The longest train station name in the world is “Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwyll-llantisiliogogogoch” the station is found on the Isle of Anglesey in Wales. Translated it means “the
Who knew?!
~sjt
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Train Station Trivia
Who knew?!
~sjt
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Communists, Genetics, and Italian Diabetics
On Saturday we took a trip to Brno with friends from Prague. Time with these friends is always fun. They are natives of the Czech Republic, raised and educated here before the Velvet Revolution of 1989. Part of what makes visiting with them fun is that they offer a new perspective on the history I learned growing up in the United States. This week’s educational opportunity: political elections in the Czech Republic.
Five parties dominate the political scene in the Czech Republic: Civil Democrats, Social Democrats, Christian Democrats, the Green Party, and the Communists. Our friends are hoping that in this year’s election the Civil Democrats will outpace the Communists. Apparently there are still large numbers of people in the Czech Republic—mostly those of an older generation—that look back on the communist years and see something better than what they have now. This is especially true of those who worked labour jobs: factory workers, farmers, and construction workers. In the communist era these occupations paid well, for the government valued basic labour as the foundation of society and economy. Alas, educated professions like physicians and engineers were not looked after so well; they fare much better under a government supporting a free-market capitalist structure. (Our friends are engineers who see the great improvements in life since the Velvet Revolution.)
We spent the afternoon wandering around Brno, the central town in the region known as Moravia. The city is an industrial centre but also boasts many historic buildings and beautiful churches. For us it was fun to have locals (our friends come from Brno) give us the “real tour” of the town. I had hoped to see some traces of the radical reformation that gave birth to the denomination known as the “Moravians.” Alas, though their name does come from this region, their geographic traces have faded. The trail starts in Germany now, where Count von Zinzendorf lived with this sect after they fled Moravia in the fifteenth century. But not all history was lost to us on this trip.
In central Brno there is a monastery with a large lawn in the middle of it. On that lawn—which was a garden at the time—the monk Gregor Mendel conducted his experiments with pea plants. His gardening and observation established the foundations for the present understanding of genes and inheritance. I got to stand where all that “AA, Aa, aa” stuff from my biology classes began. Very cool.
So we had lunch, toured the town, had coffee, said good-bye to our friends, and hopped on the train back to Prague. It’s a three hour train ride that, unless you have a good book, can be relatively boring. Well, you can have a book or a diabetic episode. Take your pick.
About an hour into the ride I heard a shout from the end of the car near the washroom. I looked down the aisle and saw an arm sticking out, near the floor. As I stood up and moved toward the fallen man I realized that he was one of the three Italian men sitting in the group of seats right next to us. I summoned one of his friends to follow me.
The man had passed out at the washroom door. They didn’t speak English and my Italian is horrible, so my attempts to offer assistance were largely unhelpful. But he was conscious now and hadn’t hit his head, so things seemed alright. I took our water bottle over to him as he lay in the end of the train car, but he shook his head. He and his friends fumbled with words until they arrived at “sugar.” I proffered an apple we had, but he insisted, “Sugar, sugar.” (Glucose, I guess, not fructose. Isn’t that the same in Italian?) It wasn’t until one of his friends went to the dining car and came back with three packets of granulated sugar that I understood: he needed the real stuff, straight up. Our best guess is that the guy was diabetic and hadn’t eaten for a while. But after some time with his feet up, some sugar and some water he was able to make it back to his seat. Two hours later he had made it back to Prague well enough, but he looked like the episode had spoiled his journey. I’m glad it wasn’t worse; I don’t think the train crew includes a physician.
Now we’ve seen the capitals of both major regions in the Czech Republic: Prague in Bohemia and Brno in Moravia. With some politics, history, and excitement along the way.
~emrys
Five parties dominate the political scene in the Czech Republic: Civil Democrats, Social Democrats, Christian Democrats, the Green Party, and the Communists. Our friends are hoping that in this year’s election the Civil Democrats will outpace the Communists. Apparently there are still large numbers of people in the Czech Republic—mostly those of an older generation—that look back on the communist years and see something better than what they have now. This is especially true of those who worked labour jobs: factory workers, farmers, and construction workers. In the communist era these occupations paid well, for the government valued basic labour as the foundation of society and economy. Alas, educated professions like physicians and engineers were not looked after so well; they fare much better under a government supporting a free-market capitalist structure. (Our friends are engineers who see the great improvements in life since the Velvet Revolution.)
