The blue torpedo meets its match

First of all, I would like to apologize for the length of this post - it was written during a 12-hour boat-trip. For the sake of convenience, it shall be snipped to spare those of low bandwidth the ordeal of loading lots of photos. :)

What follows is my scribbles from my travel diary written on Vikingline Isabella on the 21st August, 2006.

Good morning, sunshine;
The earth says hello!

Hunched over a tiny round table with the text “NO SMOKING” stylishly engraved onto a metal plate and set into the wood. I wonder what the hell just happened during the ten or eleven days I’ve been traveling.
Traveling alone is slightly risky business sometimes. Traveling with an ex is even riskier. No, not usually dangerous… at least not in my case with my choice in guys, but for my muddle-able brain. Well, never fear. I don’t get called ‘cold’ for nothing. Life goes on. It was fun and definitely not the way it used to be (thank goodness). And while I can tell I am happy in his company, he also has a bad tendency to really bring me down. He can crush my self-esteem with a single shrug or make me feel like a happy cat with one kiss on the forehead.
Anyway, enough of that for now. I spent 2 days on Åland with my friend Annika as a pseudo-host. (We stayed at a hotel but saw her daily and ate our dinners at her house, enjoying her mother’s yummy cooking. I was much pleased when I got to sample another one of Annika’s cakes. <3 She, along with my roommate, was one of the few who liked to make tasty desserts and share them with others back in folkhighschool. Annika was lovely. She makes me wonder whatk ind of a person I am if I can spend a full year or two out of contact with her even if we plaly the same game (WoW) and use the same messenger (ICQ). Hell, we both studied to be bachelors of art in the same country! Yes, Ann-Mi feels pangs of guilt. Maybe she has a conscience after all.

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Åland was spent lazing and relaxing, feeling weird around the ex, catching up with Annika and Ludde, sampling cinnamon buns and pancake, and wondering who the hell Mario is. Mario?
Yes, you see, some dozen youngsters who knew each over other msn congregated on Åland. From what I could tell, they were German, Danish, and Swedish. One of the girls kept gibbering about how wonderful Mario is. Unfortunately, this wonderous Mario decided to go somewhere else, being as wonderful as he is, since he had been told that everyone else would be gathering at Galleriet at a certain time. The result was that everyone else congregated there without him, then the girl and an almost equally enthusiastic guy buzzed off to find the (stupid) wonderous guy who was just too cool to go to the rest of the gang. I was disappointed. When you spend half an hour inadvertently forced to listen to how great Mario is (by a shrill female voice), then damnit, you want to meet this virtuoso and stab him a few times.
Oh. There was one more thing we did - we tidied with Annika, just like last time on Åland. Only this time, it wasn’t an office. Ok, it sort of was… in the sense of doctor’s offices with weird implements. There were poking devices, tissues, syringes, lights to light where the sun don’t shine, and lots of binned Geisha-chocolate wrappers.
(Just a second. The horrible girl on tv who steals old peoples’ money by making them play a simplified version of hangman is yelling very loudly about how great her prizes are.)
Doctor’s offices scare me. Even without the doctors in them, the atmosphere of being poked and prodded in unpleasant ways lingers. I also couldn’t help thinking of that scene in Grosse Pointe Blank. It went something like this.

Minnie Driver: “Ah… health station. I don’t feel so well, and neither do youuu…”

What follows is kinky sex with John Cusack’s character (Martin Blanke) in former highschool’s nurse’s office. Yikes! Not great thoughts to be having while innocently tidying rooms with your ex!
After spending a very interesting evening at a party being held by Annika’s friends, my ex and I took the morning boat out of there. “Cinderella.”

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By god, it was the crappiest boat experience ever. It was manned by rude, snobby Swedes who treated you like some stupid piece of cargo that should feel privileged they even decided to let a dungheap like yourself onboard! There was apparently no place to store our baggage except for some lockers you had to pay for onlin in Swedish kronor (15 kr!!!) and which, in any case, were too small to fit even my rather small suitcase. There were also no comfortable seats, and when I with a smile inquired after one, I was met with a growl that I should (fucking well) have gotten a cabin if I wanted to do things like sit down and stow baggage! (Ok, so they didn’t use the f-word, but it was definitely implied in their tone.) Well, excuse me if I don’t want to rent a luggage storage room that is so cramped I wouldn’t sit there anyway for 40€ or whatever it costs… just for a few hours travel! I am NEVER taking Cinderella again. A veritably crappy peasant of a ship indeed! Furthermore, there were lots of restaurants, clubs, etc., but more than half didn’t open until the evening anyway.
If you made the mistake of trying to buy food and asking if you could pay by card, you were met by more scorn and the reply that:

“Yes, if you show globbety-gook.”
“Show what?”
“Globbety-gook!”
“….?!”
“Do you speak Swedish?”
“Apparently not.”
“ID! <in Finnish>”
“Oh.”

