Now

I started writing this blog yesterday and was delaying posting, wondering if I should. Now at past 4 in the morning, I can't sleep and I thought I might as finish writing and hit the publish button. This entry is about happiness, or at least about trying to find it.

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The other day started out as a lazy day. That kind of day where you feel like you just go through the motions of working, on a day that lasts forever. Being a typical Monday, the few people at work didn't contribute to lifting my spirits up. It was was the handful of usual suspects there, mostly working in their rooms with their doors closed, doing the usual solitary work that academicians do. At work, I leave my door open to signal that anyone's free to bother me any time about anything. I sometimes feel like a small-scale work hero when people come to me with small or big thoughts. At times I go bug them myself, when I need a sounding board. But there are just some days when the corridors at work seem strangely empty, and you don't seem to notice that people are at work although though they're physically in their rooms. At days like that, I must admit I find my work environment a bit deflating. As a colleague put this work situation into words: “you think working in a university makes you feel part of a big team, but in reality you're working alone in a room.” On days where it really does feel this way, work gets done, although slowly, but I get the feeling that everybody, like me, is just trying to work an hour at a time until the clock strikes 5.

What's not too great about these solitary working days is that at 10 past 5, I'm already home with the boring day finally over – I've been waiting for this for hours! – and I realize I don't quite know what to do with my time at home, feeling equally alone as I was at work. I washed some clothes, cleaned a bit, surfed online. All of this was done in an hour or so. It wasn't a running day so I didn't even have that to look forward to. I also have more than enough time to read some pages of a book in the evening just before bed, so I'm saving the pages. And of course I could work some more until the evening, but why the heck should I? I can't go calling my friends all the time for entertainment either, but that still leaves the question, so what do I do now, with all this time? I guess I'm not alone in feeling this way.

Eventually I glanced out into the balcony, on which I did some major cleaning last week. I haven't had dinner out on the balcony for a long time, something that I had often told myself that I should do more often. The café set and even a potted flower I had bought for the balcony were waiting there for me, for a day like this. It seemed like an idea. I just really didn't have to do anything more than to take myself and my plate out.

As I wrote about some other time, even leftovers can make you feel like a king. This time too, all I ate were “luxury leftovers” warmed up in the microwave: slow-cooked ribs from the day before, some old boiled potatoes that were left over from making a pie, and a dollop of beetroot salad. But as I ate, as I heard the sound of my knife and fork on my plate, and as I chewed on these delicious fatty ribs falling off the bone, I realized how satisfied I just became. An idea that was now a reality made a difference to my day, and I leaned back on my chair thinking I rediscovered the meaning of carpe diem. Boy was glad I cleaned the balcony last week, and was I glad I made those ribs the other night. Because just then I could enjoy the sunny evening without much effort from my present self, and it was exactly this moment that I needed.

Inspired by the moment, I thought, why scrimp on the fun? and topped that meal off with some watermelon slices and glass of vermouth. And I smiled to myself. My goodness, this wasn't bad at all! I was genuinely enjoying myself.

Some time when biting into that watermelon, I realized the power of the now. It's not every day that one gets to capture it, but when it does happen, everything else seizes to matter and you have just this one extended moment when everything in the world is good.

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Wednesday. It's our third wedding anniversary today. Something that for some time now had seized to matter, at least in the factual world. I'm not even sure if I should bring it up anymore, but this time at least, it's somehow relevant to the story.  All sad personal stories share the same theme: life may not turn out the way those involved hoped it would. You could feel sad about how things turned out, but you could also feel sad for the things that never would happen.

Two years ago was our first and only anniversary together. It was in the hospital. It was one of the many visits for sepsis for Marcus, following what had already been a year that we just trudged through. That spring, the doctors weren't even talking to us about a new transplant anymore. In fact they hadn't been talking about future prospects anymore, and everything was quite uncertain, even if at this time my brain was trying to convince me that it probably wasn't that bad as I thought. Eventually I got used to nurses coming and going at our home, and ambulance calls eventually became so frequent that we even started joke about our bug-out bag. It feels strange to think about all this now; how it somehow still feels so near although it's getting to be years ago now.

