Sweden part (II) - Graveyard shift

Sporting a bit of a hang-over from the vodka fest shared with Arvo , I crawled out of my sleeping bag in the midst of scurrying commuter legs.  It was seven o’clock.  I had slept maybe three hours.  I felt tired and my eyes burned, but I had no time to lounge around.  Today was the day I had to find work, or I would consider moving south down toward Austria and the ski resorts.

I went to the men’s room and shaved, washed my hair and generally tried to make myself look as clean and respectable as possible.  I was off, biting down on the last pieces of my cheese and bread, which I shared with Arvo the night before.

         Well today I looked very hard and was more aggressive in my searching.  I went to the main campus student union area asking students, all  speaking disgustingly good English.  Almost everyone I spoke with seemed genuinely sincere in wanting to help.   Several students gave me ideas of places to visit and some with phone numbers and “use my name.”  These possible positions ranged from working at a bicycle shop, to a flower shop, to a grocery store, to a bowling alley, to posing as a nude model at the Uppsala Art Institute. 

But despite the contacts and going to all these places in person, there still was nothing open.  The flower shop would take me but that was only two days a week.  That would not do, I needed to make some money.  By now it was nearing two o’clock and the light in the sky was already beginning to darken.  Time for today was running out.

Then just as I was starting to feel dejected and bumbed out regarding the job situation in Uppsala, and already planning my hitchhiking strategy for tomorrow, I looked over to my right.  There about fifty yards away in the midst of the campus were two men raking leaves.  Leave raking, man I can do that and without hesitation I headed over to the closest raker.

The fellow was about thirty years old, very dark, looked mid eastern and said, “No English.” I made a gesture with me raking leaves.  I am not sure he understood me, but he immediately motioned for me to follow him.  His name was Imir, and he was from Turkey.

I followed Imir slowly through the graveyard, as it was now almost dark.  He pointed to certain rocks and big roots to avoid so I would not trip.  Soon I was face to face with a nebbish looking little man with big glasses, he reminded me of a Swedish Woody Allen. His name was Pavel. I introduced myself to him and explained my situation.

“I am a student from the States, traveling Europe and am seeking work here in Uppsala.”  I noticed how carefully he was listening to me.  I went on to tell him that this is my fourth day of looking, and I can’t find anything.

When I attempted to speak Swedish asking him, “What part of Sweden are you from?”  He looked at me and said very matter of factly, “I am Finnish, a Swede would never rake leaves.” This is certainly my good karma time with Finns I thought.  He went on to say that my timing might be good, as one of the rakers recently had to go home to take care of his mother in Morocco, and they need another person.

Pavel excused himself for a couple minutes as he disappeared into a nearby shed, and I assumed  placed a phone call, for when he came out he handed me a piece of paper that had written on it the particulars of my official leaf raking interview.

It said Mr. Sven Anderson ( the Bob Smith of common names in Sweden) wants you to meet him in his office at 9:12a.m., Pavel pointing to a little brownish house at the end of the graveyard about 300 yards away.

Alright, 9:12 am, not 9:15, but 9:12a.m…   I tried joking with Pavel, “9:12 I guess he wants me to be on time.”  Pavel gave no response, just turned and walked away, his little wiry body disappearing soon amongst the trees and dark of the graveyard.  On first impression Pavel seemed like the serious, quiet type.

 I felt elated.  You would have thought I had just landed the dream job interview.  But for me at this time, right now in my life, it was.  Oh how I wanted to put down my bag for awhile make some good money, rest, eat better and be in the beautiful babe nirvana of Sweden.

That evening I splurged and stayed at the youth hostel.  It an expense I normally would not have done.  But it was worth the extra money, as I wanted to make sure I would get a good sleep and have a shower in the morning.   And needless to say get a wake up call in time for the official 9:12 a.m. meeting.

I woke fresh and ready to go.   For the meeting I brought out (this being the first time I would wear these clothes) a white shirt, tie and gray slacks. These I thought would only be used for special events like getting into a club or to impress a date, but never had I envisioned they would be for a graveyard job interview.

 The DTK, “Dress to Kill,” outfit I called it, was buried deep in the bottom of my backpack.  The clothes unfortunately were badly wrinkled.  I had a most anxious moment frantically borrowing an iron from the hostel and trying to navigate the iron over the clothes.  No matter what I did the iron did not seem to work correctly.  How pathetic, I could not even iron clothes.  In spite of being embarrassed I did not hesitate to tell Kristin the Swedish girl behind the desk about my pressing (get the pun) situation, and ask if someone could please help me.   She called one of her assistants who gave me a great deal of help, she did the entire ironing. Thank you! Thank you!

