My top drawer

2008-12-23T01:23:00.000-08:00

Wonderfull day. Waking up with a violent hangover, just in time to see the winter light pour in over the rooftops like a bowl of fresh milk spilled in heaven.

2008-05-14T03:43:00.000-07:00

Jag tycker om doften av nytvättat hår.
Jag tycker om vatten som är rent och klart.
Jag tycker om det heliga evengeliet, men jag är inte alltid säker på att jag förstår vad det handlar om.
Jag tycker om att inte kunna skilja mellan vad som är religion och vad som är filosofi.
Jag tycker om att begå misstag, ibland kan det vara väldigt uppfriskande.
Jag tycker om öronsnibbar och knäskålar.
Jag tycker om en köldspricka som jag brukar få mitt på underläppen om vintern, min kusin har en likadan.
Jag tycker om att försöka beskriva känslan av att bli berörd i själen.
Jag tycker om att inse att ibland är inte orden fel, bara för många.
Jag tycker om min mormor Margot väldigt mycket, när hon blir arg växer hon ett par decimeter och får ett grönt skimmer omkring sig.
Jag tycker om att vara ledsen när jag vet att det kommer att gå över.
Jag tycker om sorgsna filmer men jag gillar inte att gråta på bio, ändå kan jag inte hejda mig många gånger.
Jag tycker om att tänka på att Lars von trier borde få böta för onödigt användande av stråkar i filmen "Dancer in the dark"
Jag tycker om Björk, trots att hon ställde upp och spelade huvudrollen.
Jag tycker om att både Björk och Trier påstår att de aldrig hört talas om varandra innan de började arbeta tillsammans med filminspelningen.
Jag tycker om helgonbilder, men jag pussar inte på dem om det inte är någon jag känner.

Postblog

2008-05-13T10:03:00.000-07:00

I am in Budapest already, but I have had some trouble with getting Wifi conection until now so I am going to post a lot of old blog posts. Budapest is beautiful by the way. I think you all should go here if you have the chance.

2008-05-07T05:48:00.001-07:00

I had a dispute with god again before I left the monastery in Minsk. We didn't agree and I haven't heard from him since. He sent me two beautiful angels but the border patrol wouldn't let them leave the country without the proper documents.

Now I'm sitting on the doorstep to heaven in the highest building in Warsaw, thinking about what the old prophet once said: It takes a lot to laugh, it takes a train to cry. And the only mistakes I regret, are the ones I make when I think I'm doing everything right.

2008-04-26T12:24:00.000-07:00

Dimitri speaks good English since he has been working for several years in a greenhouse in Norway. He earns five times as much money in Norway as he does in Minsk

-But that is also because I have nothing else to do in Norway but to work. I don't have my wife there and so I take as many shifts as I can. If I would move there I would probably not earn as much because I would like to spend more time with my wife and raise a family.

He has been thinking about moving to Norway permanently but most probably he will stay here in Minsk. He runs a small business with some friends and together they tour around Belorus with a huge tent and sell honey at markets.

But today he is working for the monastery and the honey tent is going to be placed in a big square in the middle of Minsk. The Sisters will be working there on easter eve to sell candles, icons and handcrafts. This morning offered my hands to help out and since Dimitri speaks good English I was assigned to help his work team put up the tent.

We stop at a huge square in front of a big supermarket and start unloading the truck. The work is heavy, because the frame of the huge tent is mainly made by thick steel pipes. I work with a determined fellow who apparently has done this many times before. He and I stand in the large truck handing down the steel pipes and the decorations to the guys in the square. He doesn't speak English but he's got a very good signlanguage which makes him very easy to work with.

After an hour or so everything is unloaded and we proceed to put up the tent. The air is still mild but the hard work and the beaming sun makes me thirsty, so I run across the square to by a soda at a small wending cart outside the huge supermarket.

The supermarket is a huge old building in old soviet architecture. The lady at the wending cart is nice and helpful and I manage to buy an orange soda pop mainly just by smiling and pointing.