I still haven’t been able to figure out what the hell the word they use for ID is, even if they used the same word in Sweden (more politely) the 8 days I spent there. Well, anyway, so I grab the grub, go to pay, and then my fucking card suddenly is no good!
What the hell? Why did they say it was alright then? And why is the cashier pissed off at me for it? It’s not my bloody fault she was wrong! So, then I run off to grab some kronor off my ex to pay, but when I see the receipt I realize that euros would’ve been just as good anyway. Crap! All through this I apologize and try to smile. I’m too polite for my own good. Bloody ship.

Arrival in Sweden. Mad dash to pink hotel. And the beginning of a week spent running to restaurants, museums, and occasionally wandering aimlessly. It was very relaxing, until I realized I didn’t have the money left to pay for the hotel. Well, no fear. I am lucky to have a nice father who provided me with a loan.
A few days into the trip, I wonder why Bitzky hasn’t contacted me.

“Hey! Where are you? We need you! All our cardgames only work with 3 people! Besides I miss you Damn it!”

For some reason, the “predictive” text in my phone likes to capitalize the D in damn.
I decide to give him six minutes to reply before I ring him and harass him. He meets my deadline and we arrange to meet in two days on a Wednesday. I spend two days babbling to my ex about how great Bitzky is and how excited I am and and and. I must have sounded like a 6-year old rejoicing the arrival of Santa, but I don’t care. (Why is santa’s Sack so big? Because he only cums once a year. Har har!) (Oh. The grevious joke has nothing to do with Bitzky.)
Come Wednesday, we meet him at Kulturhuset. Before he arrives, God needs to piss and opens the tap along with all the angels above. (My ex) Tiago and I seek refuge inside ‘huset and await Bitzky’s coming. And there he is. A big hug (I wish it had been longer) and we’re off. We enjoy some chocolate in Gamla Staden and play card games while the boys discover their common interest and server in World of Warcraft - raiding on Argent Dawn. I roll my eyes, tear my hair out, and attempt to distract them with my cat-puppet bought in one of the previous visits to Old Town.

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Luckily, the raid-talk eventually ends after I attempt to regale them about the best aspect of WoW, one which they are clearly missing out on - roleplay! *raises nose and sniffs in their general direction* Bitzky mentions his crappy day and bad luck with his car, which seems to have been broken into. He needs to sort it out with the insurance company soon - the driver’s side door doesn’t work anymore, so he has to hop in passenger-side. None of us knew how lucky he was then…
Come Friday, we meet again. Now the passenger side door has given up the ghost and entry occurs through the trunk. It is an intricate maneuver to slip in 3 people through the trunk without looking like crooks. Bitzky sticks his key inside the ignition to drive us away to the insurance company for a new evaluation… when disaster strikes. The car won’t start! Instead, the horn starts honking, the lights start blinking, and we do our best to look like annoyed people who belong in the car and are absolutely not crooks.
The Blue Torpedo has just begun its cunning game of mastermind against Moominir. Fortunately, we had no idea how bad it would be. Instead, we spent some 25 minutes fiddling about before we finally got the evil bastard started. And we’re off! A race against the clock.
Highlights of that day’s driving include such stunts as almost not being allowed into the zipper-operation of squishing 2 lanes into 2 and Bitzky spotting a Polish car.

“‘Eeeey! A Fellow Countryman!” he cheers before continuing, “LEARN TO DRIVE!!!”

We finally make it to the garage, hop out of the windows, leaving Tiago inside, and sprint to the office. Closed. Bitzky ponders Breaking & Entering for a while while I attempt to soothe him. “It could be worse,” I think with a clenched stomach. And soon it is. The car won’t start. It honks. It blinks. And remains stubbonrly in place. If it could, it would probably open and close its hood and jump from tyre to tyre in an attempt to attract more attention to the vile crooks trying to burglarize its precious virginity. While we wait for the honking and blinking to stop, we sigh.

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What follows is a complicated ballet of slipping in and out of windows, attempting to open the hood and trunk, trying to replicate the magic conditions that allowed the car to start. I amuse myself by photographing the circus and working out that the horn honks for some 8 seconds, and the alarm blinks for exactly five minutes. A couple hours later, Bitzky has a revelation. Obviously, he argues (with Tiago the Mathematician backing up logical arguments) the only way to disarm the alarm is by going into the trunk. It does not go off, after all, when the happy shopper stuffs his stash there. The variable cannot be whether the hood is open. It is not whether the windows are open either (although it indirectly makes a difference as you will soon see.) Instead, it is whether there are people in the car or not. Apparently his car is pressure-sensitive/window-motion-sensitive à la Indiana Jones. While they had dextrous me jumping in and out of windows (while wearing a skirt), there was always someone parking his butt inside the car! So, the single solution was this: Haul ass-cargo out of car, get inside, do NOT close trunk until you start engine, open windows for airconditioning/cursing/”easy exiting&entering and THEN close the trunk. (Somewhere during the Fiasco, Bitzky found out the manual control to open the trunk from inside the car was kaputt. The fueling gizmo still popped open on command though.) So then we drive off to some slightly dodgy Polish garage where a fat old Pole laughs at me (for some reason) while a slimmer one changes the tyre.
We discover they don’t take cards and go to a cash point. I hug Bitzky in a failed attempt to calm him while his finger bleeds on me. The tyre is changed without further problems and our party dissolves for a few days. (For any WoW-geeks/gamers: we see a few amusing register plates during the trip, like PUG and WTF and best of all, on Åland: WOOT.) We agree to meet during the weekend.