That anniversary day, we had a bottle of bubbly cooling in the hospital sink. Not the most charming kind of cooler, but it did the trick. And when we went home after that visit, I remember long evenings in the balcony where I was just as satisfied as I was the other day after that lonely day at work, also then beaming with satisfaction about the food, the sun, the company and the vermouth (which you have guessed rightly as my summer drink). Very different circumstances and yet equally satisfied. That to me is the power of appreciating the now. It's really just about the small things actually, but there are ways to find genuine pleasure even in the oddest and toughest circumstances. I remember eating an avocado that summer in the balcony and it was the best avocado I've ever had. Marcus was joking that the cemetery looked much like a nice manicured park.

Of course, I can feel sad remembering this story because I know how it turned out. But my point is, I think I learned from that part of my life that the now is the only part of your life you really do have control of, so you might as well choose to enjoy that moment. To put it another way, what you do have control of is your attitude to the present circumstances and only the next few steps in the direction of your intended immediate future. Somewhere there, is a choice to see the good in things. Or maybe it's a kind of passivity where you allow what is good in that moment to overcome you? Or is it a desperate act to grab on to what is valuable? At least for me, that had sometimes meant the difference between feeling lonely or being quite alright, as if happiness itself were also an active choice, or something that also needs to be seized. Sometimes this is not harder than taking your dinner out to the balcony. Sometimes it takes more effort, with the help of friends. At times it happens when I've decided that I should stop crying and I should just do something. But I think happiness feels best when you don't even have to do an effort, and that's best achieved when you share happiness with other people.

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Carpe diem, seize the day: I don't think it necessarily means living the present by abandoning any future outlook, which would be resembling denial. What it is for me is the ability to appreciate the present, but also the knowledge that I can choose a form of action, which sometimes involves choosing an outlook about something concerning a present situation. As someone said, "the pessimist and the optimist may be equally wrong, but the optimist has a better time". You can choose one or the other, yet neither of these states of mind can really exist without some idea of a projected future, no matter how shortsighted.

How the future actually unfolds is another story though. Like I said, all sad personal stories somehow involves mourning a future that never happened. That's the problem in trying to invest in happiness with other people. Things may not turn out as you hope. Hoping and promising is a treacherous thing that way. Actually, the whole saying goes Seize the day, putting as little trust as possible in the next. Put that way, it's also a reminder, a caution: present happiness is worth appreciating to the full because it's the only thing we have right now for certain, and the only thing we can do something about. The future may not hold any promises for long-term happiness. But then again, that's the the whole point the uncertainty of the future, isn't it? My optimistic side tells me that, logically, that you never really know what the future holds. The past is no guarantee of what will and what won't happen, and optimism makes us place our bets where we will likely be most happy, even in light of the future we know nothing about. That's what people in love do: they place their bets on the long-term happiness, even at the risk of heartbreak.

From a short-term perspective, if it just boils down to choosing at every moment, then we all might as well choose on the side of happiness. It's in the long-term perspective where everything gets muddy.

KG hits 30! Celebrating with whisky

Scotland 2013

KG and I met in 1996, when we were 12. I was a new student in the girl's school from a co-ed (I didn't like girl's school so much the first year); she was the responsible type girl-school girl (possibly also with a loyalty award for staying in the school since preschool!).

Our friendship revolved a lot around books and Beatles' lyrics. After school when we waited to get fetched by our parents, we would read, sing, or quizzed each other about homework. She was a lot better in math than I was, while I was better in English. She also introduced me to the adolescent craze called boybands, while I pretended to be oldies DJ on the LP player. We both liked black-and-white movies, and Astrud Gilberto, and of course (converted by then to the teen craze), the Backstreet Boys.

Weekends crashing at our houses included watching cable TV or movies (only her family had cable back then, while only my family had Internet) – if there was electricity, that is. This was the 90s in the time of half-day Manila blackouts. No electricity meant Scrabble or Boggle, or playing with her family's dog. I remember just bumming around, talking, sometimes with her or my sisters, under their carport or on our terrace as we waited for our parents to fetch us. Yes, this was Quezon City where parents meant transport anywhere in the city.