For several hours we work hard to get put up the tent up and to assemble the interior furniture. I am assigned to put together the shelves from Ikea which is a task I like, it makes me feel like home.

When practically everything is in order there is a man in a gray suit who comes up to Dimitry and starts arguing with him. He is a heavy middle aged man dressed in a well fitted suit. He's got the posture and the look about him as someone who is very rich and used to get his will through.

After the rude guy has left, Dimitri quickly tells everyone what to do and there is a noticeable increase in the work pace. So when the man in the suit returns, everything is finished and we are already packing the tools back in to the van.

The guy in the grey suit has brought yet another person also with a big belly and gray suit, they look so much alike that they could have been brothers. The two of them have also brought and a third person whith a puffy red face and peering eyes. He seems to be some kind of official or inspector.

I toy with the imagination that these guys belong to some branch of the Russian mafia and that they are here to squeeze the convent for money for protection. I keep myself in the background since I don't know what they would do if they found out I am a foreigner without a work permit.

The two bloated guys in gray suits argues for a while with Dimitri who only shakes his head and seem to say tat there is nothing he can do about it. The suits points at him and then waves with a hand at the tent and it's obvius that they aren't happy with the situation.

Meanwhile the red faced inspector walks around inside the tent inspecting it thoroughly. He even scrutinize me for a while as I am sitting having a smoke, but I turn my head away and look in another direction.

After they have left we continue to pack up the tools and I ask Dimitri what it was all about.

-It was the owners of the supermarket and they weren't very happy, he says, they told me we have to take it all down again because when they gave their permit they thought it would only be a small tent.

Everything here seems to need a permit of some sort, even the house I live in have it's own passport. As if it would go anywhere.

Monuments in Minsk

2008-04-25T11:48:00.000-07:00

Dima and Natasha have both offered to be my guides in Minsk. They are very eager to show me the sites and they seem to argue about where to take me and what to show me.

Dima has studied English for only two months but he has already learned much. He tells me that it's important for him to learn English because he wants to travel and to tell others about Belorus.

He asks me how much I knew about Belorus before I came here and I confess to him that I didn't know much, except that Lukasjenko is the president both for Belorus and for the Belorussian hockey team.

They tell me that it is hard for a student to travel abroad. It is only possible to go to Russia and Ukraine without applying for visa, and visa is both expensive and hard to get.

Belorus has actually it's own language appart from Russian. There aren't many people who speak Belorus but some - mostly younger people - study Belorus at the university.

We stop for a cup of coffee at the central railway station. In the background they are playing old revolutionary marches on the speaker system. A policeman with green uniform and a large hat walks his beat and wakes up a man dozing of in his seat. Everything is very tidy and neat.

The railway station is huge and a fairly new construction. The architecture is symmetrical and based on simple geometric forms. It's bombastic in it's design but I don't think the result is very impressive. It is as if it wants to give an impression of practicality but it actually isn't even very practical.

Minsk was totally destroyed by German bombs during world war two and almost all the buildings are built in the 50's. There is a small Island called old town where there still is some houses from 19th century, but that's all.

Natasja and Dima takes me to the old town and afterwards to the war memorial called the island of tears, in honor of soldiers from Minsk who lost their lives in the war in Afghanistan.

I am repulsed by the monument since it reminds me of one of the most stupid, horrific and illegitimate wars in the history of man kind that has caused political destabilization and cultural regression in a large region.

Why is it, that the history of man kind seems to be written only in the pauses of respite and truce, in a war that never seem to end? Why is it that destruction and destabilization can so easily be justified and accepted amongst common men, while understanding and cooperation is so rare, and often met with grave suspicion?

Natasja tells me that the Island of tears is a very popular monument. There is a tradition in Belorus to put flowers at your favorite monument when you get married, so many newly weds come here and honor the dead soldiers.

I am glad to leave the Island of Tears and as we walk slowly towards the Square of Victory we talk about famous people who we all recognize. Both Dima and Natasja tell me that they have read Selma Lagerlöv and that "Carlsson on the roof" was one of their favorite stories when they were kids. I tell them that Michail Bulgakov is one of my favorite writers and that the "Master and Margarita" is one of my biggest literary experiences.