Well, I made it on time.  Actually I arrived at the little brown house where the interview was to take place at 9:07, and waited behind a tree for five minutes.  With my cheap Bulova watch I studied the second hand exactly as it hit 9:11, and then made the deliberate walk, and just as the second hand hit 9:12, I knocked on the door.

Behind the immaculately clean desk with only a pencil holder in the top right hand corner with several very sharp pencils sat Mr. Sven Anderson.  He looked pasty, thin and serious.  My guess on first impression was correct.  This man was a nerd and all business. On my approach to him I extended my hand and greeted him in Swedish.  He did not smile or rise from his seat and just gave me his hand, not a shake, just sort of handed me his hand.  It was limp and unwelcoming.

It is always unwise to generalize about a people or a country.  But the one thing that I have heard about Sweden, other than the gorgeous women, is that the people can be serious bordering on the severe, especially in the dark months of winter.  This guy from the start seemed to fit the prototype.

Without any small talk Mr. Anderson got right to it. “Why do you think your background is right for this job?”  You would swear I was interviewing for a top job as CEO at IBM.  I felt like saying “Look anyone can rake leaves.” But I knew this flippant response would not go over well, so I stated:  “Mr. Anderson, I grew up in the Midwest, in the state of Michigan.”  This seemed to trigger a small spark in Anderson as he said, “Many Swedes in Michigan.”  “Yes,” I replied, not as many as Minnesota, but we have our share.”  Feeling a little more confidence, I continued: “Being the eldest in our family it was my responsibility, (deliberately using this word ‘responsibility’ instead of ‘job,’) to rake the leaves off our large lawn.”

So here I am telling Anderson this half-assed totally full of shit story about leaf raking, and he has his head down writing notes as fast as he can about my “experience.”  I knew I had him now, and I was heading for the slam dunk.  This next phrase I knew would lock the deal.  Anderson’s face came up from his fervent note taking, and then I paused and looked him straight in the eyes and said in the most earnest voice possible, (though I had to do everything to keep from laughing).

”Mr. Anderson, would you like to see my stroke?” He nodded and without hesitation I launched into four consecutive, powerful but smooth raking movements.  You’d think he would say, “Sit down you wise-ass, hot dog, you got the job.”  But instead, he looked at me carefully and in the most reverent tone said “impressive.”  That’s what he actually said: “impressive.” And he was nodding his head back and forth with approval as if he had discovered some amazing young talent, as if he were a scout for a minor league baseball team.

After my exhibition of my stroke, and telling him my rich background, Anderson did loosen up and said: “We would be pleased to have you as a raker.  You would be a good addition.”

 “Good addition,” I love it.  He explained to me the hours; 9a.m.–3p.m. six days a week; Sunday off; and pay of fifty kroner an hour.  When he said that, I almost jumped out of my chair into Sven’s arms.  That was $5 an hour for this leaf raking gig.  Fantastic!   And on top of this he told me, thinking this would be bad news for me, but it was perfect, that I could only stay on for six weeks.  That was the ideal time period I was hoping for.  I was ecstatic.

          First day on the job I reported bright and early and had been hard at work until almost lunchtime.  Scarcely conscious of my change in pace or

direction, I found myself raking a huge mountain of leaves.  I could not resist.  I got a big running start and jumped into them with abandon with a great squeal of exhilaration. (Just like a kid back in Michigan).

          I lay there awhile, the sky so open above me and those autumn leaves

in their brilliant sun-lit golds and crimsons floating down on me…

          Sven Anderson would never understand.  But my toiling Turkkish fellow rakers near-by seemed to get it.  Soon we were having a rollicking leaf fight.  Gathering up big armful of leaves, chasing each other hurling them at each other, laughing hard and shouting.  And then all of us jumping together in my big leaf pile.  We had become leaf men, covered head to toe

with leaves. Our hair leaf helmets.

           I was in a celebratory mood:  I was celebrating autumn in all its splendor.  I was celebrating freedom and fun in any language.  I was celebrating hope and success.  I had aced my first interview.  I had landed my first job out of college:  “Official Leaf Raker.”  I could now afford the delicious luxury of purchasing a Swedish pastry.  Not much of an accomplishment most would agree.  But my father would always say:  “There is nobility in all work.”

          So my first day on the job, I was feeling “noble.”  I was feeling silly and

crazy.  I was feeling very much “ALIVE” in a Swedish graveyard. 