After second year high school, when we were 15, she and her family left for New York. There she became a top student in her high school, competed in golf, studied biology, and let her hair down clubbing. I became a more ambitious student than I first was, studied philosophy, found kendo, and probably never set foot in a nightclub in all my study years. From time to time, our contact had been more sporadic, but for years, we've kept in touch through days of dial-up modem, phone cards and snail mail, to the days of Skype (she has no FB) and fibernet. Anyway, the contact was always good enough to keep an eye on what each other was doing — the big and small stuff.

Eventually, she became a naturalized American. She took her master's in public administration; I took my master's in applied ethics, and later in public health. When I decided to move to Sweden, it was natural for me to talk to her about my ambivalence of change of residence, and in the beginning, the feeling of being quite detached from friends. She had been through all that before. I started this blog after a long conversation with her (encouraged by both Marcus and Mats), because blogging is a good way for both me and my friends to share and keep up with things in my life.

Her first trip with her American passport was to Sweden to visit me and Marcus in our 24-square meter apartment (lots of laughs, late nights, thought-provoking conversations and fond memories!). Eventually, but much later, I also became naturalized, as a Swede. She and I also ended up working in higher education, she as a project manager for international scholars like I once was. She went to our wedding; and when Marcus got really sick, she quit smoking (she's back now though, haha!). I visited her the winter after Marcus died. And today, from my point of view, I can relate to her when she talks about anticipating losses ahead of time — and just appreciating life as it is right now — as she discovered last year that she had diabetes.

 

2007. Documentation of how we three fit in the student apartment (required a little rearrangement of furniture). Me in my famous mummy-sleeping pose, which I just remembered that I had, when I saw this picture. That day, KG made a mean Mexican dinner!

2011. Hanging out once again at her parent's home, but this time in their NY home. If you look closely you'll see my Swedish presents of cheese slicer on the table and Blossa Glögg somewhere the background. Haha. Represent, huh!

So you see, though she and I have differing interests and partly different personalities, we are, at one level, quite the same, she and I. That, and the fact that we can hold all sorts of conversations (and even agree to disagree sometimes!) is what has kept us in touch as friends through all these 15 years across oceans. Imagine all those stories, from joys and boys, to sadness and life's lemons; banter and seriousness; tears and laughter. It's nice to have friends that stick around for all those. Even better when you can travel and create memories with them.

So, to celebrate her 30th birthday, we were in Scotland, where two of the pictures in this entry were taken. Our adventure was a test of teamwork and tolerance (in left-side driving!) and a proof that "in taste there is no dispute" (in whisky preference!). It was also the first time ever a bar actually closed on us (in the countryside, at 11pm!). In short, a memorable trip with great company and some of the most stunning driving sceneries. If I had a whisky in hand, I would toast to that. Now I have to go publish this entry and get myself a drink from the kitchen. Cheers!

 

Memories of bumming

- Cutting first year university English class to just sit with a classmate on a bench overlooking Bellarmine field

- June day standing on the top floor of a Norrköping parking lot, eating McDonald's donuts with coffee and looking at the city from above

- Spring in Vrinnevi forest, lying down on a picnic mat looking at the sky

I don't know why I thought of these, but I just wanted to say that bumming is great. So little done, so much enjoyment. There should more excuses to do just nothing. I hope I never forget how to bum when I grow old.

March – snow and ice

I might have gotten my wish about winter not ending yet. At the end of February, it looked like would be pretty warm. I had resigned to the idea of winter's end and thought that maybe winter activities were over. Lo and behold! Most people's hopes of a warm start of spring was thwarted by another long, cold period and eventually also more snow (A couple of optimistic people I know ended up with a barbecue grill filled with snow). 

In the second week of March, the melted ice froze back again, and there was new ice in parts of lake Vättern.

We had a fantastic tour that day, since M&M and I hadn't really counted on seeing such great ice, which was clear and transparent as a window pane. It was kind of exotic, almost scary but fun. If I looked closely at the ice edge, I could see that the ice we were on was moving up and down with the small movements of the lake. It's also hard to describe the optical illusions you can get as you “hover over" the beach. When skating, we sometimes tried to avoid big rocks and ski around them, realizing at the same moment that the big rocks were in fact under the water.