As we continue speaking about Ingmar Bergman and Fjodor Dostojevskij there is a notion among us three that we grow more familiar because we know the same people. It is as if these famous people we talk about are good old friends that we put trust and faith in, and as being a friend of a friend this trust and friendship is shared also between us three.

And I guess this is why culture is the most efficient weapon to disarm the warmongers, who aim to unite people by pointing towards an alien enemy. Heroes and idols that don't partake in the bloody history of the ever ongoing war against mankind is vital to peace and prosperity. There will never be enough monuments of famous men and women who never fired a bullet or never waged war against his neighbors.

But the monuments of such people aren't built with stone or cast in bronze, they are written in books, performed in theaters and hung in galleries all over the world. Theirs is a living monument of knowledge and of culture rather then one of victory and defeat.

Working in the church

2008-04-24T11:00:00.000-07:00

Brother Max offers me the last cup of coffee. Instead of coffee he prepares for himself a mug with hot water mixed with homemade jam. Blueberries, raspberries and currants.

He has kind face and a friendly smile. He's a big man and seems to harbor a big calm. I am told to help him to paint some of the walls and ceilings in the big church.

He doesn't use his hands to explain the work to me, but what he lacks in sign language he makes up with his immense patience towards me. We paint and work in silence.

Later I am assigned to work with Vitalek. He objects when I try to take a picture of him but I do it anyway. Afterwards he demands to see the result and flips through all the hundred images in the camera.

I stand beside him and wonder if he likes them. There are som of the pictures in there that I'm actually really proud of. But as Vitalek flips through the pictures the only comment I hear is reoccuring word "Normal"

-Aha, mhm... , normal... , normal... , mhm... normal...

He says "normal" so many times that I'm starting to think that he is very unimpressed with my work. I feel my heart sink for a while before I realize the comedy of the situation. He says "Normal" and use the word to express something good, while normal to me mostly mean mainstream and boring.

Jag tycker om

2008-04-21T07:05:00.000-07:00

Jag tycker om böcker som börjar med ett påstående.
Jag tycker om att putsa skorna när det blir vår.
Jag tycker om att gå till frisören och få håret i nacken rakat med en gammaldags rakkniv.
Jag tycker om den afrikanska kvinnan som pratar swahili i mobiltelefonen när hon kliver ombord på bussen.
Jag tycker om människor som ser sig för och lämnar plats åt sina medresenärer, människor som inte är uppmärksamma får mig alltid att tänka på allt elände i världen.
Jag tycker om att ha gott om tid, så att jag kan ta nästa tåg om jag vill.
Jag tycker om högtidstal som har både humor och hjärta.
Jag tycker om att höra orden "jag älskar dig" viskas i hemlighet.
Jag tycker om äkta tårar som rymmer både sorg och lycka.
Jag tycker om att åka hem längst fram i en proppfull nattbus och att se hemvägen rullas upp framför mig genom en regnklädd vindruta.
Jag tycker om vackra människor som inte bekymrar sig.
Jag tycker om att fira nattvarden med gammeldansk och mörk choklad.
Jag tycker om Vladimir Vysotskij, den ryska poeten och tillika författaren bakom dikten "det värsta jag vet"
Jag tycker om att jag har gjort riktigt dåraktiga handlingar och ändå klarat mig helskinnad.
Jag tycker om att jag ännu aldrig har behövt spendera en natt på sjukhus, utom när jag föddes men då var jag så liten att jag knappt syntes till.
Jag tycker om att skryta med att jag en gång slängt ut Peter Wahlbäck från en poesiläsning med Bob Hansson, det var inte alls så dramatiskt som det låter men det var ganska kul.
Jag tycker om Peter Wahlbäck, han värnar om en sorts galenskap förutan vilken den präktiga svenska folksjälen skulle förtvina och dö.
Jag tycker om att använda utrotningshotade ord som "tillika" och "förtvina"
Jag tycker om alla mina vänner, ingen nämnd och ingen glömd.

