing. Like, they were very, very average synchronised swimmers, but I was crying with laughter and WHY WAS THIS HAPPENING AT A MUSIC FESTIVAL???

Look at ‘em go!

Alrighty, so the music n shit? Fantastic. Cults and Is Tropical on day one were two bands I knew nothing of, but I thought they were pretty dandy. The Go! Team were just as bouncy and fun as when I saw them at Big Day Out a few years ago, but Arcade Fire, of course, took the biscuit. Hell, they took the whole packet. It sounds wanky, but it is seriously such a joy to see them live. BUT WHY WILL THEY NOT PLAY “MY BODY IS A CAGE”? Guys, give “Sprawl II” the flick (and don’t ever finish your encore with it again). Seeing them totally justified the entire festival ticket price HOWEVER my experience was slightly marred by some loser standing directly behind me getting a hard-on about two thirds of the way through the set. Seriously, “Intervention” is giving you a boner? Get help. After returning to Uppsala for the evening we headed back the next day much better prepared (read: we brought our bathers). My friend Dan, from Melbourne, is currently studying down in Malmö and decided he’d come up for day two. Once we met up with him we headed for the festival site and straight into the pool. Amazing. Remember that “what is this life I’m living?” file I referred to earlier? Yeah, this moment also goes in there. Swimming. In the sun. In the middle of a festival. I CANNOT EMPHASISE ENOUGH HOW MIND-BLOWN I WAS BY THIS. The music was pretty sweet, and I really liked Jenny Wilson and DANCING IN THE POOL TO DELOREAN. The synchronised swimming was glorious. JJ was shambolic. Walking around a festival in my bathers, dripping wet was weird. Lykke Li was pretty awesome and her band are incredible. And I got sunburnt. In all, Popaganda was a fucking awesome way to finish August.

Lloyd and I, chillin’ like villains. What this photo fails to show is alllll the people taking not only photos, but also videos of us. Hiiiiiiilarious. Cheers, Bort, for the photo.

So that’s a bit of how I August’d. Let’s see how September goes…

Göteboring? Hardly

Mon, 29 Aug 2011 16:18:45 +0200

As I’ve mentioned previously, I’ve been pretty much stranded in Sweden, still waiting for this goddamned residency permit. But stranded in Sweden doesn’t mean stuck in Uppsala, so the first weekend of August I got out and about and headed down to Gothenburg (Göteborg). I jumped on a train to Stockholm bright and early (1pm), nervously checking and re-checking my train tickets to make sure I was indeed en route to the right city. This was to be my first trip on my own. Weak effort, I know, but it was a big deal for me, and the idea of having to motivate myself to get out and explore a new place all alone was freaking me out slightly (I’m the first to admit I’m lazy as hell). At Stockholm Central Station I sat on the ground, watching little kids be hilariously adorable and I realised that this is getting to be a creepy habit (See: the time Lloyd and I watched the kids in a ball pit on a cruise ship for far too long). On the next train I downed painkillers, pringles and coke (hangover be gone!), and enjoyed awesome tunes whilst the scenery whizzed by. Four hours later I was in Gothenburg…

Sun setting over Rosenlundskanalen. Pretty n shit, eh?

I couldn’t be arsed trying to find a map, so I walked around trying to find the tram stop to get to my hostel, whilst getting kinda excited about being in a new city. New city disorientation is definitely my favourite kind of disorientation. The right tram pulled up, I jumped on and had to employ great self-restraint to stop myself mashing my face against the glass whilst I tried to look at everything. Once again Swedish public transport proved a winner, with each upcoming stop displayed on a screen, so I alighted with no dramas, checked the directions from the hostel website, and promptly started walking in the exact opposite direction of where I needed to go. I have to start trusting my own gut instinct, because I usually have a pretty good sense of direction, but I’m too easily persuaded that others are right. I circled one block, doubled back, found the right street, walked the wrong way, walked two blocks back and eventually bumped into the hostel. Dickhead. It was located in an area called Linnestaden, which reminded me of Fitzroy, and was near a huge park, Slottskogen. After checking in, I went a-wanderin’. I found Andra Långgatan and immediately understood why I’d been told to go there; if Gertrude or Smith Streets had a smaller, Swedish cousin, this would be it. It was a balmy Saturday night and effortlessly cool Swedes were out in force, bar-hopping and making me feel ridiculously daggy (not hard) and ronery. Thanks, guys. Pressing on I made my way to Rosenlundskanalen, a canal/former moat-type thing, which runs next to a park, Kungsparken. It reminded me of the Yarra running next to the Botanic Gardens back home and I felt a little homesick. I walked in the direction of Göta älv, the major river, taking random streets that looked like they might have something cool, or food. Staaaaarving. Eventually I found myself at the giant ferris wheel thing on the water’s edge and, looking at my map, realised I’d walked a lot further than I thought.

A grand salute to the bastard who kept me awake all night

More aimless wandering took me away from the centre, back through Vasastaden and somehow I was back near my hostel, still with a very empty stomach. Back down to Andra Långgatan to check out the numerous Thai restaurants I’d passed earlier I found one that was still open and parked my arse. Earlier in the evening I’d passed a guy eating on his own who seemed so stupidly cool and relaxed, so I tried to emulate him, but I am not good company and quickly grew bored of myself. Luckily my pad thai arrived before I stabbed myself with a fork for the purposes of entertainment, and was able to kill another 30 minutes ingesting my not-as-disappointing-as-I-thought-it’d-be food. As I’d had a Pretty Big Night the previous evening I was able to fall asleep pretty easily around midnight, but next thing the Brazilian guy got back and proceeded to snore at a volume I didn’t think possible. Know that my ability to tolerate even mild snoring is virtually non-existent, so this was hell for me. I was listening to music to drown it out, but it was at a volume that made sleep impossible. I think my 5am facebook update probably best encapsulates my frustrations:

Around 7am I discovered Interpol’s Untitled worked best to drown out the bastard and next thing it was midday and everyone else had left. Ahhhhhhhh. Ok, shit, it’s another day. What now?

Masthuggskyrkan. Pretty sweet view from up here.

Armed with my list of places to go and a map, I walked and I walked and I walked. First up to Masthuggskyrkan, a church that sits high up and has an amazing view into the city and out to the mouth of the river. There was a 9 year old with an SLR. I was somewhat concerned and amused. Amerned? Concused? I moseyed back down towards the town, over to the Haga district, which is supposed to be noteworthy for having really old, wooden houses and being pretty. It was alright. I dunno. There were loads of couples and tourists who looked significantly richer than me sitting in all the cafes, so I just walked on by. A couple of guys asked me for directions to Maccas, so I was sort of pleased to be mistaken for a local. Back in the centre I’d planned to do a Paddan boat tour, but it was too windy or something, so instead I ended up checking out Scandinavia’s largest shopping centre, Nordstan. I call bullshit. More aimless wandering. The weather was shitting me, so I went back to the hostel. I met a guy there from Melbourne, so I showed him around for a bit and then we dinner’d and spent faaar too much money. Beer + painkillers + valerian + earplugs meant that I slept like a non-murderous log that night.

Oh hey there, ominous skies over Vrångö. I’m going to go take shelter in that pine shed now.

Monday the sky was blue, Systemet was open and I wasn’t shitty on the world, so it seemed like a perfect day to check out the southern archipelago. Armed with a bag of ciders, pringles and my bathers, I jumped on a ferry, unsure about which islands to check out, but certain I didn’t want to go wherever that massive pack of old ladies was going. Then the clouds came. And I had a cheeky doze. So I ended up at the end of the line, Vrångö. As I stepped off the ferry, I quickly realised that I was the youngest person who’d made the journey, and that, also, it was about to start pissing down. I did my own little 20 minute walking tour just as the heavens opened. I still had 45minutes before the ferry would be back and I really didn’t want to sit in the “pub” by myself, so instead I sat in the ultra pine-y shelter by the water, drinking cider, mildly hating the world. I just about sprinted aboard when the ferry came back. Making my way back into town the sun came back out. Godfuckingdamn. I plonked my arse down in the park, laughing at joggers, boot camps and, of course, children. Man, I’m getting creepy. That night I went barhopping with the Aussie guy (Manny, I think?) and some people he’d met in Stockholm. They were alright. The price of beer was not. I bailed relatively early. Such a party animal.

Två tumnar upp för Vrångö? Yeah, right.

Last day. I was kinda happy to be heading home that night, but not before I saw the city from the canals! I bought my Paddan tour ticket, jumped into the sightseeing boat and got my tourist on. It was actually really interesting and we had to lie on the floor going under one of the bridges. That was cool, although I was a little worried about my arse getting stuck. Ohhh and there was building that was sinking. Yep. I killed my final few hours sitting in parks and shopping. There are definitely better ways I could have spent that time, but I’d had enough touristing. Actually, I should have gone to Liseberg, the amusement park. Ah well, maybe later. On the train home I watched the countryside fill up with fog. Shit, summer is definitely on the way out.

For once it’s not just my shitty photo-taking! Sinky building!

So yeah. That was my first trip alone. Dunno if I liked being solo that much. Gothenburg was awesome, but, honestly, would have been better if I was with other people. But, hey, it was a good experience. And it got me out of Uppsala for a bit. Seven thumbs up (in a good way).

Q: How many residency permit extension applications does it take to strand Marita in Sweden for a summer?