Displaying my leaf raking stroke...Upsalla, Sweden 1976

Sweden (part I) - Arvo the Drunken Finn (Nov 76)

Photo - In the breathtaking Sognefjord, on Norway's stunning west coast

Photo - One of several farms I worked on in Norway

The silver Saab raced across the border into Sweden.  Sitting in the passenger seat of my ten minute hitched ride, I turned and looked over my shoulder as Norway faded away.  I was now leaving this country behind…but the images of its staggering beauty would never leave me:  from the spectacular fjords Sognefjord and Geirangerfjord, to the quieter breathtaking gems Naeroyfjord, Fjaerlandfjord and Hjorundfjord.  All of them enchanting with their narrow deep inlets, set off by towering walls of granite, rising straight out of the water, accented by cascading, crashing waterfalls.  I was filled with a sense of wonder and awe.

But I also was filled with a sense of traveler’s pride.  I had traveled

Norway for thirty-seven days, this arguably the most expensive country in

Europe, and had only spent forty-one dollars.  I accomplished this by working on farms, usually for two to three days each.  My jobs on these farms ranged from:  picking apples, digging for potatoes, painting a barn,wiring fences, and even baby sitting.  It was of course a good way to save money, but also to eat well and make good contact with the Norwegian people, who were kind and simple.

          

        It was now mid-November.  The weather was turning mean.  Darkness would set in by three o’clock.  I had been traveling now over four

months.  As much as I relished the constant movement of travel, I found it beginning to wear on me somewhat.  I now was hoping to set my pack down and stay in one place for awhile to find a job, sleep in the same bed, kick back and recharge my batteries.  I had my sights on a specific destination to accomplish this…and that was the university city of Uppsala, Sweden.

I must be honest.  I had an ulterior motive.  The reason I sought gainful employment in Uppsala was for one reason…the women.  As I traveled, the young male travelers I would come across and befriend, our conversations would cover various topics from favorite European cities, delicious tasting beers, clean inexpensive hostels, best beaches…But sooner or later the topic would always get to women, European women, and which country had the most beautiful women…Well, I did not keep an official count, for I did not have to, that was how wide the margin of victory was.  To my fellow male backpackers, Swedish women were it. (Most of those guys I spoke with had met Swedish women not in Sweden, but while the Swedish women were outside their country on vacation).

With this key piece of information in mind, I thought, yes, that sounds pretty good. I am going to go to the source, Sweden itself, and check it out.  My initial thought was to try to find work in Stockholm. However, no, what would probably be more fun and offer a greater access to Swedish girls for me would be a big university, and that of course meant Uppsala.

Uppsala is the fourth largest city in Sweden. The university, which was established in 1477, is the second largest in Europe with over 20,000 students.  The city is lovely, very green, running along a river and with an impressive red stone castle overlooking the city.

After a day of just walking around doing nothing but looking at tall long legged blonde women, I acknowledged that my fellow male travelers were correct. Sweden was amazing; the women were stunning.  However, I had to pull my racing hormones to a halt and get focused.  Any thoughts of good times with Nordic beauties would have to wait.  The job at hand was to find employment. It was early November and in this part of the world it gets dark around three o’clock, so I wanted to make the most of the light hours.

The first two days were discouraging.  I tried several restaurants, either as a dish washer or busboy; the university as a custodian.  I spoke with garbage collectors.  I even went to a dog pound to be a catcher of stray dogs…But nothing.  And I was also disappointed that I did not get any leads really from the people I spoke with (and in Uppsala, most everyone I talked to spoke some English). I would ask repeatedly, “Have you heard of anything?” or “Do you know anyone I could talk to?”  But the response was always cool, and they could not help.

There was a hostel in Uppsala, but at fifty kroner ($10), this was too expensive for my meager budget. So each night I would roll out my sleeping bag and crash on the floor of the train station.  The station, unlike Uppsala itself, was dingy and dank, with some rather undesirable characters roaming about.

However, there was one man, named Arvo, of Finnish origin, whom I will not forget.  At first meeting he struck me as your typical hopeless drunk.  A man of average height, about fifty, unshaven, tattered clothes, smelling of body odor, and of way too much liquor.  He upon seeing me nestled down in the corner of the station in my sleeping bag, waddled over, his bottle waving back and forth like a track conductor’s lantern.

“

Do you hate the Swedes?” he slurred out as he plopped himself down against the wall within a foot or two of my bag.  I felt a little uneasy, but I had slept in several train stations before and had never had any serious problems with the colorful characters that often milled about.  Just be cool, cautious and civil to those who approach you. (The three C’s).

I told him that I had just arrived and the Swedes seemed okay to me.  “They’re arrogant assholes, I tell you, and you know what else, they are stupid too.” “You are not a Swede, I take it,” I asking the obvious.  “Hell no, I am a Finn. My name is Arvo.  Let’s drink to Finland!”

