Alas, my joyous return to the US won’t be as early as planned. It seems that the visa application will be processed around the middle of September, so I will be there some time in the middle of October, perhaps.
But then, I really will. And in the meanwhile, I will be able to work a little bit more, and mainly help sort out this mess of a house.
This needs to be said in both Swedish and English. So I will.
Swedish:
De senaste månaderna (och med det menar jag sommaren) har jag tillbringat i mitt föräldrahem i ett litet samhälle strax utanför den stora metropolen Jönköping. Förutom att planera en väns bröllopsfest (grattis, Aili och Rickard. Igen.) och inneha ett måttligt roligt sommarjobb, har jag roat mig med att kartlägga stans caféer, och då speciellt kvalitén på den smaksatta latten. Jag har bott tre år i Tacoma, söder om Seattle, en del av USA där kaffe inte är kaffe om det kan beställas med mindre en fem ord. Min vanligaste beställning av kaffe där löd “I’d like a medium caramel soy latte.” Latte med kolasmak och sojamjölk, med andra ord, och mitt test av kaffet i Sverige har bestått i till vilken grad detta går att få, och hur det sen smakar. Förutom Jönköping har jag även fikat runt lite i Malmö (dock endast två ställen) och Lund, och tror mig därmed, helt ovetenskaplig, ha något att säga om Sveriges kaffeutbud.
Först tar vi generella tendenser. Det känns som vi fortfarande har lite problem med valfrihet i det här landet – jag minns en jämförelse mellan en amerikans och en svensks glasskiosk i en illustration ur en lärobok i engelska på högstadiet: amerikanen sålde trehundra olika sorters glass, åtta olika toppings och tio sorters strössel. Svensken hade vanilj och choklad. Nu är detta kanske lite av en orättvis generalisering, det har blivit lite bättre på glassfronten, och även kaffeutbudet har gått uppåt (för tio år sidan kunde man inte få tag på en latte utanför Stockholm) men det är fortfarande skralt med valfriheten. De flesta ställen har bryggkaffe, cappuccino, espresso och osmaksatt latte, men där tar det stopp. Eller så finns det en meny med några kaffedrinkar, oftast en mocca, en mintlatte och en americano. Och så var det mjölken. Jag har fortfarande inte hittat ett ställe i Jönköping där jag kan få sojamjölk i mitt kaffe. På f.d. Kafé Troll på A6 center (jag vet inte vad det heter nu, men det är INTE Gasellen jag menar) tog det fem minuters dividerande med den halvdåliga baristan (nä, de flesta kaféanställda jag sett kan inte kallas det) för att komma fram till att de bara hade standardmjölk, och på Bernhards City hade de bara speciellt kaffemjölk. Trevligt, men borde man inte ha något att säga till om som kund? På Kahls té- och kaffehandel (som för övrigt hade ett mycket bra urval av smaker och kaffesorter) var den mycket trevliga och dugliga baristan ärlig nog att erkänna att det inte var mycket idé att erbjuda sojamjölk när bara en kund sisådär varannan månad vill ha det. Men lätt- eller minimjöl då? Jag påminns om den gigantiska menyn på Coffee Messiah i Seattle: 3%, 1% eller fettfri mjölk, låglaktosmjölk, soja, havre eller rismjölk. Eller half and half (hälften grädde, hälften mjölk) om man inte var rädd om figuren. För att göra kunden rådvill? Inte alls, bara för att se till att alla får sitt kaffe som de vill ha det. Och det är inte det jag begär av lilla Jönköping, men man kanske skulle kunna ha möjligheten att få lättmjölk? På Espresso House i Lund och Malmö får man sojamjölk, men det kostar tre kronor extra. Varför då? Dessutom är servicen på EH vid stationen i Lund under all kritik – jag fick vänta i tjugo minuter, trots att det inte var speciellt fullt. EH vid Sydsvenskan (precis bredvid Lundagård, mittemot Filosofen) har å andra sidan optimal service och den godaste latten jag smakat i Sverige. Synd att det kostar extra, bara.
Är då allting bättre med amerikanskt kaffe? Nej, inte temperaturen. Jag har inte bränt mig på mitt kaffe mer än en gång i Sverige, i USA har jag sällan fått en kopp som går att dricka de närmaste tio minuterna. Way to go, Sweden.
Jönköping:
f.d Kafé Troll, A6: Dåligt urval, endast standardmjölk, kan inte komponera egna variationer. Min latte hade för lite syrop, min mammas white chocolate mocca var på tok för söt.
IKEA kafé, A6: Dåligt urval, två av fem syrops slut. Dåligt med syrop i latten – tråkig smak. Bättre kan ni!