We spent the afternoon wandering around Brno, the central town in the region known as Moravia. The city is an industrial centre but also boasts many historic buildings and beautiful churches. For us it was fun to have locals (our friends come from Brno) give us the “real tour” of the town. I had hoped to see some traces of the radical reformation that gave birth to the denomination known as the “Moravians.” Alas, though their name does come from this region, their geographic traces have faded. The trail starts in Germany now, where Count von Zinzendorf lived with this sect after they fled Moravia in the fifteenth century. But not all history was lost to us on this trip.
In central Brno there is a monastery with a large lawn in the middle of it. On that lawn—which was a garden at the time—the monk Gregor Mendel conducted his experiments with pea plants. His gardening and observation established the foundations for the present understanding of genes and inheritance. I got to stand where all that “AA, Aa, aa” stuff from my biology classes began. Very cool.
So we had lunch, toured the town, had coffee, said good-bye to our friends, and hopped on the train back to Prague. It’s a three hour train ride that, unless you have a good book, can be relatively boring. Well, you can have a book or a diabetic episode. Take your pick.
About an hour into the ride I heard a shout from the end of the car near the washroom. I looked down the aisle and saw an arm sticking out, near the floor. As I stood up and moved toward the fallen man I realized that he was one of the three Italian men sitting in the group of seats right next to us. I summoned one of his friends to follow me.
The man had passed out at the washroom door. They didn’t speak English and my Italian is horrible, so my attempts to offer assistance were largely unhelpful. But he was conscious now and hadn’t hit his head, so things seemed alright. I took our water bottle over to him as he lay in the end of the train car, but he shook his head. He and his friends fumbled with words until they arrived at “sugar.” I proffered an apple we had, but he insisted, “Sugar, sugar.” (Glucose, I guess, not fructose. Isn’t that the same in Italian?) It wasn’t until one of his friends went to the dining car and came back with three packets of granulated sugar that I understood: he needed the real stuff, straight up. Our best guess is that the guy was diabetic and hadn’t eaten for a while. But after some time with his feet up, some sugar and some water he was able to make it back to his seat. Two hours later he had made it back to Prague well enough, but he looked like the episode had spoiled his journey. I’m glad it wasn’t worse; I don’t think the train crew includes a physician.
Now we’ve seen the capitals of both major regions in the Czech Republic: Prague in Bohemia and Brno in Moravia. With some politics, history, and excitement along the way.
~emrys
Beer Tour III
My sister-in-law has a book entitled, “1,000 Things To Do Before You Die.” Two of those things are in the Czech Republic. One of those things is U Fleku in Prague.
The Czech Republic is full of “pivnices,” or beer halls, which usually serve a home brew along with the classic favourites of the nation. Some of them only serve their home brew, which means that patrons come just for the specialty beer and the atmosphere of the pivnice. U Fleku is one of those places.
We sat down at the long table and immediately a server brought us each a pint of dark beer. That’s right: we didn’t order them. It’s assumed that if you show up, you want beer. So they give it to you. In fact, they keep giving it to you. Have you ever wondered what those cardboard squares in bars are meant for? They’re not originally meant to put under your beer. They’re meant to put over your empty glass to tell the pivnice staff you don’t want any more beer.
The U Fleku brew is very dark but does not have the bitterness of a Newcastle or a Guinness. In fact, it’s rather sweet for a beer. Quite good.
They (several servers tend the large dining rooms squeezed together in what seems like a hot cellar) passed by to throw down two menus for the six of us. After a few moments another waiter appeared, tablet in hand, to take our order. I think he greeted us with one word before standing expectantly with pen in hand. We stumbled through our half-Czech, half-English orders. The waiter scribbled. With brusque deft strokes he snatched the menus from our grasp and disappeared.
In a few minutes we were feasting on the Czech classics of meat, potatoes, dumplings, gravy, and kraut. The sound of a two-man Oompah band echoed in from the next dining room, where a baritone and an accordion serenaded other patrons. Several languages thickened the air with conversation. And the U Fleku beer flowed. For a unique and quintessential Czech experience, it doesn’t get much better than U Fleku, although 95% of their patrons are now tourists. I guess that’s what happens when you make it onto the list of the top 1,000 things in the world.