Arriving at Elisabeth Monastery in Minsk

2008-04-20T18:45:00.000-07:00

The Frenchman I meet on the bus is reluctant to let me go. Partly because he doesn't think I will survive in Belorus without speaking Russian, and partly because he seem to enjoy the company of another westerner.

He looks at me with disbelief and ask me if I'm sure I will be alright. What will I do, he asks, if nobody shows up to meet me? I shrug my shoulders and raise a hand to the skies. Who knows?

But I have already spotted sister Olga. At first I don't recognize her because she has a big jacket and a hood pulled over her head. She's sitting on a bench like a sulking teenager.

She seem very tired and she's surprised to see me already, my bus arrived fifteen minutes early. There's a strange moment when I don't know how to greet her. Do you shake hands with a nun or what?

In the end we exchange polite "nice to see you again" and Olga leads me to the car waiting for us. I throw my luggage in the trunk and we head out towards the monastery.

The first impression of the monastery is overwhelming. White walls and blue rooftops, and the big church in front of the main building with its golden domes gleaming in the bright sunlight.

I know that all of these buildings are constructed fairly recently, but it's hard for me to understand that there was nothing here only ten years ago. They all seem so solid and monumental.

I imagine a guide walking around here, several hundred years from now, telling students and tourists about an important period for the Russian Orthodox Church.

But that is yet in the future. At the moment we are walking towards the large dining hall to get something to eat, but we are suddenly stopped by brother Elia who wants to show me everything.

I haven't eaten since breakfast, because when the buss stopped for a short lunch brake in Vilnius I had no Lithuanian money and even at Mc Donalds they didn't accept credit cards.

Sister Olga knows this and she tries to explain it to brother Elia, but he is too enthusiastic to let me go just yet. He want's me to see the work they have been doing in the new church.

He hastes in through a cellar door and we have no other option than to follow his black robe down and into the crypt of the church and then up the stairs into the main chapel.

The glistening mosaic and the golden details are gleaming almost as bright as the enthusiasm in Elias eyes as he waves at me to follow and points out the details they have been working on lately.

A big golden cross that are going to crown one of the domes of the church is being prepared with leaflets of gold. He shows me the thin fragments of pure gold lying about and sister Olga translates for him as he tells me that it is a difficult task to apply the gold properly

-Westerners have a joke about us Russians says sister Olga and smiles, they say that even if we don't have food to put on our table still decorate our churches with gold.

We also have a short visit in Elias workshop, a small shed with large windows and a simple fireplace. Everything is covered with a thin layer of white dust that makes it look almost like a bakery.

In the workshop there are fishes hanging to dry. There are at least a hundred of them, strung up in the ceiling with iron wire through their eyes. It's a good catch and it makes the whole workshop smell fishy.

Brother Elia smiles and shows me a piece of Alabaster he has been working on. A detail for the lighting in the church. He holds it up towards the light to let me see how the rays shine through the porous stone.

Sister Olga takes a few of the fishes and leads me to the dining hall. I follow her black robe and there is something carefree in the way she lets the fishes dangle by her side.

She disappears into the kitchen and ask the staff to prepare a meal for me. I am seated in a comfortable wooden chair by a long table in a large dining hall. There is room for at least 90 persons in there.

The food she brings tastes like heaven on a plate after my day long fast. Potatoes and soup. It's simple, just as the Frenchman on the bus told me, simple but well cooked and very tasty.

Sister Olga leaves me alone for a while to enjoy my food and my thoughts. The girls in the kitchen glance at me curiously and spy through the doorway.

Alexis who works in the kitchen, smiles at me frankly. He has a look on his face as if we both share a wonderful secret. He comes and sit beside me silently and I share some of my food with him.

We sit for a while enjoying each others company and the only word we both understand is Mayonaise. So I spread some mayonaise on a piece of dark bread and hand it to him.

I like him, and we seem to understand each other quite well considering we don't speak the same language. He makes me feel warm and welcome just by being there.

