Scandinavia: Overview

Gross bathrooms. Blood on the floor. These glaring imperfections at the arrivals gate in Copenhagen’s airport gave me the hope that I would be able to write a blog post about how Scandinavia does not actually conform to the squeaky clean image it has earned itself abroad. “Leave your stereotypes at the door!” I was going to write, “You can pick them up later at the Little Mermaid statue.”

But no. Scandinavia is basically just as organized, efficient, and “figured-out” as one would expect.

My guidebook states that Scandinavians are “confident, happy, healthy, and tall.”*  I can see it. “Confident” probably because they never have to worry about things like health insurance or tuition payments. And they know that even if life deals them a blow like job loss or even, say, old age, they’ll be taken care of. But that’s just a guess.

When I was there, the happiness seemed mostly due to heavy vitamin D infusion from the sun. Even in early May, the sun rose a little after 4am and set just before 10pm. Its rays were intense: I came back with a nice tan (though only on my face, neck, and hands, because I still had to wear my coat most of the time). It wasn’t uncommon to see people doing nothing, just facing the sun with their eyes closed. Transcending.

Healthy, for sure. Everyone rode bikes, particularly in Copenhagen, where virtually every street has a bike lane, complete with walk lights so that tourists don’t step out into two-wheel traffic. Joggers had invaded Stockholm and Oslo, serious joggers (I’m guessing by their serious jogging apparel) attracted to these cities’ many lovely parks and waterside running paths. Add the omnipresence of all things organic and you start to realize why everyone has such great skin.

Tall. And blonde. And gorgeous. In Stockholm, this constitutes “average.” (Note to gentlemen: you can try, but you’ll be competing with equally tall, blonde, and gorgeous Swedish men . . .) It just seems to be one of those stereotypes that springs from reality, like loud Americans or the French on strike.

In fact, after two weeks of Scandinavian efficiency and ease, I was dismayed today to have to dive back into the obstacle course of French bureaucracy in preparation for moving out. When I was in Copenhagen, I once wondered, why don’t I just move to Denmark, where everything is so healthy and organized?

Then the clouds rolled in on a bitter Northern wind, and I thought: oh, that’s right. So I ducked into the metro and bought my $8 ticket . . . and that’s the other reason.

*Steves, Rick. Rick Steves’ Scandinavia. 

The Church Next Door

Only a few weeks left of living in Clermont-Ferrand. An American friend asked me today what local experiences I still need to have before leaving (in other words, what tourist activities I've managed to put off for eight months). There are several things I haven't done around here. Most of them did not make it to the bucket list. My life won't be any less complete, for example, if I don't visit the Michelin museum.

But there is one thing, I realized this evening while sitting in my apartment and listening to the church choir, that I absolutely need to do. I can see the tower of Saint-Genès des Carmes through my skylight. Though the original 12th-century church fell victim to the Revolution, the people of Clermont rebuilt it shortly afterward using the dismantled façade of a medieval structure nearby, so it retains the eerie, fairy-tale quality of the pre-Arthurian era. I see the church every morning when I get up to open the shutters, and every night before bed. Its bells serenade my weekends. Now, the French are not a religious people; they banned it during the Revolution, and seem to have lost it completely after the world wars. But even they can't deny the beauty that the Catholic church contributes to everyday life in this country. It's not everywhere that you can wake up to the same orchestra of bells that people heard a thousand years ago. 

And yet, I've never visited. It would be a shame to live a year in the shadow of this church-- which is as close as I have to a roommate-- without ever meeting it personally. Michelin, take it or leave it. But this I have to do.

Istanbul: The Man Who Could Bargain Like an Arab Trader (and the Arab Trader)

It began, as it always does, when he decided that he just wanted to ask some questions. “I’m not going to buy anything,” my friend, Hagop, told me. And would repeat.

We stand in Istanbul's Grand Bazaar. The hum of tourist activity mingles with the call and clamor of merchants: “Spend some money for your honey!” “Nervous New Yorkers! Don’t be so nervous!” Apparently we give off a Woody Allen vibe.