The “old ice” in Vättern was skate-able too, but not as enjoyable – there were lots of cracks, uneven surfaces, and walnut-textured surfaces where thin layers of snow froze over old ice. When it started to snow heaps last week, that probably marked the end of skating season for many people, at least for those who aren't prepared to drive long distances to snow-free ice.

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Snow-covered ice, however, also means an opportunity to ski on the lakes. I wasn't entirely sure how the lakes up in Kolmården looked like with the weather we've been having, but Anna reported that she saw some people skiing in the woods around lake Lillsjön and we guessed that maybe it was still possible to ski on the lakes too, as it has been cold all week and the snow and ice probably haven't melted yet. We took a drive and find some ski-able ice, and were surprised to find a full parking lot at Nedre Glottern – and a whole bunch of people skiing or taking their children or dogs for a walk in the ice. Yahoo! On with the skis! 

I can't explain how rewarding it was to be just out – with the sun on my face and everything – moving my body with something other than running for a change. I just felt unbelievably free. I've been walking around Glottern in the past in summer and autumn seasons, but I've also never been on it before. Seeing the trails and piers I've been on –  but from the water's surface – was literally rediscovering the area from another perspective. The fact is, I've never been out skiing on a lake before, so that bit was new as well. Like with skating, you could go between and around the islands and discover little nooks and crannies. The ski tracks were of pretty good quality too, and finally I think I gave my new skis some justice. On the other hand, being on a lake, the tracks were all flat so it still remains to be seen how I ski on terrain on good tracks on these skis.

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And now, for the overly optimistic part. I found out this week through Friluftsfrämjandet (an outdoors society) that there was also snow in Yxbacken, which is a ski slope 20 minutes away from here by car. They sent out an ad looking for female ski-enthusiasts who wanted to train as instructors over Easter break. So, the ad definitely wasn't for me, but a light bulb nevertheless lit inside my head: (1) There must still be good enough snow in Yxbacken these days  – granted, they might be using snow cannons, and (2) If there were ski instructors, at least some of them might need students. 

Until then, I was thinking that this downhill-skiing project might have to wait until next season. But if I had the chance, it would be pretty nice not to start from zero then and have to rush with everyone else looking for start-of-season courses. Besides, what's also frustrating about downhill ski courses I've been seeing so far is that they're mostly being offered to small children or adults who just want to get better. So, just because it would be such a pity to pass the chance, I answered the ad back with a row of questions. I asked if lessons or classes were still possible in general this season, and I described my levels of physical activity, ambition and previous knowledge...

I got a reply. If this cold weather still holds, which I hope it does, I'm looking at two mornings on the first week of April at Yxbacken. Super!

I know I'm kind of living all my projects intensively right now, but sometimes, the projects just seem to generate themselves. So far, it's all liberating rather than stressful. I can choose to do what I want and when, without feeling that I'm taking time from something else. By investing time and money on myself, I also feel that I can secure chances of enjoying more activities with more people in the future, and there's also enjoyment in that anticipation. It feels like a luxury to have the time and the means to be, in a way, egoistic. But I'm also providing myself with the means to be out with others, on the ice, and on the snow.

Some notes from Storulvån

Back from the Cross Country Grund course and reporting!

Day 1, Feb 21, Thursday

The day started waking up in the night train, an hour away from our destination, Enafors. Enafors station is small and unremarkable, almost too easy to miss with its short platform. I remember not being able to tell which side the platform was, in summer. In the snowy February landscape, the platform was next to invisible. Susan and I managed to open the train door to the wrong side and ended up in the middle of the tracks, wondering where the hell out in nowhere we were. “Wrong side!” the conductor shouted from out his window. We scrambled up the train again and through to the platform side. Then the train drove slowly away, leaving us – the only two passengers that had gone down – in an otherwise empty platform. I had to re-check my bus transfer booking and hoped to god that I wasn't too confused to have booked the wrong date. It was the right date, and the bus came to take us to the mountain station, Storulvån.