Wed, 03 Aug 2011 01:12:00 +0200

A: Just one

I’m sitting here, it’s a lazy (read: pretty fucking boring) Tuesday night and it’s August 2. Time to watch the sky turn pretty colours and get lost in thought. Where the hell did July go? If you put it in the context of how I spent most of June, kicking around northern Europe, it’s pretty easy to suggest I wasted July, spending a lot of time doing sweet f.a. But when I applied for my residency permit extension on May 23 I thought it’d at least be here by the end of July. I thought wrong. Apparently I could be waiting until the end of August. Joy. And in the mean time, I’m not really supposed to leave Sweden. Sure, travelling within the Schengen Zone I’ve never actually had my residency permit checked, but I dunno, I just don’t want to risk getting stuck outside the country. After all, my laptop lives in Sweden. But anyway, just in case you’re curious, here’s a bit of a rundown on what you can do if you ever find yourself killing six weeks in Uppsala in the summer.

1. Move

Those of you playing at home may recall that last semester I lived at an overall quite nice place called Eklundshov. I had my own room, which was comparatively huge, and also my own kitchenette and bathroom (also huge). The setting was really pretty, next to a forest, surrounded by trees and not far from the river. My biggest problem with Eklundshov was that it was rather tame. Most of the people I knew who lived there were pretty awesome and our Sunday night common room dinners were a highlight of the week, however as the semester went on I found myself spending more and more time (whoa, pause, have to scream, explain in a sec) out at Flogsta. Which is where I am now. Yep.

My old room at Eklundshov. A bit too empty and a bit too bunky.

Yep. Flogsta. Amongst students and locals it’s a name synonymous with filthy kitchens, rooftop projectiles and general student mayhem. The main neighbourhood is a group of sixteen 7-storey buildings, constructed in the late 60s/early 70s, that sit in a figure of eight, and ten of which house students pretty much exclusively. There are two corridors per floor, and each corridor has twelve rooms, a kitchen and a little lounge bit. (Although, in my corridor there’s this weird wall protrusion and a bunch of freezers in our lounge room. Booooo.) The other buildings seem to have real world humans living in them, mainly immigrants and old people from what I can tell. Most of the buildings have some sort of operation happening on the bottom floor, eg. a pub on the ground floor of my building, kindergartens in buildings 1 and 5. Actually, that’s a scary thought. This is a terrible, terrible place for children to live. I am yet to go to a party here during which stuff hasn’t been thrown off balconies and roofs. Seriously, on Valborg someone threw a flaming couch off the roof.

Sunrise over Flogsta, taken from building 4. Meh, check this wikipedia photo, better view over the bulidings.

So why’d I choose to move here? Why’d I choose tiny shower, filthy fridge and Heimstaden when things were pretty dandy at Eklundshov? Firstly, no more bunk bed! One of my favourite things in the world is being able to collapse onto a bed, whether after a big night out, or at two in the afternoon, out of sheer boredom. You cannot do that when you have to climb six goddamn steps to get to the mattress. Secondly, stuff actually happens here. Even when nothing’s happening, once a day there’s something. At 10pm every night there’s the Flogstavrålet (Flogsta roar/scream), when people stick their heads out the window and scream/yell/roar/play vuvuzela/play trombone for a minute or two. There’s a few theories about why it happens, from stress relief around exams, to the commemoration of a suicide, but either way it’s cathartic and a good way to mark the end of predrinks. Lastly, it’s because people actually live here. Or, will live here, when they move back at the end of summer. Last semester, most exchange students I knew lived here. Most predrinks and Saturday night parties I attended happened here. If the nations are the heart and soul of student life in Uppsala, surely Flogsta is the liver, hypothalamus and stomach. Oh, also, there’s a supermarket.

My new home. As Lloyd said, after three weeks in Flogsta my room looked more lived-in than my room at Eklundshov looked after an entire semester.

2. Go to the lake.

Alright, I’ll admit I’ve only done this once, so far, but it was a pretty sweet afternoon, so it rates a mention. On Steve’s second last day here we decided to try and find out how Swedes cool down on “hot” days, so we took a bus down to Sunnersta at the top of lake Mälaren (a lake that extends all the way down to Stockholm). After a bit of walking (and perving on the staff at a summer camp) we came to a “beach”, full of Swedes of varying ages, bronzedness and levels of attractiveness. Swimming in the water was weird, owing to a lack of salt and waves but still nice, and sun is sun, so it was pretty sweet to lie around and check out the scenery (stupid, sexy scenery). I did miss having salt-crusty/beach hair when we left though.

Not only were we the whitest people there, but also the least tattooed. (Steve, cheers for the photo)

3. Do vaguely wholesome things

I guess our trip to the lake comes under this one. Ok, honestly, whenever I ride my bike anywhere, I feel wholesome. By those standards I’d probably turn into Kerri-Anne if I lived in Copenhagen or Amsterdam. But I digress. On your bike you can go check stuff out and explore better than if you were on foot. Lately I keep taking wrong turns to find out where streets lead. Curiosity can be wholesome, yeah? One day Lloyd and I rode over to the national park that’s behind Flogsta and found it had one of those Viking burial mounds (take that, Gamla Uppsala!). That afternoon also involved a certain amount of aimlessly wandering the aisles of ÖoB, a Swedish discount store, sort of like the Reject Shop. It was the first time I’d done this, but it wasn’t the last. Any time I find myself out at Stenhagen (suburb south west of here that has supermarkets, System Bolaget and other shops, including ÖoB), I always end up doing a whole heap of aimless wandering, perpetually almost buying Brio train sets and kiddy pools. Oooh and I’ve paid rent a couple of times. That got me out of the house.

Taking photos of sunset. Also wholesome.

4. Go on a booze cruise

In the first week of July, I tagged along with Lloyd and his sister, Jess, on a booze cruise to Tallinn, flaunting the Migration Board’s recommendation that I remain within Sweden lest I be stopped from re-entering. I needed to get out of the house. It was a good way to kill two and a half days, although I think it’ll be hard to top the first time I went to Tallinn, an evening that saw me drink my weight in shots (not necessarily my Earth weight). First night on the ship we watched MTV, laughed at the live entertainment, drank beer and finished the evening in the night club, which had taken its decorating cues from an aluminium can. The day in Tallinn was a bit of a struggle the first half and pretty touristy. We walked around the old town, which is really pretty, but it can get a bit boring after a while. It would have been better to spend a night there or something, but, hey, that’s how it goes. On the boat back to Stockholm we sank ciders in the sun on the rear deck, laughing at kids and old ladies with faces that resembled feline rectums. In duty free I picked up some bitch drinks (cranberry bacardi breezers? aww yeah) and the evening passed in much the same way as the previous, maybe a little more drunkenly. Biggest regret of the trip: we didn’t get around to going back to duty free and stocking up, sending us back to Systemet with our tails between our legs.

Church tower we climbed in Tallinn. Amazing view at the top. Amazing cardio work out on the way up.

5. Befriend your corridor mates. Attend their parties.

At the moment there are two Swedes, Ida and Jesper, who are actually living in my corridor, plus a French girl, Clementine, and there was also Teja from Canadia. The rest will return in the next few weeks, along with a few new internationals. Anyway, everyone so far has proved to be pretty cool and laid back and, most importantly, willing to have a few drinks and a bit of fun. At Teja’s going away party we ended up on the roof of our building, playing a massive game of cap bowl, kubb and Lloyd and I finally played the drinking game we learnt at Southside festival. I don’t remember how that evening ended, but I do recall waking up with a cheeky pile of spew on the floor. Allllll classsss.

This is what you look like if you have too much fun on a Monday night. Note the grazed knee from being shit at the German drinking game. (Thanks, Ida, for the photo)

Last Friday was Jesper’s 25th. We gave him water balloons. We made fauxjitos. (Last time fauxjitos were consumed… naked waterslides.) We had a water fight in the corridor. We sat, sang and chair danced to Ludachrist’s Bangfest in its entirety, whilst playing the swearing game. We met people who had showed up because they heard music. We sauna’d. I went to bed some time after 7am.

Fauxjitos! Don’t act like you’re not impressed.

6. Befriend people with birthdays in July.

My Swedish buddy, Julia, turned 23 and decided to celebrate by having drinks at her house in Tierp, followed by a night on the town in Uppsala. It was cool to get out of Uppsala and see the inside of a Swedish person’s house (!!), as well as being really lovely to catch up with Julia. There were cupcakes (!!!), a meringue cake that was suspiciously like pavlova, punch and drinking games, so of course it was a lovely evening, although it was a bit overwhelming being surrounded by only Swedes.

Ahh awesome birthday brownies at Lloyd’s 21st. Pardon me whilst I take the credit… *yoink*

A few days later it was Lloyd’s turn. Twenty one. Shiiit, Lloyd’s twenty first? Four syllables never so surely spelt out “hangover”. For once, the summer weather did the right thing and acted like summer weather. The night before we’d hit Systemet and I’d stocked up on the lolly drinks in a big way. It’s the colours; they get me every time. Lloyd had two friends staying from Perth, Akash and Jon, so I joined them early in the day and we got our booze on. Over the course of the day more people showed up, many games were played, we jumped to another party at Rackarberget (another student housing place), then, apparently, went to Snerikes (student nation. Tuesday night = club). Honestly, there’s a fair bit of *scene missing* and my dialled calls and messages the next day proved to be rather entertaining, but it was definitely an awesome twenty first. The next day, on the other hand… pass me a bucket whilst I think back.