2008-04-20T10:11:00.000-07:00

Jag sluter ögonen bara för en kort stund och när jag öppnar dem igen är jag i Litauen. Bussen stannar vid en ödslig mack vid landsvägen och jag kliver av för att köpa cigaretter och vatten. Det är först när expediten vägrar ta emot mina Lettiska mynt som jag förstår att vi har bytt land. Jag betalar med kort och vi väntar tålmodigt under tystnad på att transaktionen skall godkännas. När jag kommer ut igen har chauffören redan startat motorn och alla väntar bara på mig.

Desto märkbarare är gränsövergången mellan Litauen och Vitryssland. Gränsen markeras av ett smalt kalhygge och ett manshögt stängsel. Den första person som möter oss på den vitryska sidan är en kvinna i trettioårs åldern med dunjacka, handväska och höga klackar. Hon huttrar i vårblåsten och ser ut som om hon väntar på någon eller som om hon helst skulle vilja vara någon annanstans. Hon tittar på bussen med en föraktfull min och vänder sig sedan bort.

En kvinnlig tulltjänsteman kontrollerar våra pass och säger åt oss att kliva av bussen och ta med oss allt vårt bagage. Sedan lämnas vi ståndes på led i en kall vänthall, vi får formulär att fylla i och till slut låter de oss passera. Vårt bagage körs genom en stor röntgenmaskin av samma sort som de har på flygplatser. Det märkliga är att ingen verkar uppriktigt intresserad av inehållet. Det är som om de inte alls är intresserade av oss utan mest gör vad protokollet kräver.

Jag har svårt att bli av med känslan att de när som helst skall säga att jag inte får komma in, att det har blivit något misstag. Att mitt visum inte är giltigt längre. Men till slut låter de oss kliva ombord på bussen igen. Alla utom jag. Jag har fyllt i mitt formulär fel och måste göra om det igen. Tulltjänstemannen gör sig ingen brådska, det viktigaste är att formuläret blir rätt ifyllt, trots att en ny kö redan börjar formas bakom mig.

Subject Riga

2008-04-19T09:30:00.000-07:00

Don't take your beer out of the pub when you are in Riga. Nobody will try to stop you, but if the police see you they will give you an instant fine on 60lat which is about 85€. Our friend the Norwegian experienced that yesterday and as the police car drove away, he waved the ticket with a faint smile saying something about at least not having to buy a souvenir.

Riga has about 800 thousand inhabitants which makes it a fairly big city. But it's huge when you consider that there are only 2 million living in the whole of Latvia. In the 90's the unemployment rate in the rural areas was very high so people moved to Riga to work with tourism and service instead.

Today the unemployment situation is far better than in the 90's. Riga as a city is growing and in the streets you see a lot of people with smart clothes driving cars like Bentley, Lexus, Porsche and Jaguar. The city has a rich variety of good restaurants and bars, and it is said that every time the moon is full a new high class joint grows up through the cracked concrete of old soviet architecture.

We have already tried several of the new establishments, one stranger than the other. One of our favorites is a restaurant where the waitresses are dressed like a weird combination of goth anarchist vampires and the Mad Hatter in Alice in wonderland. They also have a band consisting of a jazz pianist and a fiddler playing old rock classics and blues covers as if it was high culture and part of the national treasures.

Speaking of national treasures, nationalism is a sensitive subject here in Latvia. After a long period of occupation, the Latvians are now striving to maintain a sense of national identity. Only 60% of the Latvian population is in fact Latvian and almost 30% are Russian. Much thanks to the Soviet migration policy to transfer Russians from Soviet to the Baltic states, and to deport dissidents from the Baltic states to camps in Siberia.

To celebrate the freedom from Russian oppression, the Latvian government have raised a huge monument in the middle of Riga called the Statue of Freedom. It is crowned by a stern looking woman holding three stars, symbolizing the three Latvian provinces joined together as one.