On the first day of the course, we picked up the tour skis from the rental, and the guide ran through what materials to bring in the backpack. Shovels and windsacks (like a bivy sack) were distributed among the four participants to carry along with us. Then we took a short ski tour around the station, going through different skiing techniques. We also practiced something that we would often do in the next few days: to dig ourselves down in the snow and use the sack over ourselves, to protect against the wind and cold when taking lunch breaks. The windsack is a great simple invention – a lightweight windproof piece of sewn fabric can give you so much warmth.

One "window view" from inside the windsack while lunching: 

skis, poles and pulk in the snow.

Inside, it was rather cramped (and yellowish due to the color of the sack).
Two pairs of legs and two backpacks have to fit.

 
Day 2, Feb 22, Friday

This course day started with planning our tour on the map, and learning to plan the easiest routes (and an alternative route) to a destination, without wasting so much energy going up and down all the time. Marked winter trails do exist between stations / shelters too, but the freedom of skis – like kayaking in shallow waters where boats can't go – is that you can suddenly take yourself over landscapes hardly accessible by foot in summer months. Swamps and streams become passable and the whole landscape in front of you – at least so it seems – becomes full of choices for so many possible trails.

Lots of trees, lots of trails

We were on skis ca. 10 kilometers, both on the winter trail (easier) and off-trail (harder; you have to create your own track on powdery snow). We tried using ski skins to take us uphill (easier; like walking) and also dragging a pulk behind us, which is a thing you drag behind you with supplies (harder; it feels like someone's trying to push you all the time). We had different orienteering exercises in wind and snow – well-needed practice. It was cloudy and gray, but otherwise it was neither very cold nor very windy.

Snow varies, like a living and changing material, even in a small geographical area. It could be icy, flat and packed by the wind, loose and powdery or wet and sticky. Sometimes, the surface could be flat as a floor, but there are also bulky cornices that hang over mountain sides. One of the things I like about going outdoors is that feeling of awe that comes over me when I think about the powerful forces of nature behind subtleties in the things I see.

We played around with snow before going back to the station, trying our hand at making snow holes while one of the guides made a fire with the firewood we've been lugging around. Brewed coffee was a luxury outdoors. In the station, a warm sauna and good food awaited.

We could have dug all day!

 The snow wasn't deep enough to make a snow hole you could lie down in, but it was big enough to sit down in for a small person like me (just about!): 

Day 3, Feb 23, Saturday

One of the things I didn't mention yet is that I fell downhill a lot of times. First it was because my backpack moved around too much, but after I fixed that, I realized I need to work on my balance and get better at skiing downhill too (which for obvious reasons, I haven't done so much). One good thing about being used to falling though is that I'm pretty used to getting up fast by now.

On this course day, it was a 100-meter or so climb from the mountain station to get above the tree line of Getryggen, a 1328-meter mountain. We rounded this at around 800 meters over sea level (14.5 km around), skiing along a frozen stream and up through a mountain pass before circling the west side. Some ups and downs; falling less but still falling.

Besides the awesome view of the lake Ånn at the horizon, some black rocks peeking through the snow, the weak outline of the two mountains we were passing between and some colorfully-dressed downhill skiers who looked tiny on the side of the tall white slopes, everything was white and wide up there. Not so many pictures from this climb, as it was quite windy in the mountain pass. Pictures wouldn't have done justice though; the landscape was like nothing I've ever imagined. Sometimes the whiteness was also a bit comical, because with the white snow in the foreground and the white mountain in the background, our group sometimes looked like copy-pasted figures on blank paper. 

Lake Ånn in the horizon

That night, I had tired legs and tired knees. The fact that my belly was also acting up wasn't helping, and I lay in my bunk dead tired more than anything else. You know how kids get so exhausted before bedtime that they can cry from tiredness, and all other reasons at once? I was thinking about the day's exalting tour and I began to think about people I longed for, and how it would have been nice if we could experience this and life's other small adventures together. I was satisfied about the day's success, but it made me think about life's bigger challenges waiting at home for me when this vacation was over. Besides, I felt exhausted and a bit annoyed, wishing I could ski better, wondering if I ever would, and when. Like a frustrated child, I cried myself to a long, deep sleep. The next morning, my muscle pain and my worries were gone. The funny belly would last a few more days.