Hillbilly in the corridor, anyone?

7. Get drunk

Ok, this sounds horrible, but sometimes all you want to do is have a few drinks, get buzzed and shoot the shit, right? Well, whatever. It’s something to do, and more often than not, it’s unintentional, but it’s just how the evening goes. Although, most of the nations are closed, the ones that are open have pretty sweet outdoor areas and beer gardens. I’ve spent far too much time (and money) this summer at Upplands. Particularly when we found about the bottle of champagne + three peach melbas for 150kr deal. A few quiet drinks have often ended up… not so quiet. V-Dala, Upplands, Snerikes and OG, for staying open, I salute you. Even just chilling at home with a few cheeky drinks can end up an amusing evening, possibly involving playing the Imperial March at people arriving home drunk, chasing hedgehogs and having disgruntled neighbours throw eggs at you.

Sunset drinks and dinner on the roof with Lloyd and Steve. Next thing you know it’s sunrise and you’ve watched everything on youtube. (Photo nicked from Steve)

8. Eat

and eat and eat and eat

9. DOWNLOAD ALL THE THINGS

You don’t want to know how much time I’ve spent in front of my laptop. Adventure Time. Blue Mountain State. Star Wars (all of them). Round the Twist. Futurama. The Wackness. Invader Zim. Somewhere. Night Watch. Day Watch. True Blood. Gentleman Broncos. Daria. Apocalypse Now. I could go on. I won’t. I should really italicise those titles. I won’t. Whilst spending all this time in front of the screen be sure to watch all the clips of Gir on youtube, check facebook, thought catalog, brown cardigan and tumblr incessantly, have skype d’n’ms with your mum and eat so much toast that you should surely be shitting pure vegemite by now.

A typical evening at home. The face is usually a lot happier if watching Adventure Time. Check those chins. Hawt.

10. Set cars on fire.

Well, not that I’ve done that personally, but someone around here’s clearly bored. Since I’ve moved here I’ve seen two cars set alight in the car park next to my building. Well, I didn’t see them start, but I heard it and watched them burn from my roof. I even called the fire brigade one time.

Terrible, horrible, no good, very bad photo of a car on fire

So, ahhh, yeah, that’s what I’ve been up to.

Huh

Mon, 25 Jul 2011 03:18:52 +0200

Today would have been the day I left Europe had I not extended. I can’t imagine how totes devo’d I would have been.

More Steve times

Fri, 15 Jul 2011 18:13:00 +0200

Ok, so where are we at now? Monday, Day 10 of the trip, according to my diary.

Oh, yep, more photos.

So anyway, we touch down in Köln/Cologne at some stupidly early hour, like 6am or something, and it is the smoothest landing I have ever experienced. Like, I was willing to applaud the pilot, Ryanair style. Skillz, brah. At the Central Station we’re supposed to be catching a bus to Utrecht in the Netherlands at 6.30 or something, but we haven’t actually got tickets and the office doesn’t open til 7. To add insult to injury, Maccas changes to breakfast menu between Steve and I ordering, and I loathe McDonald’s breakfast. Anyway, thankfully Steve speaks some German and somehow convinces the driver to let us on with no ticket. At the next stop he makes us get off and buy tickets, from another person who speaks zero English. A couple of minutes later the bus driver is shaking my shoulder. Minutes? I mean hours. Hooray for uncomfortable, drool-tastic sleep on buses. Anyway, we mooch around Utrecht’s central station (I think it had a name, but I can’t remember), which is crazy ugly and apparently perpetually under construction, until Steve’s friend Jilke comes to meet us. We’ll be staying with her for a few days. Awesome.

Canals in Amsterdam. Awww yeeaaaah.

So yep, Jilke lives in this really cool three storey terrace with crazy steep stairs. After an amazing nanna nap we ride bikes into town, grab a quick beer and go to the supermarket. I wander up and down the aisles with my jaw dragging on the ground, amazed at how cheap everything is. That night, for the first time in aaaaaaaaaages, television. Loads of tv. Mind numbing, awful, trashy, amazing tv. We watch Jersey Shore. Tuesdee we go tent shopping for Southside, then Steve and I jump on a train for 30 mins and go to Amsterdam. Because you can bloody do that in the Netherlands. So flat, so tiny, everything so goddamn accessible. We power through the super touristy area and go look at some canals, before crashing in a park for a while. Yep, we went to Amsterdam to go lie in a park. But it was so sunny! Seriously, the winter in Sweden turned me into the biggest sun worshipper. And not in the sense that I’m out there trying to get my tan onnnnnnn, but, like, any time there’s sunshine, I get ridiculously happy. Sun brings the happy. So yeah, we wander down to this cool part of town called De Pijp, which has this giant awesome tourist/crap market. I love markets. If I could, I’d probably do alllll my shopping outdoors, out of tents. I nearly buy several dresses, but instead end up with coke. Of course. We find a cool cafe, eat awesome food and drink beer. In the sun. Happy. We cruise back through town, but my formerly broken foot is being a dick, so it’s time to head home. But not before we go to the munt tower. How could I not? I reckon I need to go back to Amsterdam and do it properly, though. Not a single prostitute was seen. That night we meet back up with Jilke and another friend from Steve’s Italy exchange, Lotte. Another example of the Netherlands being incomprehensible to me:

Steve: Yeah, Lotte works in the Hague

Me: Oh, so we won’t see her tonight then?

Steve: What? Of course we will. She lives in Utrecht, but commutes.

Me: …but, hang on, what?

So yeah, beers at some cool bar, then dins at a Belgian beer cafe (not The) in an old church. It’s quite expensive and our food seems to take foreverrrrrr but it’s well worth it. Super yum. And good beers. Solid evening. Next morning, it’s time for a new country.

Faking a munt in front of the Munt Tower. As if you wouldn’t?

Flying into Innsbruck, Austria, is fucking amazing. I’m gobsmacked. Places aren’t supposed to be this pretty, are they? Like, argh, what even? Steve is amusingly nervous as the plane descends into the mountains. I’m just impressed. Once again, to the pilot, skillz, brah. Steve’s friend, Johannes, comes to meet us at the airport and drives us back to his apartment. It feels weird to be back in a car. His apartment is seriously cool and has this sweet closed-in balcony with a view through the garden up to the mountains. I can’t hack the amazing. We walk into town, more crazy prettiness. I’m really struggling to convey how impressive it was. Hmm, maybe a gif will do.

Yep, there you go. That was pretty much me every time my eyes were open in Innsbruck. We stroll around the city, check out the ridiculously, retardedly blue river, eat awesome pizza, then hit the supermarket. I just about have a heart attack when I see how cheap alcohol is. I buy a terrible, terrible bottle of wine because it’s $2. That night we run through most of the drinking games in my repertoire (difficult with only three people, but entertaining nonetheless), engage in gratuitous amounts of burping (I think up ‘til then I’d made a pretty good show of having some sort of class), and end up stumbling to an Irish pub. Morning. I wake up completely disoriented and then look out the window and my brain explodes again. We check out more of the town, but the rain sets in, so we watch movies at Johannes’s. I nearly kill myself laughing watching Despicable Me. No hyperbole. Ask Steve. The rain clears and we go to a lake. It’s man made, but it still is awesome. We swim, play table tennis and generally have mad fun. Not swimming in salt water is weird. Looking at mountains instead of an endless ocean whilst swimming is reaaallly weird. That night Johannes’s sister is in town so we go to a club called Aftershave. Apparently it’s where you go after you’ve been at the bar called Moustache. Ohhh you crazy Austrians.

The lake where we swam. Argh, PHOTOS DON’T DO IT JUSTICE (hmm anger is totally blunted when something’s written in italics)

So yeah, up early to catch a 9am train to Tuttlingen, Germany. Southside is here. I should be sleeping after what turned into a surprisingly late night, but again the scenery is causing me amaze-trauma. Instead I pump the tunes and engage in a little train-raving. I’m disappointed that crossing the border is not a big deal. We change trains in Freidrichschafen (rather nice) and again somewhere else. The third train is packed with obvious festival goers and we chat with some Belgian dudes. Steve and I feel remarkably underpacked. We squish onto a bus out to the festival site, grab our wrist bands and meet up with Lloyd and his sister, Jess. The festival is held at an airport, out on the runway, and has an audience of around 40 000, I thiiiiiiink. Anyway, after we get the tent set up, we explore. The first thing that hits us is how cheap booze is. We were expecting festival prices. Instead we find beer and tetrapack goon for 2 euros. Well, there’s our booze sorted (even if it is Beck’s, bleurgh). Then we focus on the people and their stuff. So. Much. Stuff. I’m used to Australian festivals, where you’re all but strip searched and security are super tight about what you can and can’t bring into festivals. Southside was virtually a free-for-all. People were carting trolleys loaaaaaded with kegs and slabs and enough tinned food for a year of camping. Steve and I were almost apologetic when we came through the gates with no booze. Lloyd points out and explains this German drinking game that involves throwing something at something and finishing drinks and teamwork(!). We’ll be taking that one back to Uppsala. The sun is shining, the Germans are drunk and the festival has a cool vibe. Shereen (another friend from Uppsala) arrives and we hit the main festival area. You know, the bit with the music. Someone offers me a poncho, but I decline. I am a fucking moron. Some biiiiig, black clouds have rolled in and have decided now is the best time to start pissing down. Crap. Mud city. Crap crap. We shelter in the tent with the electro music, watching some cool circus arts-type stuff, but then it’s time. Time for The m.f.’ing Hives. Lloyd and I sprint across the mud (skillz) and get amongst the crowd. The Germans around us are shit at being a crowd. Get into it! I hate the phrase “rock out” (unless it’s followed by, “with your cock out” ahaaaaa), but that’s what we do. It’s a really good set, playing a decent mix of stuff from all their albums plus new stuff, so I’m not overly bothered that I am completely saturated. Later in the evening we catch The Subways and Lykke Li, both awesome, as well as Bright Eyes, who I find underwhelming. Actually, by the time we saw Bright Eyes, I was a walking, super muddy icicle (still wearing shorts, dickhead), so that wouldn’t have helped.