It was now about eleven o’clock, I was tired.  But I was also wound up being anxious and concerned about the job prospects in Uppsala. The man in front of me though a drunk, had something about him, his eyes had a knowing light, and one that I felt comfortable with.  And though normally not being a drinker of hard liquor, at this time I wanted to partake and see what this man was about.

By one o’clock we were still talking and drinking.  Though he did far more drinking of the vodka than I did, I still could feel its effects, and I brought out some fontina cheese with dark bread to share with Arvo, and to keep me from getting too wasted.

In the couple hours we shared I learned about his life.  He to my surprise was only forty years old. His weathered face looked much older.  He was a student of the famed classical music academy in Helsinki, where he studied composing and violin. “Do you like Sibelius?” I told him I did not know who or what that was. Was it a food?

He shook his head in disbelief, telling me he was Finland’s greatest classical composer. I told him that unfortunately my understanding of classical music was limited.  Then with unexpected reverence, Arvo put his bottle down and his face became serious and at times impassioned, as he told me about the life of Jean Sibelius: his genius, his repertoire of works (ranging from his seven symphonies, to shorter works such as Finlandia, and the Swan of Tuonel, and his Violin Concerto).  And how despite his success as a composer, he was a tormented soul addicted to drink and dark moods, retiring early in life to live as a recluse in Finland’s deep central forest. “To all Finns he is our hero,” adding that he passed away in 1957 at the age of ninety-one.

Quiet passed between us. No talk, no movement for a good minute.  Arvo looked lost in thought.  Then Arvo reached into his dark soiled rucksack.  I expected to see another bottle of vodka and was ready to respond that I had enough drink for the night, and that it was time to get some sleep.  But instead he produced a cassette and showed me the tape “Sibelius – Symphony #5,” performed by the Helsinki Philharmonic, conducted by Paavo Berglund.

“Listen to this.  Of the seven symphonies this is my favorite.  It is an amazingly original piece of work.” So for thirty five minutes we sat on the train station floor as we listened to the Sibelius symphony.  Throughout the piece Arvo often with eyes closed would move his hands slightly as if conducting, or nudge me when some especially beautiful or moving passage was to happen.

Travel is amazing I thought to myself.  Two hours ago I am on the floor of a train station accosted by a drunken Finn.  And now I am enveloped in this enthralling music, and learning so much from this shaggy dirty man, for whom I feel such warmth and a sense of wonderment.

The piece was now midway through the final movement and Arvo said, “These final few minutes are sublime,” and with that he turned up the volume.  By now we had about four or five onlookers watching us with bewilderment, but also seeming to enjoy the music. And Arvo was correct, the  closing was especially moving, dramatic, and explosive, as the music would soar, then pull back, and then when the music seemed to come to a climax, it would stop, total silence for a second or two. Then the power again, silence, until ending in a dramatic crescendo of a thundering drum.                       

“Oh, that was fantastic, and the power at the end with the drum,” I explained. “We call that Thor’s Hammer,” Arvo said.  “Could you play the final movement one more time, Arvo?” I requested. And once more I took in the final movement, this time swaying and moving about to the dramatic music.

          It was now nearing 3a.m., and we walked outside in the very brisk cold night air.  I offered Arvo a cigarette.  I do not smoke, but I carry a pack just for a friendship gesture in such situations as these.  I asked him about his career as a violinist, and he told me that he played for two years with Turko Philharmonic, Finland’s oldest orchestra, but had a bad marriage, got divorced, had a mean quick temper and drank too much.  It affected his playing and he was fired.  He said that drinking was a real problem with many Finns.

That was some seventeen years ago.  He never really made a go at it again, but instead spent several years traveling the world with the merchant marine.  He has lived in the States working for a lumber company up in the Seattle area for a couple years, and had now been let go from a job up in Sundsvall working on a factory line.

He seemed reflective and almost “what if” as he spoke.  He was making his way back home, hitching across Sweden to get back to Finland.  “I would like to play again, but I need help first.  I don’t have the discipline to play and the strength to stay off liquor.”  He went on to talk about his brother-in-law, named Jaska, who had a very good heart, and was well-off and wanted to help him, and get him into a clinic. 

I made a gesture with my hands that I better get to sleep and added that, “I am job hunting tomorrow.”  He wished me good luck, and said that though the money is good the Swedes are cold, stuck up people.  You won’t want to stay too long.  We’ll see, I thought.  I embraced Arvo, wishing him the very best and letting him know how much talking to him had meant to me.  I walked back into the station and slipped into my sleeping bag and slept deliciously with the notes of  Sibelius’ last movement dancing in my head, until the station became crowded with no-nonsense morning commuters.