Day 4, Feb 24, Sunday

The last course day, ca. 10 km. We followed the winter trail halfway to Blåhammaren, and went back to the station off-trail. Today was a bit quieter; everybody seemed to be in a reflective mood, just taking one foot ahead of the other in the gentle incline. On the way back, skiing along the side of a hill, we found a fox trail in the snow. The valley with its hills and trees and streams was a very relaxing place to go skiing. I felt that I had a better glide on my skis.

A family making their way up the trail crossing. Taken from Ulvåtjärn.

Grouse tracks around birch twigs

On a windless day, you hear things around you much better. I could hear the skis crunch through the snow, the zzzip sound of skiing with ski skins, or the woomph sound of a snow layer collapsing on itself. Sometimes, we could hear the sounds of grouse, or the bark of dogs at a distance. Someone was hunting grouse.

The course end offered a challenge, because now, if I were to ski, there would not be a guide.

Day 5, Feb 25, Monday

Hanging around with Susan and three snowmen

that some kids made around an activity tent

Our extra day at Storulvån station. My belly was screaming “I'm sick of sandwiches!” – as we've been having sandwiches in our tour lunch package for a total of five days now.

Susan, from day 2, had a heel blister which had turned gradually worse, and by this time, she didn't want to wear any shoes, much less go skiing. I took a shorter tour alone in the morning, wanting to get back up above the tree line. It was good “me-time” after living with group life for days. Skiing by myself, I really felt the freedom of being able to go anywhere I wished, making any trail; but also the responsibility of choosing that trail, of thinking about my own safety and planning my tour to get back on the time I said I would. 

I learned two hard lessons: (1) it's better to use ski skins earlier than later, to avoid working like an ox halfway up the mountain, and (2) I shouldn't overestimate my capacity. I should have zigzagged my way down in small stages as it was hard for me to really tell how steep inclines could be. While skiing down, I kind of landed in a bad way with my left foot stuck in the snow and realized that same half-second that it was dumb to take chances when alone in a place with no mobile phone signal. At the very least, I have a marathon to run in June and I can't afford any injuries. I had to dig my leg out and I took myself down the steep downhill trail with the ski skins on, to feel safe after this lesson learned. Downhill skiing and the like – that has to wait another year. 

I came back home on Tuesday morning after a night's train ride, and I entered my door overcome with a feeling of gratitude that this quiet, well-lit space is a place I call home.

Winters are too short around here, don't you think?

Year 2010 on the infamous “Joy's hill”. Cross-country skiers' mördarbacke (hill of death) is a relative term. Don't see a hill? Actually, nor do I!

My plan for the winter was to improve my tour skating technique (rather, to acquire some technique at all), so I was in the ice rink with the skating club for four Thursdays in January, trying to work on getting that long, effortless glide. I think I might have just gotten it, about time too, on the very last session. The instructor thought that I had considerable improvement. A club member who saw me last year on my very first Bambi-steps on the rink complimented and nodded in that quiet Swedish way: “You're doing well now”.
 

Anyway, during the Thursday sessions and in other places where I talk about my skating project, I often hear this comment: “If you can ski, it's easy to learn to skate. Children who can ski have no big problems with skates”. Perhaps. Doesn't help me, though. But perhaps the other way around works too? Could I learn to ski better because I've learned to skate better? It was just a thought. So for a couple of times when snow conditions allowed, I borrowed Margareta's skis and played around on them on a trail behind their house, seeing if it made any difference if I moved my body this way or that way. My first test about three weeks ago was a lot of fun. I've even been surviving “Joy's hill”, haha! (but there are new ones, huhu!). I lost myself in enjoyment that I couldn't help but take myself to the end of the trail and back and up and down several hills just because I could! Without any technique though, it was no doubt that that tour was seriously energy ineffective and I sweat through my clothes as if it were a summer day. The next time, a week after, I stayed to flatter surfaces and, with M and M to watch me, continued to experiment on these “how to’s” of skiing technique that Swedish children supposedly learn from when they're like three years old and have just grown their milk teeth.
 