Little did they know when they raised this symbol of freedom that they would escape the harsh occupation of the Soviet Union only to be subject to an invasion of English stag parties. Englishmen have a somewhat tarnished reputation in Riga, especially since the Latvian police have reported several incidents when drunken Englishmen have been found desecrating said Statue of freedom. After 40 years of occupation the Latvians take these things very seriously. So if you have to take a leak while in Latvia, try to make it just another block or your vacation may come to a sudden end in prison or even worse in a hospital.

But don't worry, most Latvians are nice and helpful and sympathetic. There is a massive support for the Tibetan cause among the Latvian people. Protests are arranged weekly in front of the Chinese embassy in order to force China to negotiate with the Dalai Lama. No doubt this sympathy with the Tibetan people stems from a lifelong experience of occupation and oppression at home.

Riga is a very international city, we have been to a Cuban cafe that serves a wonderful Mohito, and there is an Indian vegetarian restaurant that serves Ayurvedic lunch and even a Mexican bar with 46 different sorts of tequila. Sadly we could not try all of them yesterday. But In this rich and international flora of restaurants it's almost impossible to find somewhere to buy Chinese take away.

The best food however is served at a small lunch cafe called "Piedod Muza". It's very hard to find since it is located on a back alley in an old building that looks like it is going to fall apart if you scream to loud. But don't let the rough exterior scare you away. Inside there is a small cafe with a warm and cosy atmosphere and here you can buy a traditional Latvian home cooked meal for only 2-3 lats.

Today that is about the same as 3-4 euros, but expect the prices to get higher. Latvia has experienced a boom in it's economy over the past ten years and it's pushing up the prices. The inflation in Latvia is today 16.8% and rising. The average Latvian salary is about 1000€ and most Latvians pay more than half of their income for food and rent.

Maybe that's why everybody is so grumpy in the superstore. If you go shopping for groceries in Riga you will notice that the Latvians don't use many words to carry out the transaction of goods and money. Not even a slight hello or thanks (thanks is "paldies" in Latvian) is exchanged between the shop assistant and the customer and hardly ever a smile, only the money that changes owner and the rattling sound of the cash register.

To get a slightly more interesting shopping experience and a far better variety of goods, I suggest you to take a short walk to one of the many markets in Riga. The biggest market is called Central Market in good old socialist fashion and is conveniently located just around the corner from the central station and the central post office. Here you can find anything from Russian Orthodox religious icons via food and groceries to hardware.

Speaking of hardware, would you ever think an old rusty padlock would be very romantic? Well so do the Latvians. There are some bridges here in Riga that are practically cramped with these padlocks. They are locked to the bridge as a symbol of love, and many of them are even engraved with the names of the lovers. As a symbol for eternal love it must be quite practical since all you have to do if you brake up is go back and unlock the damn padlock again. Or do they also throw the key in the river as a part of the ritual? That is yet to find out...

No hangover today

2008-04-18T03:43:00.000-07:00

Today I woke up in Riga for the first time without a hangover. This I celebrated with running 3km and meditating for half an hour. Yesterday Antoine moved out and took the bus to Vilnius. Antoine is a young and enthusiastic french guy who I met the day I arraived and there were just so many bars we had to try. One in particular was called Tequela Boom and they had 46 different sorts of tequela.

We spent most of the days walking around town taking pictures. And I have even found a place where I can develop my B/W films for a third of the price as home in sweden.

We also met this Latvian guy who used us as an excuse not to go home to his girlfriend. He draged us allong from one bar to the other until we eventually ended up in cuba and met the Norweigians. They are really helpful and friendly these Latvians, espescially as drinking companion. (I just heard that his girlfriend was so pissed on him so she exchanged his shower gel with washing liquid, a mild revenge but still)

Now I'm going to have lunch have a nice day.

Potato with food!

2008-04-15T09:06:00.000-07:00

Now I am gratefully on firm ground again. I sweat out the last of the sad atmosphere in the sauna just before we arrive in Riga after almost 17 hours at sea. Sun is shining and I'm on my way to find a hostel called "the tiger". The ad says that they have, lockers, Internet and beds from 10€ per night, which is just what I need right now.