We’ve been to U Fleku. Only 999 things left to do before we die.
~emrys
The Czech Republic is full of “pivnices,” or beer halls, which usually serve a home brew along with the classic favourites of the nation. Some of them only serve their home brew, which means that patrons come just for the specialty beer and the atmosphere of the pivnice. U Fleku is one of those places.
We sat down at the long table and immediately a server brought us each a pint of dark beer. That’s right: we didn’t order them. It’s assumed that if you show up, you want beer. So they give it to you. In fact, they keep giving it to you. Have you ever wondered what those cardboard squares in bars are meant for? They’re not originally meant to put under your beer. They’re meant to put over your empty glass to tell the pivnice staff you don’t want any more beer.
The U Fleku brew is very dark but does not have the bitterness of a Newcastle or a Guinness. In fact, it’s rather sweet for a beer. Quite good.
They (several servers tend the large dining rooms squeezed together in what seems like a hot cellar) passed by to throw down two menus for the six of us. After a few moments another waiter appeared, tablet in hand, to take our order. I think he greeted us with one word before standing expectantly with pen in hand. We stumbled through our half-Czech, half-English orders. The waiter scribbled. With brusque deft strokes he snatched the menus from our grasp and disappeared.
In a few minutes we were feasting on the Czech classics of meat, potatoes, dumplings, gravy, and kraut. The sound of a two-man Oompah band echoed in from the next dining room, where a baritone and an accordion serenaded other patrons. Several languages thickened the air with conversation. And the U Fleku beer flowed. For a unique and quintessential Czech experience, it doesn’t get much better than U Fleku, although 95% of their patrons are now tourists. I guess that’s what happens when you make it onto the list of the top 1,000 things in the world.
We’ve been to U Fleku. Only 999 things left to do before we die.
~emrys
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Ja jedla šneci translated: I ate snails
Thursday, June 01, 2006
A Word in Service to the Public
I recently received an email from a friend—you know the kind—asking me to “sign” by attaching my name and location, then to send the email on to all my friends. The email represents a situation which I would deem a legitimate cause for reflection, and possibly for action. The email exhorts the 100th person to send the list compiled thus far on to someone who presumably will be impressed by the long enumeration of support. It seems to be a good idea; a way to use the technology of email for good ends. However, as I perused the list of names I happened upon a few questions.
Were this petition with its 100 (or 200 or 300) names to reach someone in a position of power or responsibility for the aforementioned cause, how would she check to ensure that the names were real?
How would she know that I hadn’t fabricated 99 names and places, tacked them on to an email with a row of “>” symbols in the left margin, and sent it to her?
How do we, as petitioners, know that this petition will be taken seriously after we click “Send”?
It is our responsibility to ponder these questions, because they bear directly on whether all this petition-signing is worth our effort!
I decided to do a little research. According to an article published on Salon Technology’s website (http://www.salon.com/tech/feature/1999/05/10/petitions/index.html), email petitions have very little effect. Another site not only recommends against signing email petitions (for practical reasons), but offers suggestions for how to find effective e-petitions (http://michaelbluejay.com/main/petitions.html). I’ve only read it briefly, but it seems to make sense to me.
I particularly appreciated the latter article’s admonition to 1) contact the originator of the petition to see if it’s genuine (or still an issue) and 2) find the website of the cause in question and sign the petition there. Not only do these suggestions make it more likely that your signature will matter; they also increase the chances, by asking for some active involvement on the part of the signers, that signers will sign after some critical thinking (rather than following a electronic mob with its torches and pitchforks).
Thus, while I agree with the negative admonition so often heard, “Don’t send email petitions on!” I also want to add a positive admonition: “Check the source, consider the cause, and sign responsibly.” Then this wonderful technology or ours will have a chance to work for the democratic process rather than gumming it up.
If you must send emails for petitions, send them with a single link to a site with a verifiable petition. Then we’ll thank you for helping to make the world a better place.
~emrys
Were this petition with its 100 (or 200 or 300) names to reach someone in a position of power or responsibility for the aforementioned cause, how would she check to ensure that the names were real?
How would she know that I hadn’t fabricated 99 names and places, tacked them on to an email with a row of “>” symbols in the left margin, and sent it to her?