Mackmakeriet: Inte kollat den här sommaren, men sist jag prövade var det mycket gott. Ingen info om mjölk. Chaien mkt. god, dock.
Bernhards City: bara kaffemjölk (fet) och dåligt med syrop i latten. Annars bra urval.
Kaffebönan: Bra, dock ingen sojamjölk.
Lund: Espresso House alltid bra smak, dock kostade soja extra. Undvik EH nere vid stationen. EH vid Lundagård bäst i test.
Malmö: Espresso House helt OK, Wayne’s Coffee hade inte soja, handlade inte där. Båda på Södra Förstadsgatan.
I Stockholm minns jag att det låg ett trevlig ställe på Västerlånggatan, mittemot SF-bokhandeln, och att de hade både bra kaffe och goda bagels, men om de finns kvar vet jag inte.
English:
For the last few months, I have been residing in my parents’ house outside of the city of Jönköping in southern Sweden. Besides working and planning a friend’s wedding, I have been trying to get a decent latte, and in the process had to try a whole bunch of cafes. Since I’ve lived in Tacoma, WA, for three years, my standards are sort of high. There, my standard order was a medium caramel soy latte, and my text of Swedish cafes have been based on the degree to which I can get that here. Yes, Swedish cafes. I’ve been visiting a few places in Malmö and Lund last year, and based on that experience cometh the following opinions about Swedish coffee.
Let’s deal with general tendencies first. I have the feeling that situations where we have to choose make Swedes uncomfortable –a few years ago, more than five kinds of ice cream was unusual, and when I talk about Baskin Robbins’ constant 31, I still get odd looks from my countrymen. But we’ve gotten better at it; lattes have really only been available outside of Stockholm for maximum ten years. However, the whole choosing thing is still difficult. Most places have drip, cappuccino, espresso and unflavored latte, but that’s it. Or perhaps they have an additional meny with “specials”; a mocca, a mint latte and an americano. And then there’s the milk. I haven’t found a single place in Jönköping (pop. about 81 000) where I can get soy milk in my coffee. Most simply have Swedish standard milk (3%) (an amusing name; the most purchased milk is the “medium milk”, 1.5%, and everyone I know call “standard milk” “fat milk”) or a newly released kind of milk made especially for coffee and sold only to cafes. It, too, is 3%. But there is no opportunity to choose. One barista, who was unusually knowledgeable and nice, admitted that there was no point in having soy milk when no only one customer every few months wanted it. But other percentages? I am not expecting something like Seattle’s Coffee Messiah, with their almost ten choices, but in my opinion, offering non-fat really isn’t too much.
In Jönköping, try something other than a latte. When in Malmö or Lund, try Espresso House, which is a growing chain of cafes with their own syrup brand, but avoid the EH by Lund station. I am sure that EH are good in Stockholm and Gothenburg as well, and in Stockholm there used to be a terrific place in the Old Town, on Västerlånggatan just opposite the Science Fiction book store. It might still be there, or it might not. But it used to have terrific coffee and lovely toasted bagels.
There is one way in which Swedish coffee is better than the American kind – it is far less hot when you get it. I’ve burned myself once on Swedish coffee, and more than I can count on coffee in the US. Even when I asked to have it cooler. Way to go, small dark country in the far north!
(oh, and soon, it won’t matter. In a few months’ time, I will be living in Seattle again. And I promise I will be frequenting Coffee Messiah.)
I rather frequently hear people talk about the innocence of childhood. The “I want to be six again” poemesque thing is a well-known, nostalgic declaration of loss of innocence. People grieve that they have lost the ability to be happy over small thing, to have no real worries. The weight of income tax, getting groceries and affording a vacation is heavy on their shoulders. To declare that one wants to be a kid again, though, is ridiculous. Not only are a child’s problem as real and terrifying to them as income tax is to an adult, but that “innocence” if always topped with a fundamental powerlessness related to fundamentals of life.
I am glad I am an adult.. I live among mostly civilized individuals; if someone attacks me on the way from work, they are breaking the law and the police will, hopefully, recognize that. When I was in primary school, I was afraid of going home from school every day. An older girl, perhaps by four years, had decided it was a fun sport to catch me and pull my hair. All her friends, and mine, agreed. After all, I reacted. I cried and whimpered. And the teachers and my mother sighed and said I oughtn’t encourage her by reacting. Who would say something like that to an adult? “Well, I know your neighbor meets you in the stairwell and hit you every evening, but it’s basically your own fault, you oughtn’t be such an amusing person to make fun of.”
I’ll take income tax before that any day.