Steve with some poncho-declining idiot. (Thanks to Jess for the photo)

After an uncomfortable, largely sleepless night (special mention to the climaxing Germans in the tent 2ft away from my head), the morning is spent trying to stay warm in our tent, downing breakfast beers and junk food. Aww yeah. Picking at the mud on my legs pulls skin off. Fabulous. Jonas (another exchange friendo) drops in, actually dressed appropriately for the cold and mud. Goddamn. Music time! We catch Tame Impala. I’ve seen them a few times now and they’re always seriously good, although they didn’t play Sundown Syndrome, so boo-urns to that. I then step out of my shoes, traipsing through the mud. Some days I am a walking joke. Over the arvo/evening I catch bits of different sets, namely Portugal the Man, Darwin Deez and Elbow. They’re not shit. There’s also a little DJ stage that keeps playing aaaaaaaaaaawesome music so we put in a little rave time there. Finally, Arcade Fire. We squish up close to the stage and bliss out. They is some talented folk. When they finish with Wake Up I can’t wipe the smile of my face. Good job, Canadians. Although, Lloyd, Jonas and I agree that it would have been cool if they’d played My Body Is A Cage. Just sayin’. Afterwards, the others go to bed, but I run off to catch the rest of the Chemical Brothers. I’m not disappointed, especially when they play a mix of a bunch of their old classics, then finish with Block Rockin’ Beats.

Steve and Lloyd exhibiting the beautiful oompa loompa glow the tent created

Sunday, the festival has a distinct third world vibe. The wind has destroyed many a campsite and idiots are pushing over portaloos. Gross. Any time the sun comes out everyone cheers for the sky. Anyway, music. British Sea Power: alright. Friendly Fires: lead singer is a douchebag and they don’t play In The Hospital, so they can piss off. Two Door Cinema Club: rather good. Gogol Bordello: seriously entertaining, would have been better if I was drunk, though. Kasabian: background music, whilst Steve, Jess and I chatted. Kaiser Chiefs: fun. Digitalism: I got mah rave on so I was happy. Although, I wish they’d played Zdarlight in full because 4.40-4.45 always makes me want to lose my shit and dance my arse off. Sunday I saw a lot of music, which was cool, but I was pretty sick of being disgustingly muddy and cold. Monday is home time, thankfully. Lloyd and Jess have to leave really early, so Shereen, Steve and I pack up and finally decide to leave the tent before. We should have decided faster. The line for the bus back into town is massive and it takes us around two hours, time enough for us to miss our train. Ugh, crap. Steve and I train up to Stuttgart then fly to Berlin.

Berlin: ugly, but awesome

We make our way into the city and find our hostel. It’s a difficult city to navigate and there’s no real centre, and goddamn it looks ugly, but, wow, I’m in Berlin! At the hostel, I’m straight into the shower. So. Much. Mud. I still have little bits of it stuck on my leg after much scrubbing. We explore the neighbourhood and walk down to Alexanderplatz to try and find food. We end up getting fish and chips, which are deep fried in goooooodness. Back at the hostel I chat with the two Finnish guys in our room (who sound like the Dudesons, which makes me laugh) and they’re a little shocked that Steve and I aren’t hitting the town. Can they not see that I’m virtually falling asleep whilst talking to them? Tuesday I’m forced to buy new, non-mud covered clothes, then we go do a walking tour of the city. The chick knows her stuff so it’s really fascinating and I regret that I’m not spending more time in the city. So much history. I find the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europ to be particularly interesting and really eerie to walk through. Afterwards, Steve and I lie around in the grass on Museum Island (sun. happy.), then go to a Vietnamese restaurant for dinner. We decide an evening of sinking beers is called for, although I never make it out of the hostel bar. We meet some American boys who are about to start college and they are kinda nerdy and adorable, then I chat to an Australian guy (one of the 40 000 staying at the hostel) and we discuss how in high school we were both high achievers and leaders and now are both completely lost with no idea about what to do with our lives. It sounds depressing, but was actually highly amusing. Hooray for the clueless youth of today. I get up super early to catch my flight back to Sweden and end up being at the airport 3 hours early. I’m hungover, there’s a guy who looks like a rabid dog who keeps staring at me and my flight is delayed. Ughhh. I bid Steve farewell via text (he’ll be back in Sweden the next week), pump the tunes and look forward to getting home… to the home I don’t have yet. We touch down in Sweden, the sun is shining and there are attractive people everywhere. After two and a half weeks on the road, it’s good to be back.

Steve in the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe

So, yeah. That was the time I got off my arse and saw some of the world.

The Steve times

Sun, 10 Jul 2011 19:15:23 +0200

Firstly, here’s the photos.

On May 29 my brother-from-another-mother, Steve, touched down in the land of the beautiful socialists, jumped on a bus and made his way out to Uppsala, brimming with anticipation of spending a month with yours truly (I assume. He may have been brimming with dread, antipathy or hunger. Either way, he was brimming). What he wasn’t anticipating was me standing there with my left foot in a cast, wobbling on crutches, rather sheepish. For those in the dark, long story short, the night before I fell over in a forest and fractured a bone in my foot. Whoops. Anyway, the plan was to get out and explore northern Europe for a couple of weeks, but before that we had a week to kill in Uppsala (and some assignments to finish…), so we nabbed a nations gästkort (guest card) for Steve, I reactivated my credit card (another stupid story) and went crazy, Uppsala style. Over the week we pub crawled, wizard pole’d and farewelled many exchangers who were heading home or leaving to travel. I missed saying goodbye properly to heaps of people, which I feel bad about. So if you see this, uhhh, bye?

Sunrise after Wizard Pole Wednesday at Flogsta.

Saturday we hit the road. We caught a train to Stockholm, then another to Oslo for 6 or 7 hours, melting in the uncharacteristic Swedish heat. That’s probably the worst thing about public transport in the summer here: no air conditioning. I mean, totally understandable, but whenever it gets hot, goddamn it sucks. Anyway, we rock up in Oslo with no accommodation booked, assuming we’ll be able to get a bed pretty easily, but instead find every hostel is booked out. Joy. I’m in favour of an all nighter, what with the gratuitous amounts of daylight and the super early train we have to catch, but instead pay waaay too much for a single in a hotel. Ah well, at least we can shower. We wander up the main shopping street, loving the balmy weather and hit McDonald’s for dinner. I’ve stopped caring about how much people judge me for loving Maccas. Embrace it. Up at sparrow’s the next morning, Steve reveals he’s booked only half of the trip to Bergen. Okaay. We get the train to Myrdal, passing ski resorts, a glacier and other amazing scenery en route, then buy tickets for the scenic Flåm railway. It’s seriously worth it. We see snow, waterfalls, stupidly quaint valleys… and loads of old people. We spend about 10 mins in Flåm, enough time to nab coke from the supermarket, then train back up the mountain. Another train into fjord country, complete with some quality dilf-watching, brings us to Bergen.

Oh hey there, picturesque town.

Bergen. Hmmm. OK, I both loved and hated it. Basically, love because it’s amazingly gorgeous, hate because of the rain. This is a city in which rain fell every day between 29 October 2006 and 21 January 2007, 85 consecutive days (wikipedia goodness). Our “youth” hostel was halfway up a hill/mountain that was kinda out of town and full of old French people. Pretty buggered and unwilling to go all the way back into town we chilled out and watched the sun set over the fjord (at about midnight. Scandinavia, you’re a bit of a dick). Stunning. Next day Bergen showed its true colours. It was pissing down rain and at the supermarket we got a feeling for how bloody expensive Norway is. We met some Aussies from Caulfield (a magician and a girl with as much personality as a clump of used chewy) and tagged along with them to see some stave church. It was pretty, but was I saturated, my cast was disintegrating and, hey, I’m a moody cow at the best of times. Poor Steve. Anyhoodles, our final day in Bergen was a bit better (maybe ‘cause we knew we were leaving), as we checked out the city properly and it stopped raining. At the fish market we saw whale meat. It does not look appetising. Bryggen was nice. McDonald’s was expensive. Next thing we were on a plane to Copenhagen. I’d never been happy to leave a country before I went to Norway. Don’t get me wrong, from what I saw it’s an incredibly beautiful country and I’d go back and see more. But I’d be old. And have money. And my foot would not be in a cast.