How do we, as petitioners, know that this petition will be taken seriously after we click “Send”?
It is our responsibility to ponder these questions, because they bear directly on whether all this petition-signing is worth our effort!
I decided to do a little research. According to an article published on Salon Technology’s website (http://www.salon.com/tech/feature/1999/05/10/petitions/index.html), email petitions have very little effect. Another site not only recommends against signing email petitions (for practical reasons), but offers suggestions for how to find effective e-petitions (http://michaelbluejay.com/main/petitions.html). I’ve only read it briefly, but it seems to make sense to me.
I particularly appreciated the latter article’s admonition to 1) contact the originator of the petition to see if it’s genuine (or still an issue) and 2) find the website of the cause in question and sign the petition there. Not only do these suggestions make it more likely that your signature will matter; they also increase the chances, by asking for some active involvement on the part of the signers, that signers will sign after some critical thinking (rather than following a electronic mob with its torches and pitchforks).
Thus, while I agree with the negative admonition so often heard, “Don’t send email petitions on!” I also want to add a positive admonition: “Check the source, consider the cause, and sign responsibly.” Then this wonderful technology or ours will have a chance to work for the democratic process rather than gumming it up.
If you must send emails for petitions, send them with a single link to a site with a verifiable petition. Then we’ll thank you for helping to make the world a better place.
~emrys
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
A Night at the Opera
So this evening we went out with Krissy, Geoff & their roommate Mandi to help celebrate Krissy's birthday. We had a great dinner at Dinity- located in the Jewish Quarter of Prague. They had wonderful homemade pasta. Emrys once again made mention of my imaginary KitchenAid that will go with the pasta attachment that is in storage waiting for our imaginary house to become a reality.
After dinner we set out to the State Opera House for an evening of multi-lingual culture. Unfortunately the one language that our mostly monolingual party spoke was not one of the languages in the evening’s show of Mozart’s Magic Flute. So we enjoyed the language of music and worked to follow the body language of the opera characters while they sang away in German and as the subtitles floated on the screen above in
~sjt
Sunday, May 28, 2006
A Busy Week!
The absence of posts is the indicator of the craziness of this past week. Emrys’ mom arrived in
Friday brought a dinner party to our little home. Ricki, Valerie (friend of the family for years), Geo & Krissy joined us for dinner and then on Saturday was more sights, dinner at Geo & Krissy’s and then out to a pub that they’d found for drink and conversation. Whew! I think that’s enough for 4 days! More touristing than we’ve done at one time since we got her but it was great to spend time with everyone.
~sjt
Sunday, May 21, 2006
A Concert in Prague
Two weeks ago we attended a concert in St. Nicholas’ Church on Old Town Square. From April 1 through the summer Prague is replete with musical events, especially those of the Baroque and Classical variety. The city was, after all, a hotbed of compositional activity during those eras. So it seemed only right that we attend a performance of some Baroque and Classical pieces while we’re here.
St. Nicholas’ Church is a massive Baroque structure with a great dome that vaults five or six stories over your head as you enter. Statues of St. Cyril (slaying the devil) and St. George (slaying the dragon) sit on either side of the deep chancel. At the back of the chancel is a portrait of Jesus, his two fingers raised in the sign of peace. We sat down in the echoing chamber of ornately carved stone and perched cherubim. Craning our necks we could see detailed frescoes on the ceiling depicting anthropomorphized virtues of the Christian life. The audience crept into the hush of the sanctuary one by one, gradually filling up the pews and folding chairs. We waited in whispering anticipation for the concert to start; but no musician or announcer stepped forward. We just sat before this image of Jesus, offering us a silent peace while we waited.
Then the organ began to speak into the silence. The powerful notes of Preludium and fugue in F Minor by the great J. S. Bach reverberated through the sanctuary, vibrating the walls and floor with strong bass notes. The kaleidoscopic effect of a repeated musical theme infused the air, beckoning the audience to breathe in the thick scent of Baroque musical splendour. The overwhelming power of the music ebbed and flowed from under the organist’s expert hands, stretching and relaxing the aesthetic fibres of our being. The shifting tones of the fugue danced together, then apart, then together again until the whole piece came to its climax: a crescendo of volume and rhythm crowning the pinnacle of tonal resolution.