We find an authentic-looking rug shop. A pleasant young man, who surprises me with his informality and natural demeanor (considering he’s a rug merchant), greets us. He and Hagop delve into an interesting and educational conversation about the various types of rugs hanging on the walls of the small enclave. When he realizes that we (meaning Hagop) are serious buyers, he invites us to their main shop, a much larger gallery a few bazaar aisles away, and introduces us to the boss.

The leader of the operation is a portly, well-dressed man who compulsively checks his iPhone every few minutes. As one would expect, he is incredibly friendly, speaks fluent English, and just happens to visit the U.S. every chance he gets!

Hagop begins to describe the type of carpet he is (not) looking to buy. Talking a mile a minute, the dealer tells his young employee to pull this or that rug from the pile and roll it out on the floor, then another, then another, until I am cross-eyed from trying to process so many patterns and shapes. Seeing that none of them pleases the customer, he proposes an alternative:

“We go to Floor Five, where you will see more rugs.”

Oh good!

He leads us down a winding path through a darker and less touristy corner of the Grand Bazaar until we arrive at an antique lift elevator. He waves us inside with a smile. The iron gates snap shut, and we begin our lurch to Floor Five.

The dealer throws us a smile. We smile back politely. Then look at the floor. And wait.

When the doors creak open, we find ourselves in a softly lit, wood-paneled room, lined with more money than I will ever make. Two overstuffed armchairs sit at one end. The dealer picks up right where he left off: as a small brigade of helpers heft carpet after carpet off of piles and unfurl them across the floor, he describes the style, the provenance, and the age of each one. (Apparently rugs age at the rate of twenty years every ten minutes. Who knew?) The workers hold up one end of each rug to let Hagop inspect the design; when a look of skepticism crosses his face—as it inevitably does—they set it down and go for the next one. None pass the Hagop test.

It's an odd moment to have a flashback to The Christmas Story, but suddenly I'm Ralphie, watching his father buy a Christmas tree and thinking: “The man could bargain like an Arab trader.”

Because Hagop really can bargain like an Arab trader. Not only does he manage to make the real trader sweat, but the latter actually offers to pay him.

“I’ll give you a good price for it,” the trader says, referring to the rug inherited from Hagop’s grandmother. This constitutes Hagop’s brilliant strategy for avoiding approval of any of the fifty million rugs in view: his grandmother’s rug, located somewhere in Michigan, is an antique of exceptional quality, with the perfect fringe length, and it will fly you to a Whole New World and grant you three wishes, and anything less simply won’t cut the mustard.

“I think we’re going to keep that one.”

“But if you ever want to sell it, you come back. I’ll give you a great price.” His iPhone jingles again. He peers at it furtively. “Excuse me,” he says, and steps aside.

While his back is turned, Hagop rushes over to me and murmurs, “That tea had better get here soon.”

Free tea? That’s why we’re here?

“I wonder if they have sahlep*,” he continues, half-joking.

The dealer ends his phone call and turns around. Hagop stands up straight, hardens his mouth into a stern line, and strolls back toward him, carefully examining a carpet’s unacceptable fringe on the way.

The tea arrives. Finally. An old man silently hands me a shot glass of very strong, very sweet liquid on an elaborate blue and gold saucer.

Hagop perpetuates his conversation with the dealer. When I finish my tea, he has barely made a dent, carefully stirring and talking about fringes.

The chief steps away for another phone call. “Suck it down,” I whisper.

“I’m trying.”

The dealer returns. “So, my friend?” he asks.

Hagop nods slowly, reflecting. “Let me come back with a picture of my grandmother’s rug,” he says.

Nice.

We set our empty glasses on a mahogany end table. After over an hour of hemming and hawing and sipping and pondering rug fringes as if I actually knew something about them, we are free.

To be fair, Hagop really did return to the rug shop, as he had promised the dealer. And, as he had promised me, bought nothing.  

*A heavenly dessert beverage made from the crushed bulb of the lotus blossom and unicorn sweat.