We get to Copenhagen and revel in the cheap prices. Well, comparatively cheap. We jump on the Metro out to Nørrebro, a pretty cool area that reminds me of Brunswick. The hostel plays cool music, the chick behind the desk looks like my cousin, Loz, and we eat Chinese food whilst shooting the shit with Canadians. Our time in Copenhagen is pretty lazy; I’d already been there in March so I wasn’t overly fussed about sight seeing. The sun is out so we picnic in the Rosenborg Castle Gardens, watching kids play rounders and flip each other the bird. Hilarious. We even get sunburnt. We wander along Strøget, the longest pedestrian shopping street in Europe, up to Nyhavn, go to another park, then get AMAZING (for northern Europe) Thai takeaway. (I think that was all one day. I forget a little). The next morning sees the brace thing that allowed me to walk on my foot snap in half, completely out of the blue. I spend the day walking on a little stump of plastic, which is irritating as fuck, so once again Steve found himself hanging around with a bitch. Sorry, Steve. We saw some Danish design museum, Kastellet and, from afar, the Little shit statue that’s not worth it, uh, sorry, Mermaid. Back at the hostel I give up and cut my cast off a few days early… then promptly run to the shower to shave my left leg. We go to a vego restaurant with an American guy and an Israeli guy we met at the hostel, then meet up with Steve’s friend, Johannes, who lives around the corner. His apartment is like a student corridor (but seriously cool) and we play drinking games with other exchange students until some stupid hour. Actually, this reminds me of how awesome it was being out of Sweden: We didn’t meet Jo until about 9pm and we had nothing to drink. In Uppsala you can’t just decide to have a few drinks at home without pre-planning a trip to System, and you sure as hell can’t randomly decide to have a few drinks at 9pm on a Thursday night (or after 3 on a Saturday or AT ALL on a Sunday). However, as we weren’t in Sweden, we just walked to the supermarket. If it had been closed, we would have just gone to 7-11. I was thrilled. Needless to say I felt like arse the next day, but we had to check out, go back to the Thai place and see Christiania before catching our flight to Iceland.

Kids playing in the park. The girl in the pink dress was such a bitch. This was before they all started flipping the bird. Not at all creepy that I was taking photos of children.

Iceland was the part of the trip I was most excited about, apart from the music festival. Any country that can give the world this AND this has to be pretty interesting. Our plane on the trip over is ollllld, smells like piss and the guy who sits behind Steve is an arsehole, but all this is forgotten as we land on what seems to be another planet. On the bus into Reykjavik we’re kinda awestruck by the landscape, which is all lava (well, basalt, I guess) and no trees. Our hostel is quite central and has a wall covered in quotes from The Big Lebowski. Everyone we meet there seems to be staying for a lot longer than us (2.5 days, essentially) and seeing a lot more than just Reykjavik. We explore the town a bit with some American guy (who turns out to be something of a douchebag) and half heartedly make plans to go out later. Around 11 Steve and I watch the sun trying to set from the waterfront. At midnight I’m still able to read a book without switching a light on. I hit the hay, and I assume Steve does too, until I find him nursing a hangover the next morning. “Just going to get a cup of tea” my arse. We spend the next day exploring more, seeing the cathedral and eating really good Thai noodle soup. There are some really cool shops and I’m a bit bummed that I’m restricted by my luggage. I buy a yoyo anyway. Owing to the perpetual daylight, we’re able to do the Golden Circle tour that evening, albeit a truncated version, so we jump on a bus and go see some sights. Actually, while waiting for the bus outside the hostel, a car with little flags on the front and the number plate “1” pulls up. An oldish guy gets out, says “hello” to us and goes inside. That was the Icelandic president. Anyway, the landscape never ceases to be incredible and our bus driver is strangely funny (“Yessss Iceland has horses and they are small, but don’t call them ponies! They are big horses with small legs!”). We see Þingvellir national park, Gullfoss waterfall and Haukadalur, a geothermally active area that has a geyser called “Geyser”, which is where that word comes from. Hmm, I learnt something. It’s all pretty damn interesting, but you’re better off looking at my photos because I can’t be arsed describing it all. I’ll put a link somewhere up the top to the album on facebook. Cool. So yeah. Back at the hostel Steve and I are absolutely buggered, and although I’ve heard the nightlife in Reykjavik is supposed to be pretty awesome, we can’t face the thought of a night out. Our final day is pretty lazy and indulgent. The Blue Lagoon is on the way to the airport, so after lunch we catch a bus out there and get our mud onnnn. Basically it’s the output water from a geothermal power plant, but because it’s supposedly full of minerals and good for your skin, so they tell you to rub mud on yourself and lie in the water. It all seemed like a huge wank to me, but the water is bright blue, so at least that was really cool. It turns out I’m really bad at those relaxation places. I get really tense and sit around judging people. Lady, you’re like a 65 year old leathery, over-tanned smoker. No amount of mud is going to make you young or attractive. After paddling around in the water for 4 or 5 hours it’s finally time for us to go kill more time at the airport. The selection of food is shit. I buy perfume and a new pair of Sennheiser earphones (argh so good). The next thing, that’s it, we’re in the air. We’ve done Iceland. That was cool.

Blue Lagoon. Check out the bluey goodness.

So anyway, that was my first two weeks with Steve.

June 22

Sat, 09 Jul 2011 19:00:03 +0200

Home (to Uppsala) tomorrow. I’m actually looking forward to it. Travel is making me tired (ha such a tough life). Berlin is pretty damn cool. I have stories. I will share them when I am reunited with my beloved laptop. Cooool.

Ice ice(land) baby

Sat, 09 Jul 2011 18:59:27 +0200

I’m lying in a hostel in mf’ing Reykjavik. There’s a bunch of Danish girls drinking and singing shit songs on the floor of our room. It’s midnight and the sun is still setting. Coke comes in 500ml cans. What is this life?

Things wot I am up tooo

Sat, 09 Jul 2011 18:58:32 +0200

Last Saturday I cleared out of Uppsala with my buddy Steve for a couple of weeks. I caught a train to Oslo, then the following day headed up to Bergen. In Norway I had my bank account raped so I was pretty pleased to be leaving. I’ve been in Copenhagen since Tuesday and have been generally loving it, except my cast was making me hate life… so I cut it off yesterday. This afternoon I’m heading to Iceland… wearing shorts, even though the forecast is for around 11 degrees. Joy joy. Nah should be alright. I think I’m still most pumped for Southside Festival, this time next week. wooo!

So that’s that. Yep.

Croatia, eh?

Sat, 09 Jul 2011 18:55:00 +0200

In May I went to Croatia. It was 5 days of in-jokes, quotes, obnoxiousness and awesome. It’s gonna be long…

(Let’s turn this into a story with pictures. The photos are here!)

Day 1 (Saturday)

A typical Friday evening is had by all parties, so we meet at lunchtime at the Uppsala train station stifling yawns, nursing miiiiiild hangovers. I’ve been awake since about 8am, unable to sleep, excited like a kid on Christmas Day. There are 5 of us: Taco (Jacob) from NZ, Katelyn of Canadia and Emma, Lloyd and I make up the Australian contingent. We jump on a train to Stockholm. I start eating a sandwich, apparently in the most amusing fashion Emma has ever witnessed and we collectively piss ourselves laughing for far too long. We’re already obnoxious tourists and we haven’t even left the country. We’re flying Ryanair, which means another 1.5hrs on the bus out to Skavsta Airport, a trip which sees the couple sitting in front of us get up and move to the front of the bus. Ahh, our bad? Killing time and hunger, the boys attack an abandoned bag of cheeseballs, whilst I get clucky over any child under the age of 5. Mannnnn, if I had a dollar for every time I squealed “ooohhhhh muffin!” on that trip…

In the air sleep proves elusive and two empty, miniature bottle of gin to the back of the head alert me to the fact that Lloyd and Taco have started drinking. Em and I nab a couple of mini Baileys and suddenly air travel ain’t so bad. We touch down in Zadar (having at least doubled our air fares), smiling in the balmy air that greets us as we walk across the tarmac. Waiting for the bus into town, the boys discover the overpriced airport beers are $3. The bus trip is decidedly merry. At the terminal we buy our tickets for a bus to Split after it was supposed to have left, it instead arriving 5 mins later. We love this country already. We grab seats up the back, but I’m restless as hell and can’t sit still. Em and Katelyn are sleeping, Taco’s trying to not piss his pants, Lloyd’s raving and I’m fidgeting. Good trip. Around 10 we pull into Split earlier than anticipated (another tick in the win column for Croatia), find our hostel in the historical/old town bit and discover the receptionist is at a bar. Cool. She’s drunk, checks us in without any of the usual red tape and we follow her back to the bar, grabbing pizza on the way. Cool. We sink pints until close, then follow other backpackers to some club across town, encountering some dick of a taxi driver along the way. It’s a shit club, populated mainly by dudes who look 30+, but they’re shouting drinks, so it’s all good. It’s super good when Soulwax’s NY Lipps comes on and we dance like idiots for ages. Finally we depart, stopping to muck around (and plank) in a playground. Taco and I have an argument about the difference between an ocean and a sea. 5am, head hits the pillow, out like a light.