On my way to the hostel i find a really good cafe in an old apartment building that looks so worn down that I almost think it's abandoned. On the outside there are broken windows and iron bars visible through the concrete but inside in the cafe, there is a warm and very modern lounge with good music and a pleasant atmosphere. The menu is totally vegetarian and naturally in Latvian so I just order what ever the person in front of me is having.

-Potato with food. Says the girl behind the counter when I ask her what the dish is called. Yes I can see that I say but what is it called? and she looks at me as if I had said something terrible and repeats -Potato with food! I realize that this conversation isn't going to make either of us any wiser so I sit down, shut up and enjoy my Potato with food, and it is absolutely fantastic. After the horrible food on the ferry, Potato with food tastes exactly like heaven with bliss.

17 timmar till Riga

2008-04-15T09:01:00.000-07:00

I am in Riga now. I traveled from Stockholm by ferry yesterday and I woke up six thirty this morning to the sound of a Russian cartoon. Five hyperactive monkeys screaming and singing and their striving mother, a poor chimpanzee was trying to keep them all well fed and out of trouble. Actually not at all a bad way to wake up and really amusing even though I couldn't understand a word of what they were singing.

I don't think I'll ever get tired of loud and noisy cartoons. When I was a kid I used to get up seven in the morning and spend the whole morning in front of the cartoons on Sky Channel and Super Channel. That was how I learned to speak English, this morning kind of reminded me of that. Who knows, maybe I can learn some Russian.

The good thing about the ferry is the sauna. I stumbled down there this morning, with frozen limbs and Russian monkeys on speed climbing around in my head and It felt like a sanctuary to step inside the dark and steaming hot room. And of course the usual sauna talk. "Which do you prefer, the Russian or the Finnish sauna? Is life in Sweden better or worse now or before the European Union?"

In exchange of my opinion the Latvian businessman gives his version of the European Union. "I don't like it" he says, "And it's not only because the Danes bought our sugar plants and shut them down, just to sell us sugar at a higher price. They told us it would get cheaper, but instead the price went up. Every year the price for living goes up here, today the average Latvian worker pays half of his salary only to food and rent"

"We had the chance to become an independent nation after the fall of the Soviet union. We are a small country, and we haven't had time to figure out our national identity since the Soviet occupation. At least I think we should have tried to make it on our own. But the main reason I don't like the EU is that those who run the European union put the money before the people, and the people does not even come in second place."

He says he has been in Sweden on a business trip. One of his trucks that he rents out had an accident and he's bringing it home for repairs. I could have asked him how he would think it be possible for him to rent out trucks to Sweden if it weren't for the European Union, but I really don't want to get into that discussion so I let it be.

If the good thing about the ferry is the sauna and the Russian cartoons, the bad thing is almost everything else. The atmosphere is a strange mix between a sleazy cabaret show and a enormously over sized pick up van owned by a sexually neurotic teenager. You can smell old dried up puke and spilled liquor here and there, and most of the crew members have a look on their faces as if they had too much to drink last night and rather would be somewhere else right now.

The cheap food tastes like wallpaper, the shrimp salad looks like it would jump up and kill you just for looking at it and the beer on tap has a foul taste of jeast and badly cleaned pipes. The scene that really freaks me out before I go to sleep in my chair is the two passengers in the closed cafeteria, smoking cigarettes and watching soft porno movies on the cafeteria television. Both in complete absorbed silence as if they were watching something of grave importance and contemplating the ass and pussy of the world.

Äntligen april

2008-03-22T04:03:00.000-07:00

Äntligen April, almanackan säger att det fortfarande är mars, men jag litar bara på vädret. När man vaknar en vacker morgon och ser att våren är på väg och man ger sig ut på stan med alldeles för lite kläder, bara för att överraskas av en hagelskur strax efter lunch, då vet man att april redan här.