Then silence: a void both pregnant with applause and hushing with the wake of such gorgeous and powerful music. It was as if God the Creator, the Father, had spoken the word, and no other word could be dared to speak after it.
But another word was spoken. Next the flutist began his solo: Telemann’s Fantasy in B Flat Minor. In stark contrast to the deep rumbling notes of the organ, the breathy tones of the flute danced high above our heads. They called us to look upwards in search of the melody as one would search for a tiny bird among towering trees. The measures of aerial music hopped across the space above us, touching the hard stone walls and cascading down to our ears. Listening to this music lifted us up out of our seats and into the midst of the cherubim floating above us.
If the organ was the Father speaking then this was the Spirit speaking in her light but compelling tones.
Then flute and organ spoke together in a duet: der Grosse’s Solo in C Minor. The deep throaty growl laid a melodic groundwork for the high-flung harmony of the flute. We were drawn into the earth and carried to the heights of heaven all at once. If we might compare the divine voice to the mystery of music, then we came as close as a human might to experiencing the Trinity: Father and Spirit spoke above, below, and around us even as we sat before the Image of God, the Son, present before us.
After both flute and organ melted away and a round of applause clapped the air, the whole sequence began once more. Organ, then flute, then both played renditions of Bach, Marais, and Vivaldi. We received the word of music once more in an exquisite performance that fulfilled the angelic purpose of the architecture. The experience confirmed our suspicion that attending a concert in Prague is an absolute must for anyone who visits. To do so is to get a taste of history and more—perhaps a taste of divine beauty itself.
~ emrys
St. Nicholas’ Church is a massive Baroque structure with a great dome that vaults five or six stories over your head as you enter. Statues of St. Cyril (slaying the devil) and St. George (slaying the dragon) sit on either side of the deep chancel. At the back of the chancel is a portrait of Jesus, his two fingers raised in the sign of peace. We sat down in the echoing chamber of ornately carved stone and perched cherubim. Craning our necks we could see detailed frescoes on the ceiling depicting anthropomorphized virtues of the Christian life. The audience crept into the hush of the sanctuary one by one, gradually filling up the pews and folding chairs. We waited in whispering anticipation for the concert to start; but no musician or announcer stepped forward. We just sat before this image of Jesus, offering us a silent peace while we waited.
Then the organ began to speak into the silence. The powerful notes of Preludium and fugue in F Minor by the great J. S. Bach reverberated through the sanctuary, vibrating the walls and floor with strong bass notes. The kaleidoscopic effect of a repeated musical theme infused the air, beckoning the audience to breathe in the thick scent of Baroque musical splendour. The overwhelming power of the music ebbed and flowed from under the organist’s expert hands, stretching and relaxing the aesthetic fibres of our being. The shifting tones of the fugue danced together, then apart, then together again until the whole piece came to its climax: a crescendo of volume and rhythm crowning the pinnacle of tonal resolution.
Then silence: a void both pregnant with applause and hushing with the wake of such gorgeous and powerful music. It was as if God the Creator, the Father, had spoken the word, and no other word could be dared to speak after it.
But another word was spoken. Next the flutist began his solo: Telemann’s Fantasy in B Flat Minor. In stark contrast to the deep rumbling notes of the organ, the breathy tones of the flute danced high above our heads. They called us to look upwards in search of the melody as one would search for a tiny bird among towering trees. The measures of aerial music hopped across the space above us, touching the hard stone walls and cascading down to our ears. Listening to this music lifted us up out of our seats and into the midst of the cherubim floating above us.
If the organ was the Father speaking then this was the Spirit speaking in her light but compelling tones.
Then flute and organ spoke together in a duet: der Grosse’s Solo in C Minor. The deep throaty growl laid a melodic groundwork for the high-flung harmony of the flute. We were drawn into the earth and carried to the heights of heaven all at once. If we might compare the divine voice to the mystery of music, then we came as close as a human might to experiencing the Trinity: Father and Spirit spoke above, below, and around us even as we sat before the Image of God, the Son, present before us.