Day 2 (Sunday)

Ugh, 9am, wake up, gotta leave to catch a ferry. For some reason I’m in a shitty mood and I accidentally leave without returning my key. We’re just in time at the ferry terminal and it leaves just as we get on board. Why is everything in this country working out for us? An hour or two later we dock on the island of Hvar and jump straight on the bus to Hvar, the “city”. We find the dude whose apartment/villa thingy we’re staying in, squish into his car and are driven up the hill that overlooks town. The apartment is small, simple and has an awesome view. We dump our gear, lie in the sun then descend into the town for food. Lunch in the sun at an Italian restaurant in the main square hits the spot. We hit the supermarket (champagne and lollies) then hike back up to the house. Some ominous looking clouds have rolled in, but Lloyd, Katelyn and I decide to go try and find a beach. We find a “beach” down past a resort; concrete jetties, sun lounges and freakishly blue sea. The wind has picked up, there are sea urchins and swimming suddenly isn’t so enticing. Lloyd makes it in, whilst I lie on the jetty getting just as wet from the waves that have cropped up suddenly. We retreat home for nanna naps, rising a few hours later to play a few cheeky drinking games before dinner. We hit up the supermarket to resupply then check out every restaurant in town, finally settling on a nice looking place we’d never even consider in Sweden. The main selling point is that they serve taquitos (“I want some taquitos”). (I should point out that til now we have been quoting the Simpsons ad nauseum. The quoting does not abait. Ever.). We sit outside, watching it rain, drinking cocktails, eating good food. So much Croatia love. We hit another bar, then traipse back up the hill to escape the wet and get our drink on. Circle of Death is our game of choice (like King’s Cup, but without the stupid cup in the middle. Man, I hate that game), and we make fauxjitos (our version of mojito with dark rum, sprite, lemon and mint. Surprisingly good), whilst also watching Deep Impact dubbed in German. We’re having stupid amounts of fun and next thing four of us have demolished 7 bottles of champagne and a bottle of rum. Well, that explains the merriment. Someone, probably Lloyd, suggests a cheeky trip down the road to use the pool at the resort near the beach. Genius. Katelyn elects to stay home whilst the rest of us march down the road, expecting to climb a fence, but instead walk through a wide open gate. We wade into the water in our undies, the epitome of stealth (at least, in our heads). I see a light turn on in a room by the pool deck and we freeze. After a while we realise it’s just a screensaver on a compute, relax, and head for the waterslide. At some point we’re trying to climb up the slide when we’re overcome with sudden paranoia that someone is watching us from above (I’m sure there’s a helicopter). We flatten ourselves against the bottom of the slide, forgetting the fact that our voices are echoing like crazy and we’re about as subtle as a kick in the crotch. Again we’re just being paranoid. Naked watersliding is suggested. Turns out to be the fastest way to go down the slide. Eventually we head home, Em dead certain we were being watched back at the pool. Before bed we realise we all independently feel that someone is missing, even Katelyn, who is completely sober and stayed back at the house. Odd. We all describe a similar person. Seriously odd. We christen him Steve, freak out for a little longer that we’ve all imagined the same guy… then crash.

Day 3 (Monday)

10am, we’ve overslept. We’re supposed to be out at 10. We have a ferry to catch. We’re hungover. It’s pissing down rain. Bleurgh. In town we discover there isn’t another bus for 2 hours and the afternoon ferry doesn’t leave til 4 or something. I step in every puddle Hvar has to offer. We wander up and down the aisles of the two local supermarkets. I buy tartare sauce and a slab of bread that’ll end up lasting me 2 days. I also invest in the first pack of those silly bands things. I’ll admit that I’m easily enticed by bright colours. We jump on a bus and take the windiest (like, curvy, not breezy) and scariest drive I’ve ever been on. None seem to be struggling as much as Lloyd, who is threatening to spew. The bus nearly causes two collisions and I’m plagued with visions of the bus launching off the edge of a cliff. Finally we pull up in Starri Grad, Lloyd magically appears next to a tree in the carpark and proceeds to projectile munt his guts out. It’s almost a thing of beauty. Rarely have I, or the others, laughed so hard. We wander into the town centre, I step in more and more puddles. The words “fucking Hvar” are uttered with increased frequency. No cafe is really grabbing us, until Jesus emerges from an alleyway and offers to take us to his cafe. Seems legit… Actually, it is legit. We eat good food (awesome seafood risotto) and laugh at “rump steak slap slap” and the local drunk chef. As has become tradition, we head to the local supermarket, checking out what brekky cereals are most beloved by the Croats. Back on the street we try to avoid the creepy, drooly, rabies-y dogs, then head to a playground. I’m having hysterical fun. Another trip to the supermarket (I cave and buy cookie crunch cereal. My god, it’s not actually that good, but rivals heroin in its addictiveness), then to the bus stop. We make it to the ferry and play round after round of uno. Back in Split we hit up the tourist markets and buy more wrist bands, hoping to obtain the elusive glow in the dark ones. We check back into the Booze n Snooze, grab some pizza and find a quiet bar. We have grown up conversations that aren’t laden with in-jokes and innuendo. Wwwwweeeeiirrddd. After 1am the only place that seems to be open is a strip club with an overpriced cover charge so we head back to the hostel, but not before I fall down a some stairs on the super slippery tiles. Goddamn.

Day 4 (Tuesday)

Wake up feeling dandy. How novel. Shower for the first time in days. We wander around, cursing the huge number of old people tourists that all seemed to have arrived at once out of the blue… or maybe it’s just that we’re actually out and about being touristy during the day. We breakfast at a cafe, willing the rain away. Em’s muesli turns out to be the most elaborately served thing I’ve seen in a longgg time. We tourist, we shop, we hit the supermarket (of course) and then we Split (aaaaaaaaahahahhaha yeah), i.e. we jump on a bus and haul arse back up to Zadar. Claiming the backseat once again, we devour pringles, coke, cookie crunch and gummi lollies. Nutritious, delicious. Conversation is once again oddly mature, ranging from learning to drive to good showers we’ve had and foods we miss from home. A healthy dose of Simpsons quotes and Lloyd falling backwards off his seat balance out the adult factor. We pull into the Zadar bus terminal, quickly locate the bus that’ll take us to the old town (by now we’ve started calling Croatia the ‘country of requirement’) and I receive the dirtiest looks from two teenage girls. You’d think I’d axe murdered Edward Cullen and given Justin Bieber AIDS or something. Psht. Anyway. Zadar is sunny. Zadar is hot. Zadar is pretty. Zadar isawesome. In our search for the hostel we pass numerous street drinkers and bars, then find ourselves at the water’s edge, where our plans for the evening become very apparent. Drinkswimdrinkeatdrink? Yyyyyeaaaaahhh, everything’s coming up Milhouse. We drop our gear at the hostel and make our way back to the waterfront, planking and obtaining hideously cheap beer from the newsagent/milk bar en route. Lloyd and I jump in the Adriatic in our undies, receiving many a look of bemusement and amusement from passers by. I float around with my beer, stupidly content, but soon it’s time to see what Zadar can give us to eat. We grab more roadies then wander around the restaurants, indecisive as ever, but eventually settle on a place that does fish and chips (harking back to our conversation about foods we miss earlier in the day). Feeling… spirited… we jump to the pub next door, grab drinks, yell in unison at people with good pizza and accidentally do a runner (which we rectify soon after. There’s a difference between convictitude and being shit). The next bar has cool music. The bar after that has cheap cocktails, huge straws and shag carpet on the walls. The bar after that sees us playing drinking games and I try to wash my hands in a urinal. Hi, Mum. 1am. Bars close. Em and Katelyn head home. Lloyd, Taco and I sit in the middle of the street, playing more games, making friends. We make our way to a club on the other side of the river. I don’t remember much from here on in, but I just remember everything being weird. The club doesn’t serve beer, so we drink vodka. That alone is retarded. How old are these people? Why do you hate English speakers so much? Damn straight we’re speaking shit Swedish. Is that the police? Suddenly we’re not at the club anymore and we’re wandering the streets, kicking my purse around. Back at the hostel someone has nicked my bed. I nick someone else’s bed. Aaand I’m out like a light.

Day 5 (Wednesday)

Wake up disoriented. Do I want to come to the waterfall park? Ughhhh yeah sure whatever. What happened to last night? Dress, pack, supermarket (of course). It’s going to be a beautiful day in Zadar, but we’re cramming into a minibus to go to Plitvice Lakes National Park. For 2 hours we try and sleep off hangovers, but it’s a futile effort and when we arrive a few of us present a definitive depiction of struggle. It’s cold, overcast and we appear to be the youngest people there, but Em’s been excited about this for a while, so we rally and trudge down to the ferry. Aaaaand we end up spending the afternoon amongst some of the most beautiful scenery I’ve ever seen. We mosey along boardwalks checking out these seeeeriously coool and amazing waterfalls, cursing the old people and the ‘no swimming’ signs. It’s one of those things you can’t really write about (well, if you’re an uncreative, lazy specimen like yours truly), you just need to see it. Seriously, chuck it on your bucket list. 3.30pm we pile back into the minivan and hurtle down the road towards the airport. Or so we think. Out of the blue the driver (who pretty much speaks no English) pulls up behind a few shops. Next to us is a fenced enclosure with two big brown bears. Okaaaaay. Behind it is a dilapidated, Soviet-esque factory. Apparently the restaurant is filled with taxidermy stuff. Yeah, this seems legit. Thankfully we make it to the airport without any more bear-stops. Zadar airport is bathed in sunshine, so we lie on the concrete soaking it up, killing time. We play uno and eye off some stupidly tanned, stupidly attractive Swedes. Our plane is early. Country of Requirement, you magical bastard. I plank on the tarmac and cut my knee. I regret nothing. One of the flight attendants introduces herself as Barbara Streisand and ends every announcement with “OooooOooOooooOoooOoOoOoooh” (you know how it goes). We land in Sweden and everything turns shit. Why did we leave Croatia? Em gets held up at passport control. The boys make one bus, but Em, Katelyn and I wait half an hour for the next one to leave. We miss the train back to Uppsala. It’s cold and we’re dressed in shorts. We sit in Maccas, contemplating how we can kill time in Stockholm before we realise we can take a bus to another airport, then get another bus. Joy. We pull into Uppsala around 4am. I limply bid farewell to the others and trudge home in the ridiculous brightness that is Swedish mornings approaching summer. I fall into my room and check my watch. 4.30am. I’ve been in transit for 13 hours. Croatia’s over. I survived. Well then, that was something.