~to be continued~

Greeting fellow “Nomads”

It is 8pm.  I am sitting in a little open air restaurant in the village of Nong Khiaw in northeastern Laos sipping on an ice cold Beerlao.  The village resting above the Nam Ou is cradled in the shadow of two massive rock outcroppings. It is a dramatic setting.  This is the third week of my five week travel in Cambodia and Laos. I arrived two nights ago via a nine hour “slow boat”on the Nam Ou.  The journey though filled with a few nerve racking river rapid rock dodging moments, was magnificent, as the long narrow wood chipped boat snaked its way past towering limestone karsts and an abundance of colorful local life on the river and shore.

The sun has set.  However, I can still make out the image of backpackers as they walk over the bridge crossing the Nam Ou toward where I sit.  The backpackers come in small waves, four people, followed by two, another grouping of five and a couple of singles bringing up the rear.  The travelers offer up a remarkable diversity – different shapes, ages, gender, and nationalities.  As they begin to pass the restaurant I hear their voices; German, French, English, I think Swedish, Australian.

Dark has arrived. The restaurant, is lit only by candle. Like last evening, the village does not have electricity tonight. This is fine by me, the darkness only adding to the remoteness and stillness of the place.  I am alone except for a fifteen year old Laotian boy named Mong who is clearing a table in the back, and a rather pudgy cat that seems happy to curl up by my sandaled feet.

I slowly begin to eat my fish lob and let my mind wonder back to a time 34 years ago.  Yes, it was April of 1976 when I stood on the M – 4 Motorway out of London, backpack on, thumb out, and my life savings of $957.  I was twenty-two, it was my first time abroad, having grown up in the Midwest of the USA. Where I was headed I was not sure.  How long I would be gone I had no idea.  I found the unknown exhilarating.  It was my “birth” as a traveler.  Two and a half year years later, I would return home – a journey that took me across thirty four countries (Europe, North Africa, overland across Asia and to the Far East) . . . returning with still $11 in my pocket.

From that point on, “travel” has run deep in my blood.  Today, I live in New York City. I feel blessed having a comfortable lifestyle and being able taking advantage of this great city's richness, color and diversity.  But, there is nothing that I feel so impassioned by, that burns in me and hits my soul as much as travel.  The pack on my back, the open road, the unknowing, new landscapes, meeting the locals, absorbing the culture.

With family and work commitments, I never would I travel at one stretch for such a long period of time as I did in the mid seventies.  However, at every opportunity I would look to travel, often using rather “creative” means to satisfy my driving passion.  Be it persuading a boss to “pay me a little less, but give me that extra week vacation,” so I can string three weeks together to fully absorb China’s ethnic minority rich Yunnan province, or feigning a nasty summer flu timed with the July 4^th weekend to take in the jaw dropping scenery  of Greenland’s east coast, or over Thanksgiving, (and this method especially effective for Eastern European or former Soviet Republics travel) as I would email back  “political uprising is taking place and Romania’s national airline has gone on strike”  allowing me to walk for five days amongst the rural medieval villages of Transylvania.  And even the two times when bad news raised its head of company downsizing, I would embrace it, and look at the bright side… hey, time to travel!!! Yes, when it came to travel, I had it bad.  I had a "Heart of a Nomad."

What I am pleased to report is that there are lots of “Nomads” out there traveling about. On this current trip, I can’t ever remember meeting so many travelers from different countries…In just three weeks having met people of twenty-three nationalities.  So despite the economy and political tensions, we travel on!!

One of the best things about travel is the camaraderie that develops among travelers, the sharing of “the experience.”  It is because of this, my love for travel and fellow travelers, that I am pleased today to launch my blog . . . “HEART of a NOMAD”  I will be putting on my entries (a new story/destination each week) However, this blog is for you, to share your experiences, and not just the wonderful and thrilling, but the dreadful and disgusting, as this is part of the traveler’s experience as well. And your entries do not have to be current but past travel experiences are encouraged also.

So to all you that have a "Heart of a Nomad" … I wish you enriched travels and to my blog!

Photo1: Erzurum, Turkey-on overland route to India, 1976

Photo2: Sharing water melon, and weaving in the home of ethnic minority Tai Dam.  Muang Sing, Laos, 2010

Photo3: Dramatic Laotian landscape

Photo4: Still life of Beer Lao, my new favorite Asian brew!!  Backdrop of Muang Ngoy, Laos.