Jag har fickorna fulla av hagel och kan knappt vänta tills det blir april på riktigt. Min båt avgår den fjortonde mot baltikum och därefter bussresan till Minsk. I tisdags var jag på vitryska ambassaden och lämnade in min visumansökan till en stressad tjänsteman som inte var intresserad av att få mig att känna mig välkommen. Come back next tuesday, var allt jag fick höra innan jag for med hissen ner till Svenskt territorium igen. Tekniskt sett har jag redan varit i Vitryssland utan att ens lämna Lidingö.

Tills vidare klarar jag mig bra här i Stockholm, Jag har fått låna en lägenhet av en vän till en vän. Han vill inte bo där själv och jag förstår honom eftersom lägenheten saknar både dusch och toalett på grund av vattenskada. Men april är skämtets och överraskningarnas månad och innan jag vet ordet av har jag blivit befordrad till hotellreceptionist på ett charmigt litet hotell på söder. En kursare till mig arbetar som hotellföreståndarinna och hon låter mig sova över på hotellet mot att jag hjälper till att checka in några sena gäster från Mexico och duka fram frukosten på morgonen. Det passar mig bra. Inte bara för att jag behöver någonstans att sova, duscha och bajsa utan också för att jag blir lätt rastlös av att bara gå omkring och vänta på visum. Det är kul att få jobba lite ibland också.

Just nu sitter jag i läsesalen på Kulturhuset och skriver. De har en lyssnarhörna med sköna fåtöljer och hörlurar där man kan beställa nästan vilken musik som hellst. När jag frågar bibliotikarien om de har Fria Proteaterns inspelningar med Vysotskijsånger försvinner han in på lagret en stund och kommer snart tillbaka med en härligt raspig vinylskiva. Han frågar mig vilket nummer jag sitter vid och jag kastar en hastig blick genom salen.

Det sitter en stor karl med ett runt, rött ansikte i en fåtölj och ser ut som lyckan själv. Han ler stort och verkar helt försjunken i musiken han lysnar på. Han ser ut som en jazzmusiker och jag gissar att han lyssnar på en skiva med Arne Domnérus. Han verkar trivas så bra att jag bestämmer mig för att slå mig ner i närheten av honom. Nummer 23 säger jag och väljer en plats med utsikt över hötorgsskraporna som inte är alltför långt bort från killen med smilet. Kanske kan han smitta av sig lite av sitt sköna leende på mig. (När jag tittar på honom över axeln tittar han upp och ser mig rakt i ögonen, jag nickar lite harmset och tittar bort.)

När jag har lyssnat en stund på Vysotskij och skrivit lite, går jag tillbaka till bibliotekarien och letar igenom musikkatalogen. På första bladet hittar jag en skiva med Arne Domnérus, den heter "Pawnshop Blues" och jag ber honom sätta på den åt mig. Jazzfarbrorn sitter fortfarande kvar och när jag ska passera honom makar han på sina ben. Jag slår mig ner i fåtöljen igen och kränger på mig lurarna igen. Tonerna till "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" porlar in i mina öron. Det fungerar, en lång stund kan jag varken skriva eller tänka. Allt jag förmår är att sitta och le och jag låter tonerna massera hjärnan som vatten från en springbrunn.

Det slår mig att Arne Domnérus saxofon inte bara är ett musikinstrument, utan mer av en massagemaskin som kan sträcker sig in genom öronen och masserar hjärnan inifrån. Tonerna ligger precis innanför huden på mig och det är som att de hela tiden skämtar lite med varandra, fintar, försvinner och dyker upp igen på helt oväntade ställen. Inte undra på att han är så lycklig tänker jag. Jag bestämmer mig för att jag måste fråga vad han lyssnar på - vid det här laget är jag övertygad om att mannen med leendet också lyssnar på Domnérus - men när jag vänder mig om igen har han försvunnit.

När jag har lyssnat färdigt frågar jag Bibliotekarien. Nr 31 säger jag, han som satt där, vad lyssnade han på? Bibliotekarien bläddrar lite bland några album, hittar nummer 31 och lyfter ner ett svart skivomslag som han räcker över till mig "E-type" säger han med ett neutralt tonfall.