I read back over this and it seems like the trip was simply a 5 day piss-up. Yeah, it was sort of, but not every trip is about being super touristy or immersing yourself in a new culture or seeing every sight. These are all good, but sometimes it’s nice to party hardy (yes I just wrote that). I had such a ridiculously good time and would do it again. And again and again. And again and again and again. (And there ends the paragraph in which I try to justify this whole thing to my mum).

Solid run of fail

Sat, 09 Jul 2011 18:54:00 +0200

This past week and a bit has been, ahhhh, failtastic.

Last Saturday I went to a party, fell asleep on a couch. Someone went through my bag and nicked my ipod and 300kr. Irritating, but I’m the moron who passed out, so ehh.

Thursday night I was at some club, imbibed some stupid amount, managed to collect one bag from coat check whilst losing another at some point. In the line at Max I realised the bag I’d lost contained my ID, nations card (vital) and credit card (somewhat more vital). I walked home bawling my eyes out. Moron.

Friday morning I woke up feeling hideous, vom’d heaps of bile, remembered losing my stuff, went back to bed, woke up again, vom’d more bile, back to bed, then finally got up around lunch to try and be a real adult. At that point I discovered I’d chipped a tooth. Fabulous. I walked into town, checked at the nation where the club was held and at Max if I’d left my bag there (nope), walked up to the police station to report my bag and my ipod from the previous weekend. Turns out I have to call some number instead. Great. Realising some idiot might be out there using my card to buy shit online I rang Australia and cancelled my card. I thought I’d be able to get a new one issued soon, but apparently I have to wait until (their) Monday morning when the bank is actually open. Diiiick. And that phone call cost me 100kr. Deciding a swim would make me feel better I went to the city pool and chucked 1.5kms of freestyle. Feeling a bit better I walked out and found the heavens had opened. I had no money/access to money for a bus ticket so I trudged home feeling more and more sorry for myself. Finally home I realised I was probably drier when I was swimming laps. Logging in to facebook I found someone from Stockholms nation had sent me a message to say they had found my bag. Goddamn, why was I so hasty to cancel my card?

Saturday I woke up and decided self-pity had lost its pizazz. I scrounged a bit of cash, went into town, and was able to buy some bread (to add to my grievances, I’d run out of food). No one was at Stockholms so I wasn’t able to collect my bag or get a nations card for my friend Steve who was arriving Sunday night. Ah bugger it, time to party. Met up with some friends (Lloyd and Taco) at one of the student housing places for a party that wasn’t really going to start for several hours (it was 4pm) and started drinking goon. Given how little I’d eaten it probably wasn’t the wisest decision. Either way, from then on it’s a whole heap of *scene missing*. The next thing I know I’m wandering through a forest outside Flogsta (another student housing place) trying to get to one of the parties there. I must have fallen over as I was lying on my back and every time I tried to stand up my left foot was in agony. Hmmm…

Sunday morning. I wake up on the couch in my room (conveniently recently acquired) feeling weird and in a lot of pain. Try to stand. AARGH FUCK AARGHHH can’t put weight on my left foot. Back to sleep. Wake up a few hours later and face the reality that I need medical attention. But have no ability to walk or access to money. Shiiit. Ring Lloyd. Help a retard out? Taxi to three different places, finally get to the correct emergency room. Whilst waiting we try to piece the previous evening together. A phone call with Taco reveals that collectively our last solid memory of the evening is pretty much at the same point: drinking games with an American girl at around 8.30. Messaging others we work out that we all made it to the second party, but separately. None of us remember being there. Was our goon spiked?

A few hours and a couple of x-rays later it’s revealed I fractured one of my metatarsals (I thiiink. The guy wasn’t very forthcoming with the info about what I’d actually done). Aaaand now I’m in a cast for 2 weeks. Just when I’m supposed to be travelling with Steve. Grreaaaat.

So now I’m up waiting for 9am Monday in Aus so I can call my bank to try and get a new card asap. And I feel like I should be a lot shittier than I am. But the reality is I’m in Sweden. Goddamn Sweden. On exchange. And my best mate from Aus has just arrived. And we’re gonna go kick around Europe for a month. And we’re going to a sweet music festival a few days after I’m allowed to ditch the cast. And I get to stay here for another semester. And I just can’t be arsed being pissed off.

Although I might not be so level-headed after my first full day of trying to get around Uppsala with crutches tomorrow. We’ll see…

Valborg'd

Sat, 09 Jul 2011 18:53:27 +0200

So, some background on Valborg. Pay particular attention to the stuff about Uppsala.

Pardon the vague hyperbole, but yesterday was one of the best days of my life. It went a little something like this:

Was supposed to be up at 7 for a champagne breakfast down by the river, but owing to a rather big previous evening (Kvalborg) and a phone stupidly left on silent (and recently dropped in a glass of cider) I woke up fully dressed, with a vibrating pocket, at 8.15. Panicking slightly I jumped in the shower, threw my booze into a backpack and walked into town to try and find my mates. Coming into town was crazy. I knew Valborg was supposed to be a big deal but there were people everywhere, not just students, but old people and little kids and families. People were staking out spots next to the river to watch the boat races and I bumped into loads of friendos, many similarly hungover as yours truly. I met up with Lloyd, a friend who I like to describe as my bad influence, donned my Soviet party hat and cracked my first cider for the day. Didn’t actually manage to see much of the boat races, but I could hear the crowd reactions. Frustrating. After a while, and a few more drinks, we met up with some more people and walked to ekonomikum parken, the big grassy area outside the university’s Economics department. It was incredible. I’ve never seen so many people picnicking at once. Thousands of people, mainly students, squished together, getting their booze on, enjoying the sun when it decided to show itself. It was only 11am and I was already having a great day.

Ekonomikum. Crazy. (Nicked this photo from my friend Shereen)

Sooooo after a few more drinks we decided to work out what else to do for the afternoon. The champagnegalopp are events hosted by some of the nations, and basically involve buying champagne and spraying it all over your mates. Lloyd, me and another friend, Sten, decided we’d try and get into the galopp at Snerikes nation. The line was huuuuuuge, but after a bit of a wait (45 mins? I dunno) we paid our 100SEK entry fee and were stunned at what lay ahead. A few hundred people were running around, chasing each other with bottles of champagne and generally winning at life. We bought a few bottles and stood in the sun, drinking and inadvertently getting sprayed by everyone else. Soon we bumped into my Swedish buddy, Julia, who was horrified at how dry we were, grabbed our bottles and supersoaked us in champagne. From then on it was madness. A good proportion of our time at the galopp involved Lloyd and I standing there screaming, “WHAT IS THIS? WHAT. THE. FUCK?? WHAAAAAAAAAAT????” and grinning like idiots. I mean seriously, how fucking decadent is that? I couldn’t stop laughing. Even now, I can’t even convey how stupidly, retardedly awesome my afternoon was.

If I were smart I’d have taken a camera to capture the awesome then put the photo here. Instead you can just imagine a blonde retard saturated in champagne. Cool.

At this point we paused for food and tried to get vaguely warm. Lloyd and I collected our booze from his buddy’s house and decided to check out the barbecue that was nearby. It seemed to be winding down and we were freezing, so we walked to his place at Flogsta (the main student accommodation place where a big party was planned for the evening), feeling distinctly haggard. Here we found his corridor filled with out-of-towners killing time before the roof party. To try and dispel some of them we decided to stage a domestic, bursting out his room, screaming at each other, slamming doors. Holy shit, it was the second most fun thing I’d done all day. Seriously, very cathartic. Some more friends swung by and we moved up to the roof to check out the party. It wasn’t amazing, but I was in the mood to get my rave on. Within the crowd it became pretty easy to tell who was from Uppsala and who wasn’t, so I started introducing myself as Stella from Russia (my hat was the ultimate conversation starter) and just lying for the fun of it. Trying to head back inside was crazy, there were soooo many people trying to get up onto the roof, so I engaged bitch-mode and just pushed and yelled at people for the hell of it.

Raving on the roof (photo nicked from Lloyd)

So from here the evening kinda descends into a boozy haze and eating popcorn out of a massive shopping bag, then sleeping on the floor for 11 hours, but I regret absolutely nothing from yesterday. I spent too much money, I drank too much, I ate too little and I didn’t clean my teeth, but I’d do it all again tomorrow if I could.

That was my Valborg.

Never Gonna Give You Up(psala)

Sat, 09 Jul 2011 18:52:33 +0200

I just realised I haven’t written one of these in nearly 2 months. I guess it’s time for another shitty pun be-titled update.

Brace yourselves.