Learning these things from scratch at an adult age is challenging. On the one hand, as an adult, I could probably better understand the theory behind the techniques and be more reflective about what I need to improve on. On the other hand, like biking or swimming (which by the way I also had to learn as an adult), some bodily movements involved what we call “technique” is actually muscle memory. Imagine how much muscle memory is rooted in a small kid walking on skis by the time he reaches 19, or 29. And the perspective of my 29 years lived, I feel that it's impossible for me to just have the same kind of vana  – the feeling of being accustomed to something that it becomes routine – as one who is born here. When I think about this, I feel that I'm hopelessly old. I can't possibly “win back” 26 winters or so that I have no experience of, and since thick snow-covered winters don't come by every year, who knows if I ever get to the point of skiing quite as well as a Swedish-born recreational skiier? Then again, 29 is no high age, I know. In running, some start long-distance races in their 30s, and set records in their late 40s. That's running and this is skiing though. And no, I'm not after a record, which, on the bright side of things, means that any improvement on my part is a personal best.
 

Anyway, despite my lack of technique whatsoever, I may have spread my still-unshattered optimism during that morning on skis with M and M, because I got money from them to help fund my first pair of cross-country skis. Everything seems to be on sale nowadays, since the thick snow is fast disappearing. Buying skis is a whole story in itself. The abundance of choices seems a bit of a jungle, especially if you know next to nothing with basically the internet and the salesman to trust. But what the heck. Now I've got a pair of sporty (too sporty?) skis and I gotta learn how to ski well on them in some way or another, at one time or another, to kind of deserve calling them mine.
 

In the meantime, I've signed myself up on a ski touring course, starting soon, where the aim is just to go from one place to another in the snow-covered mountains on skis, like hiking. I really like that idea. Because we won't be skiing on trails, I have to rent broader tour skis, which is also in itself new equipment to learn. As usual, I take the phrase “no previous experience needed” in course descriptions very literally. I have to. Where does someone like me begin to learn these things otherwise, without 26 or so winters behind my back and for whom winter sports is very unexplored terrain? I'll probably survive the course, even if I end up sweating like it's a summer day again. Better to look like an idiot for a short time during the course than to feel ignorant forever! Come to think of it, from Joy's hill to the Swedish mountains is like, uh, a big leap. It's crazy, but it's exciting.
 

I never thought that I would ever say this or think this, but I want more winter! Spring and summer are not bad at all, but I just don't want winter to end just yet. Next winter seems too far away for all the things I want to learn.

If I manage to update on the ski course sooner or later, at least you'll know that my arms are still attached to my body.

Fourteen plus seven

Nijmegen, 28 January 2006

I browsed through some old pictures, as I sometimes do, and I found this picture of me from the end of January seven years ago. It was taken at Nijmegen Station, on route to Weeze, on route to Nyköping, on route to Norrköping.

A month before this, I was nervous for a talk I had booked with the MA administrator in Utrecht.  I wanted to take my thesis to Linköping and graduate there. I wasn't sure if the scholarship rules allowed this. My study plan indicated that I was going to spend until June in Holland. And according to my own plans before the scholarship, I would go back home to QC and probably land a comfortable job with my MA in the bag. My life seemed neat and planned out.

I had to explain to the administrator that I had met a guy and the two of us were in love. We've been commuting for months but I now wanted to stay where he was and move in. I was so anxious that the administrator would say no to a student babbling about big romance. Then he said that he  fell in love with a woman, more or less at first sight, and was now was married to her for 14 years. He'd tell the others that approved my move to give two people in love a chance.

I'll never forget that. It sounds like one of those romantic comedy stories that only happens to people when they're young and free. But it's a nice story; that's why I want to re-tell it.

So Sweden became my home from end of January 2006 and I moved in with Marcus and we lived happily ever after, until death did us part.  I am not a flag-waving type, but I will be imagining waving a small Swedish flag in my head today (and of course it will be beside a Philippine flag, in case people are wondering!) to mark this move which opened eventful chapters in my life – big and small chapters, as well as sad and happy ones.

I think about time flying fast a lot, just like when people see their kids and realize that their babies are growing up to be men. A lot of things do happen but some things also stay the same. That administrator is likely to now be married to his wife for 14 plus seven years. And I'm still writing a thesis in Linköping  – although a PhD thesis this time.