After both flute and organ melted away and a round of applause clapped the air, the whole sequence began once more. Organ, then flute, then both played renditions of Bach, Marais, and Vivaldi. We received the word of music once more in an exquisite performance that fulfilled the angelic purpose of the architecture. The experience confirmed our suspicion that attending a concert in Prague is an absolute must for anyone who visits. To do so is to get a taste of history and more—perhaps a taste of divine beauty itself.
~ emrys
Saturday, May 20, 2006
National Day in Oslo
On 17 May Norway celebrates National Day. On that date in 1814 the National Assembly finalized the constitution of the country and elected Prince Christian Fredrik to be King of Norway. Never mind the fact that Norway was under Swedish dominion at the time—the citizens of Norway held up their own constitution and linked their future to their past, when their lands were possessed by neither Sweden nor Denmark. Since that day 17 May has been an occasion to celebrate.
Maria and Martin (our hosts in Oslo) managed to get us tickets for the parade grounds right in front of the royal palace. We got to see the royal family of Norway (king, queen, crown prince, his wife and new daughter, and princess) come out on the balcony to begin their three hours of waving to parade participants and spectators. From that place we could watch—between umbrellas, for it drizzled all day—the parade go by.
National Day in Norway is first and foremost a day for children. Over one hundred local schools take part in Oslo’s parade, waving their flags and saluting the royal family as they go by. Legend has it that since Norway was under the power of the Swedish throne in 1814, Norwegians were not allowed to celebrate any sort of independence. They certainly could not make any show of military strength—the usual format of independence day celebrations. So the citizens of Norway led their children out into the streets on parade, knowing that the Swedish authorities could not levy any power against young children. Thus a tradition was born. Now the adults line up to watch the young people of Norway carry thousands of flags—large and small—down the main avenue of Oslo.
In spite of the rain that day the parade was a feast of colour. Besides the ubiquitous Norwegian flags, spring hues came in the form of the many national costumes worn by Norwegians on this holiday. Men and women wear the formal outfits of the region of Norway from which their family originates. The traditional linen and wool shirts, dresses, breeches, and coats are dyed bright colours and boast gorgeous embroidery. Norwegians wear these costumes all day (as well as for weddings, baptisms, and other formal occasions) and make conversation by asking, “From where does your costume come?” It is a beautiful sight to behold.
In case it wasn’t enough to watch the parade, we actually had the chance to walk in it! When we had had enough of the rain, Martin led us off the island reserved for spectators and into the parade behind one of the many primary school groups. Waving our Norwegian flags we marched up to the palace, under the balcony—where the royal family waved to us—and back down into the city. When’s the next time we’ll be able to march before royalty?
That evening we attended a concert in the National Theatre in which Martin played violin with the orchestra. All the pieces were written by Norwegian composers, and the bill included performances by high school students (in line with the children’s emphasis of this holiday) that were outstanding. (I was particularly impressed three boys performing a jazz piece for piano, guitar, and bass.) Norway was paying homage to one of their great playwrights, Henrik Ibsen, this year, so between musical pieces young students performed theatrical pieces from Ibsen’s work. Although I couldn’t understand the Norwegian, their emotive performances were excellent and made it a joy to watch.
So if you’re ever in the mood to go to Norway, make sure to plan your trip to include the 17th of May—it’s a blast. Thanks to Maria, Martin, Sissel, and Michael for making it such a fun time.
~ emrys
P.S. Photos are posted :) ~sjt
Maria and Martin (our hosts in Oslo) managed to get us tickets for the parade grounds right in front of the royal palace. We got to see the royal family of Norway (king, queen, crown prince, his wife and new daughter, and princess) come out on the balcony to begin their three hours of waving to parade participants and spectators. From that place we could watch—between umbrellas, for it drizzled all day—the parade go by.
National Day in Norway is first and foremost a day for children. Over one hundred local schools take part in Oslo’s parade, waving their flags and saluting the royal family as they go by. Legend has it that since Norway was under the power of the Swedish throne in 1814, Norwegians were not allowed to celebrate any sort of independence. They certainly could not make any show of military strength—the usual format of independence day celebrations. So the citizens of Norway led their children out into the streets on parade, knowing that the Swedish authorities could not levy any power against young children. Thus a tradition was born. Now the adults line up to watch the young people of Norway carry thousands of flags—large and small—down the main avenue of Oslo.