I get to cook and choose my own food. I never have to eat spare ribs or liver again, and if I don’t feel like pasta today, I will eat something else. I discovered a year or two ago that it wasn’t as exciting to eat certain meals as it used to be, and it took me a while to realize that it was because I didn’t have to suffer two weeks of food I didn’t like (yes, I am a picky eater) before getting my favorite. I make that choice now, and although I might have to compromise with a partner or friend, no one puts a plate before me with “eat this, or go to bed without dinner.”
I wear the clothes I like. Perhaps not to work, but no one makes me wear the itchy, blue jumper that I hate.
It’s worth cramps.
I pick my own bedtime. Granted, not always with the best result (getting up at six after a night at the computer? Not so great.) If I can’t sleep, I can stay up. If I want to nap, no one will ask if I am feeling sick. And related, I can stay indoors on nice days, or take a walk in the rain. I can midnight run to Crispy Creme. Well, I can’t. But if I had a license and a car, and if I was in the US, I could.
I can read. I don’t know what I did before I read, but I must have spent hours looking into empty space. Books are my friends, and I don’t rely on others to read them for me.
For the most part, people take me seriously even when they can’t help me. When they don’t, I generally have somewhere else to turn. Personally, I find that worth the price of not being able to see, that that chair is really a spaceship.
This is going to be a text about how Lucas is fantastic.
(For new readers, Lucas is my boyfriend of almost four years, fiancé of almost three, and come September 20th, hopefully my husband. It depends a little on whether immigrations have finished their paperwork by then.)
Now, he really is fantastic. I’ve often been told by friend (and acquaintances of both me and him) what a catch I’ve made, and I have. The guy is fantastic. If not for other reasons, for putting up with me and my somewhat confusing and chaotic existence and prickly personality.
I am what one would call high maintenance. I am very emotional, I pout when I don’t get 100% of people’s attentions, and while I don’t have diagnosable anxiety attacks, it’s pretty damn close. Of course, I am not exactly sure what it is to be ‘low maintenance’; I associate the expression with someone who leaves her boyfriend alone with a beer and Monday night football, gives him his weekly fuck and a few blow jobs, cooks his dinner, otherwise leaving him alone. That’s not the girlfriend I’d want to be, and nothing could make me, barring a lobotomy. But as a rather rabid feminist, I have set the requirements for a good partner rather high, and yet Lucas manages to fulfil them. He isn’t into porn (for, I think, the same reasons I am not) and he washes his own socks. Granted, he was about as spoilt as I was when he started college, bringing his dirty laundry home when he visited over Thanksgivings, but I think it was less due to laziness and more in order to save those magic quarter. During our almost four years, I have washed for him twice. Both times because I was doing laundry anyway. Both times he thanked me for it. I don’t imagine that it will stay that way once we live together, as it would be ridiculous to keep separate laundry piles, but it’s a good sign. Four years of doing his own laundry will hopefully save me from the forty years of slave labor I see my mother perform.
When he was in high school, during a trip to Seattle, most of the guys in his group went to a striptease club. Lucas and another guy decided that they weren’t interested (I can’t remember what they did instead, but I imagine it had to do with video games.) He told me about this in the beginning of our relationship, and I can’t explain how many points he won there. Fantastic.
Three years ago, I went on the birth control pill. However, I got off of it fairly soon, and it fucked my body up quite bad. Most of my mucus membranes were damaged, and I couldn’t sit properly for half a year. Sex was completely out of the question for almost a full year, and still has to be limited; in fact, the psychological consequences of the pain still leaves me with issues. I only just recently could start wearing tight pants. If this would have happened now, I would have been less surprised by Lucas’ resilience, but it was when had only been together for a year. He could have ditched me within a month; how many twenty year old guys stay with a girlfriend from whom they’re getting no sex (if they don’t have religio-ideological reasons)? Not many.
I spend hours and hours at the computer, reading and writing blogs, talking to people, and reloading my LiveJournal friends list. Checking email. Designing something. Reloading my livejournal friends list. Lucas puts up with it, even when it annoys him. After he has spent five more minutes than I’d like on a video game, I pout (I should mention that we most often manage to cooperate on this; he plays his video games while I am online, and they don’t often collide.)
I fangirl, and squee, and freak out over ridiculous, geeky thing. He thinks it’s cute. I’ve never heard him loudly proclaim that some chick is hot, or caught him giving anyone a once-over while we’ve been out.
He doesn’t bring me flowers. He gives me teddy bats, DVDs and action figures. I’ve never ever received a generic present from Lucas. Well, he has given me flowers twice; two black silk roses in Valentine’s Day, and a bouquet of white lilies as a welcome-back present my third fall in the US. But never, ever, anything generic. When I was doing volunteering for a class, and got home around 1 p.m., tired and cranky, he had been to the mall to pick up a t-shirt I had been coveting for quite some time. He feeds me skittles. He calls me his lady Stardust. I tell you, he’s fantastic.