Since we meet on the last real day of my trip, I shall fill in the non-Bitzky days spent in a blur. Tiago and I stalk Stockholm for good places to eat and visit museums like the national history museum, coin museum, dance museum, natural history, etc. Becase of it being culture week, some of the museums that should have cost had free entry. In some cases, this was cool. Highlights included two 2-headed calves, funky African dances, mythology surrounding treasure-hunting, etc. The worst was the dance museum’s exhibition on some Swedish female opera singer whose shriek must shurely break glass. Her crazy make up painted her as a not-very-convincing tranny despite her rather stunning outfits. After admiring the gowns we got the hell out of there before she could finish raping our ears.
I continued my habit of carrying pencils and paper to exhibitions you couldn’t take photos in. Tiago pretended very well not to be annoyed.

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Another not-so-enjoyable exhibition was that one by that American contemporary post-modernist whose name I can never remember. Paul McCarthy. No, not Paul McCartney. The thing with post-modernisim is that it is just as ugly as modernism, but has no real idea behind it other than to shock. Yes, that was a very biased inaccurate opinion, but look at the crap they mass-produce these days and you’ll see. (Studying art has made me lose respect for art.) In my case, his “shocking” work included such “inventive” stuff as people smearing themselves with chocolate and ketchup, then jiggling around naked or wearing masks and shouting the same things over and over. Other “masterpieces” included animated sculptures like two male lifesize dolls with their jeans at their ankles humping a tree and the ground in a forest-scape.
Perhaps if I were 40 years older I would have found his things shocking or even disgusting, but as it was, it was pretty darn boring and pointless. But perhaps that’s what he was trying to evoke?

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Culture Week/festival concerts echoed eerily over the waters and bridges and lured Tiago and me there.I enjoed a powerful performance of Carmena Burana while a crazy guy with a mohawk danced around his bicycle and sang along. I think he might be part of whatever show they were rehearsing for.

And then came Sunday and the final encounter with Bitzky. His Blue Torpedo, renamed to Fucking Bastard, did not show up this time. I was relieved and disappointed - I would not get to hear him let out another juicy “KurrrrRrrrRrrva!!” this time. Instead, we checked out Åhléns City while we waited for 2 Stockholm bloggers to show up (Darla and Blomstret). I was given the Vital Facts: Goths with hamsters called Horror and Terror, good sense of humor, NOT emo - more like 80’s punk goths, probably dressed in black.
Ok. Good enough. Armed with this info, I eventually spotted them descending the stairs to Kulturhuset where we lurked. I smiled at the tall figure in black with a cap, and the pale one with black layered skirts. They did not smile back. EEK! We were introduced, we shook hands, and then off to Burger King we shuffled. Blomstret and Tiago got burgers, while the rest of us talked. Some of us (me mainly) stole food. I observed as blomstret threw out his tomatoes. I was full from breakfast and resisted the urge to ask if I could eat them, meanwhile stealing a few more fries from Tiago. (Clearly I was not as full as I claimed to be.) Bitzky whipped out his camera, which looked the same as mine except less scratched up and a slightly updated model. He promised to photoshop us into our favorite celebrities and snapped pictures. I requested Johnny Depp while Darla said something along the lines that she would have to jump me then. I blushed and leaned back, hiding behind Tiago. Then, we went to Hemköp, where they bought yummy ingredietns for sandwiches and the Potato Salad Incident. Tiago and I got some cranberry juice, which we have both parallel-ly evolved to be addicted to in our time apart in foreign countries. It would complement our 6 cinnamon buns perfectly. Off to Skansen, where I discovered again that I had no space left on my camera. I managed to take a few pictures anyway. Monkeys, lemurs, all so cute! I touched a snake, which I think I have done before, and caressed the hind legs of a tarantula that wished it were not there … At least judging by the way it squished itself into a corner. I managed to persuade Bitzky to do the same. (Touch it, not hide, I mean.) And onwards! The goths bought a crucifix, Darla and Blomstret  and I discovered we shared a love for things piratey.
When we stopped for a picnic, they ate their healthy food while we devoured our desserts. Then, out of the blue, Jenni flung half of her potato salad sandwich on poor Tiago, resulting in much spattered pants. She ripped a pink skirt off and attempted to wipe it off while Tiago assured her, “no, no, it’s alright.” Unfortunately, the operation resulted in very suspicious white smears, which seemed to imply he had experienced a very good time indeed. Scared that I would get the blame from any bypassers for this apparently explosive white joy, I quickly suggested he wash it off with water. He did, and relieved, I saw that he only looked like he had pissed himself, which was acceptable. I would not be blamed for this mess, after all.

Some drunk guy is attempting to talk to me now in both Swedish and Finnish and some drunken invented hybrid language. I am ignoring him thoroughly and hoping he will move along and leave me alone before I crack up. Luckily, he seems to have attacked two Swedes and is attempting to convince them they are from Deutschland. They made the mistake of replying to him. Better get out of here quick before they leave him alone with me.