In spite of the rain that day the parade was a feast of colour. Besides the ubiquitous Norwegian flags, spring hues came in the form of the many national costumes worn by Norwegians on this holiday. Men and women wear the formal outfits of the region of Norway from which their family originates. The traditional linen and wool shirts, dresses, breeches, and coats are dyed bright colours and boast gorgeous embroidery. Norwegians wear these costumes all day (as well as for weddings, baptisms, and other formal occasions) and make conversation by asking, “From where does your costume come?” It is a beautiful sight to behold.
In case it wasn’t enough to watch the parade, we actually had the chance to walk in it! When we had had enough of the rain, Martin led us off the island reserved for spectators and into the parade behind one of the many primary school groups. Waving our Norwegian flags we marched up to the palace, under the balcony—where the royal family waved to us—and back down into the city. When’s the next time we’ll be able to march before royalty?
That evening we attended a concert in the National Theatre in which Martin played violin with the orchestra. All the pieces were written by Norwegian composers, and the bill included performances by high school students (in line with the children’s emphasis of this holiday) that were outstanding. (I was particularly impressed three boys performing a jazz piece for piano, guitar, and bass.) Norway was paying homage to one of their great playwrights, Henrik Ibsen, this year, so between musical pieces young students performed theatrical pieces from Ibsen’s work. Although I couldn’t understand the Norwegian, their emotive performances were excellent and made it a joy to watch.
So if you’re ever in the mood to go to Norway, make sure to plan your trip to include the 17th of May—it’s a blast. Thanks to Maria, Martin, Sissel, and Michael for making it such a fun time.
~ emrys
P.S. Photos are posted :) ~sjt
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Life at Sixty Degrees
We’ve been in Oslo , Norway (alright, for those who are sticklers: we’ve been mostly in the town of Ask, twenty minutes northeast of Oslo
I need not explain what happens to one’s sleeping patterns under such conditions.
If you checked yesterday’s post you saw me posing in front of one of Gustav Vigeland’s sculptures. This amazing sculptor designed a whole host of sculptures depicting human life and granted them to the city of
Two days ago we drove to Fredrikstad, just south of
Now it may seem to you that we have re-discovered
Russ is a shortened form of a word that I cannot pronounce meaning “losing the horns.” It is a tradition long held in Norwegian high schools by which students prepare themselves simultaneously for National Day, final exams, and graduation by engaging in unpredictable behaviours, wearing bright red coveralls, and holding large parties into the wee hours of the morning. (It is my unconfirmed suspicion that Russ is the origin of the American college freshman phenomenon known as “Rush,” but further research must be done to provide any substance. However, see below.)
There is an element of competition in Russ that is satisfied by the accomplishment of various feats of derring-do on the part of these near-adults. One of these feats is, of course, public displays of nudity. Or, because of the Norwegian tendency to modesty and reserve, near-nudity.
There are times when one is made to feel as if he stands on the precipice of some strange new reality, or at least upon the uneasy fault line between two radically incompatible states of being. Such a moment I had while wandering through the ancient cobblestone streets of Fredrikstad, admiring the old architecture and cozy medieval feel of the place, when a young woman passed me by. Now the passing of a young woman is nothing of note—unless perhaps she might possess the kind of beauty that would set a thousand ships to sail. Alas, this was not such a passing. What caused my existential compass to quaver were rather the presence of fear and desperation upon her face and the absence of clothing upon her body. Save for a bra and underwear ill-suited to accommodate the physics of a full sprint, she was naked. Then as quickly as she had appeared, she disappeared around one of the quaint old buildings whose façade belied the reality of my experience.
Now mind you, when the sun has been rising before dawn and setting long after a decent person’s bedtime there is a higher-than-normal chance of hallucination. Let us not discount the effect of strange diurns on the human mind and senses. However, with confirmation of my sanity coming in the form of an all-but-naked young man running the same route through cute little old Fredrikstad, it soon became clear that the high school students of this little town were in the throes of Russ.
I wonder how many points you get for streaking through the old touristy section of town?
This is Russ: the last hurrah before you have to get down to the serious work of university study, work, getting married, and wearing clothes every day in public. It is achievement and embarrassment, success and ridicule, creativity and destruction met in the cauldron of tomorrow’s society.
I have to give credit where credit is due, however. Thanks to Russ, I have seen more of
~emrys
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)