Ok where I left off last time I’d been living a pretty hectic life. Gasquing, Arctic Circling, Stockholming, I was vaguely busy. First weekend of March I finally left Sweden. Caity and I jumped on a plane for a lazy one hour flight to Copenhagen to find out what the world looked like not covered in snow. Because it had been a disgustingly early flight (7.30am) we were checked in at our hotel and wandering the streets of the city before 10am. Crazy. Straight away it was obvious we were no longer in Sweden; most men over the age of 25 walking around seemed to have a cheeky stubby in their hand, the temperature was ABOVE zero and the people overall just seemed less attractive (I’m sorry, but Sweden is ridiculous when it comes to the proportion of population that is unfairly attractive). We moseyed up through the main shopping precinct, laughing at signs (there seems to be a lot more funny words in Danish despite being stupidly similar to Swedish, eg. bog, kunst) and checked out Nyhaven (the super pretty/touristy bit on the water), then wandered up to see the Little Mermaid statue, via some castles and churches n shit. Then onto the Statens Museum for Kunst (haaaaa), which was pretty cool. I dunno, there’s photos of all this stuff. We were just stoked to be out in the sun in above-zero temperatures, not surrounded by snow, and loving the fact that Copenhagen is fullllll of beautiful parks. Defs going back now that it’s getting warm. We made it back to the hotel and slept like a bitch for a few hours, owing to the 4.45am wake up and the unexpected mini party Jonas and his brothers brought to my room late the night before. Back out and about that night we found a cafe that made me an aahhhhhmazing sandwich and then a bar that was doing relatively cheap cocktails (I think I sampled all. Their mojito was killer). The next day my left shoe decided to fall apart so we spent ages trying to get shoes for my man feet (red vans. winner) [Here I’ll add a warning: never buy “superglue” from shitty shops next to shitty lidls because undoubtedly it’ll be ultra shitty and scary men in mcdonalds will laugh at you whilst you attack the tube trying to get the already solidified glue out of the tube]. Ahhh what then? Oh more sightseeing, checked out Christiania (St Andrews times a million. Awesome), still no sign of Princess Mary, so more cocktails and a maccas run. And I got sick. Booooo. Jumped on the train to Malmö next day, checked into our hostel, I was feeling increasingly like death warmed up. Walked around town, recognising places from Emma (high school friend)’s photos from when she was on exchange there. More of the same the next day. I dunno. I was pretty keen to get home, what with feeling like shit n all. Good weekend though.

Aaaaaaaaand that was the last time I left Uppsala before April 18. But I did shit in between. Sorta.

I did a whole subject (Genocide and Mass Violence in the Modern World. Interesting but pretty intense given it was all in a month. I mean, I had to go to class more than once a week). I’m looking through my diary at the moment to try and work out what I’ve been up to. “Whiskey thingy”, “Tea Party”, “Pres @ Lloyd’s”, “St Patty’s”, “Gasque After Party @ Kalmar”, “Washing”. That was one week. I wish I could just spew the memories out of my brain and onto the screen because I’ve been having quite a dandy time. Honourable mentions: Beer Olympics (Team Straaaayyaaa!), Jonas’s birthday, and the four days before I went Baltic-side. I’d go into more detail, but I know you’re reading this Mum and I don’t want you to get on the first plane to Sweden and drag me kicking and screaming back to the Antipodes. You only live once, yeah?

Anyhoo, last week I did the whole travel thing a bit better. Baltic fun times. Monday I was supposed to meet Caity, Kiri (Aus) and Mo (NZ) at the station at 7am or something godawful and I’d already been at a lazy picnic Sunday arvo (yeah spring finally decided to rock up) and imbibed more than I’d intended so Lloyd (Aus. Danger.) and I decided the easiest way for me to make it on time would be to pull an all nighter in the streets of Uppsala (an evening in which we struggled to comprehend our current amazing realities). We made it to Riga (Latvia), checked into our awesome, orange hostel, Friendly Frank’s, and got us some free awesome beer. We wandered the streets of Riga, trying to find some awesome market or something. Not even Caity’s mad map reading skillz could help us that afternoon. I don’t remember too much from the first day. I’d been awake for over 30 hours and was s.t.rugglin’. After some Latvian fare for dins I crashed hard. The girls went to some bar, but found Riga to be rather quiet on a Monday evening. Tuesday we went to an amazing and CHEAP bakery for brekky and went shopping. In the arvo we met up with our tour group which was to be led for the first couple of days by Matt, an Aussie guy who was literally on his first day of the job. Actually half the group was Australian with a couple of Kiwis, two French, two Canadian and an Austrian. A super bubbly tour guide came along to do a walking tour of Riga, which is a super pretty city that was the first Eastern Bloc city to get maccas. Awesome. I went into the most soundproof church ever (right next to a carnival with crazy strong bass, couldn’t hear any of it inside the church). That evening we chilled out in the hostel bar drinking super cheap beers and played a few rounds of hillbilly (greatest/easiest drinking game). Wednesday morning we were on a bus to Tallinn (Estonia) for four hours. Before we left Riga I was keen to get rid of all my Lats so I bought as much food as possible at the bus terminal. Mistake, as I found out later in the day. The bus trip was sweet because we saw a shiteload of those creepy Soviet buildings as well as the super pretty scenery. Tallinn seemed a bit rougher than Riga, but Matt showed us around the Old Town (medieval sorta thing. but genuine. mindblowing how old some of this shit is) and after a bit I was like “ohhhhhh i can see why you’d live here”. Just a really cool city from what I saw. Huge, amazing, cheap pancakes for lunch, back to hostel and DRAMA i started feeling like death. Stabbing pains in stomach… munted my guts out. NEVER BUYING DODGY PIZZA FROM OLD LADIES AT BUS TERMINALS WHO THINK I AM RUSSIAN EVER AGAIN. I was contemplating not going out that night, but rallied and headed to the bar with the rest of the group. DANGER. Bar. Empty stomach. I press on regardless. The bar was super awesome, it specialised in shots (super, super cheap shots) and it happened to be where Matt worked soooo to describe the drinks as free-flowing would be the understatement of the year. I think we decided to try and pull an all-nighter in order to make the early ferry in the morning. Anyway so then it’s the next day and I’m lying in a park in Helsinki feeling… ahhh, average. Got sunburnt. Winner. New tour guide, Christof, gave us a bunch of super important official bits and pieces. Jumped on a massive cruise ship that afternoon, woke up the next morning IN GODDAMN RUSSIA. Seriously. I still can’t believe I went to Russia. Ahhh so awesome. Off the ship, into a minibus, cruising the streets of St. Petersburg. We were definitely not in Kansas anymore. I think I’m just gonna have to upload the photos because it’s difficult to describe those three days. No one does grandiose like the Russians (I say from such an informed, well-travelled perspective). CASTLES EVERYWHERE. AND HUGE SQUARES. AND STATUES. I’m surprised I didn’t injure my neck trying to look at everything while on the bus. The city is goddamn huge. Our guide, Tatiana, was craaaazy knowledgeable about the city. But more importantly, she showed us the bakery which we returned to each day of our stay. Drooling now. Anyway, I went to the ballet. In Russia. I swear, it’s the classiest thing I’ve ever done or will ever do. Russian men all have similar haircuts. Terrible, terrible haircuts. And hardly anyone speaks English. And good luck interpreting anyyyyything that’s written. And you’ll need even more luck with your cash. You only get given large denominations but no one’ll touch them with a 10 foot pole. Irritating. Second day the sun came out and it was such an awesome transformation, especially in a city where there is GOLD EVERYWHERE. We went to a castle that to describe as opulent would be like describing Warren Buffet as wealthy. At some point I bought an awesome hat. And some sweet Soviet anti-vice propaganda posters. Final day there we kicked around the Hermitage museum, which has so much stuff apparently it’d take 11 years to see it all. We had a few hours. It was mindblowing. Argh. The paintings alone. Argh. Just crazy. I mean I was in a room full of goddamn Picasso paintings. And another ROOM full of Matisse’s paintings. And then a room covered in gold. Like, really? REALLY? Sunday night we jumped on the boat and cruised back to Helsinki, but by that point we were all ready to go straight home. However we had the day in Helsinki, which turned out to be really pretty (I’d missed it the first time round, *cough*), but everything was closed due to being Easter Monday. Still, we went to a really nice cafe, then had icecream and lay on the grass. Beautiful, lazy day. Another night on a boat, bought my booze duty free for Valborg and then cruised into Stockholm yesterday morning to discover that over the week the trees did the green thing and Sweden is now stupidly prettty. Ahhhh so this is why Spring is a big deal.

So yep, that was my Easter trip. Solid. I arrived home to find a kitchen full of dirty dishes and no food. Well apart from an amusingly mouldy cucumber and some frozen bread. Winner. I’m failing a bit at the whole adult thing lately. It doesn’t help that Spring is now seriously here and it doesn’t get dark til really late and its shorts weather so the temptation to be lazy and get your vitamin D on is overwhelming. I can’t remember the last time I went to class. Hmmm. Eh ah well. This weekend is gonna be crazy. It’s Valborg (wikipedia that shit). It’s basically this massssssive party to welcome spring or something, I can’t remember. But it’s gonna be, well, yeah, yep. Like I’ve said, I love Uppsala, I love the exchange student life. I love it so much I’ve extended my stay for another semester. Yep.

Ohhh and Dad I got another piercing today. Just a cartilage one. I can imagine you squirming right now.

Ohhh, ohhhh and I’m going to Croatia in two weeks.

Well this has been dense.