Le tiocan

So, yeah, my camera overexposed the Alps. For shame. If you look hard enough at the second photo, you can just barely see Mont Blanc. All of this is after an approximately 45 minute road climb into the Jura (on a hardtail mountain bike with knobby tires and, ahem, largely in the small ring) from St Genis. Followed by a technical descent down a single track trough the forest, and back into the village of thoiry. Europro, here we go.

Note: I swear I’m doing physics here, too. Just not writing about it.

the jetlag diaries

Jetlag from Europe to California is a beautiful thing: you wake up at four in the morning, bright-eyed and bushy-taled, and sit at the kitchen table eating cereal. Yes! Indeed, there is cereal, you realize, because you’re in America. God Bless.

Jetlag from California to Europe, however, leaves you dead-tired during all your waking hours, forgetting to eat at CERN and not having time to go to the silly French supermarket before it closes at 7 PM, living exclusively off of smuggled cliff bars for two days straight (true story), and blogging about it from your depressing and smelly hostel room at 3 in the morning before you collapse again in exhaustion just as it’s time to wake up.

All that being said: Have you ever built a bike out of a box at Geneva airport while some of the wealthiest people in the world mosey on by on their way to glitzy Alpine slopes, skis and designer luggage in tow? I have. It’s quite the experience. It takes about half an hour, will earn you a good deal of interested but aloof glances, and it makes you feel like somewhat of a badass. Badass, that is, until you don’t know what to do with the cardboard bike box and decide to carry it awkwardly in one arm (bike in the other) down the airport stairway to the left luggage desk in the train station. Barring all those confused stares from Swiss businessmen ascending on the adjacent escalator, this was my plan of action.

Soon enough, however, I realize that I don’t know how to say “Can you throw this away please?” in French, and so when I reach the desk  I simply push the box toward the left luggage man and say “trash?” Poor guy is taken aback, clearly not understanding.* As luck would have it, I am saved by a blond youngster, maybe the left luggage man’s apprentice, who approaches from behind the counter, looks me in the eyes and nods. “Oui, trash,” he says. He is of the generation that has been raised on the internet and therefore, understands English, at least to some degree. We stand there for a second in mutual understanding before he takes the bike box from me and starts walking toward the back door. “trash,” he says again. “Merci Beaucoup!” say I.

Exiting the airport and riding toward CERN and the snowcapped Jura, I have no regrets. I have my own bike, in Geneva. It’s rolling so smoothly beneath me that I just have to smile. I’ve waited a while for this moment. And besides, no longer am I subject to the whims of the bus, maybe now I can fit in some grocery shopping before Carrefour closes.

………………….

For the record, “trash” in French is les déchets.

tales from the Road: LA to Geneve

Reporting live from St Genis Pouilly, France. Indeed, it is 3 AM here, and this blogpost is brought to you courtesy of JetLag. Don’t expect anything coherent.

Also, compare to last time.

LAX >> Philedelphia

Interesting t shirts I saw on this flight:

“I ain’t afraid a no ghost”

“i (heart) hot moms”

“US Armed forces: Sinking our teeth into the Middle East” (accompanied by a graphic of an angry, cartoon commando duck…?!?!)

Number of people reading “Hunger Games”: Only 2, surprisingly.

A middle-aged woman sitting behind me decides to impose her life philosophy on the college-aged girl sitting next to her. Souls to be molded. It’s interesting for a while, but I tune out at: “You see there, are many levels of consciousness…”

Philadelphia >> Brussels

I cannot sleep on airplanes. Even when I’m lucky enough not to have anyone sitting next to me.

Brussels airport is large, efficient, hypermodern, and for some reason inundated with advertisements from energy/oil companies (“Europe: Fueled on Norwegian Gas. Statoil”). Also, there are chocolates and many women wearing expensive-looking pairs of boots.

Brussels >> Geneva Airport

In which I discover that my French is better but still sucks. Goodbye, social competency. I’ll miss you.

Also: Mont Blanc from the air, always a crowd-pleaser.

Geneva Airport >> CERN

Fortunately for me, the Geneva airport is well-practiced in transporting sports equipment: It is, after all, one of the premier ski destinations in the world. As I stand by the sport equipment baggage carousel waiting for my cardboard bike box to appear,  I find myself in a circle of Swedes who are talking jovially and with the kind of assurance that only comes with having a ‘secret language’ to speak in pubic. I just stand there, silent smiling. My bike shows up, unharmed, and it’s a piece of cake to cart it over to left luggage, and get on the bus.

Once at CERN, however, the real fun begins. I manage to convince the woman at the front desk to give me a visitor pass and I decide to leave my luggage at our office before going about procuring my access card. As I’m walking up the hill, the wheels on my rolling luggage begin to collapse. It must be clear that I’m having a rough time, because one of the many CERN vans whizzing by honks at me. You think I don’t know that I look like an idiot? It doesn’t help that my luggage is pink. God, why do I have pink luggage? Oh right, it was cheap. Cheap. Pretty soon the wheels have almost totally collapsed and I’m loudly dragging my pink luggage through the world’s premier Particle Physics research facility. I’m soon rescued however: Someone takes pity on me and I’m offered a ride to my building in a CERN van.

Only a few people are in the office, they’re working quietly. I’m greeted by a few short “hellos” and friendly smiles. It’s like I never left. It seems longer ago that I was in Berkeley than when I was last at CERN. It’s unsettling. I make it to the users office in time to get my access card, but am missing a form. C’est la vie.  I’ll have to wait until tomorrow.

CERN >> St. Genis Hostel

I wait ten minutes for the bus, only for it to discover that it is full and there’s really, really no room for me and my giant, decrepit suitcase. I wait 30 minutes for the next bus, and almost fall asleep sitting on the bench, having not slept for something like 30 hours. I’m nearing my personal record (36) and it’s not a good thing.

When it arrives I get on, and am subsequently blockaded from the door by a mom, her stroller, and her three other children. I miss the stop at the hostel because I am falling asleep, even while standing up. At the next stop I attempt to get off bus, but when I pull on the plastic expandable roller handle (you know what I mean, right?) to my luggage, it snaps unceremoniously off. I spend a few moments staring dumbfounded at it, during which time I miss also the next bus stop. the bus lurches to a start, and a guy who obviously works at CERN (oh yeah, there’s a type) catches my lugguage as it’s about to topple. His shirt says “—– High School, Class of 2005.” He’s American. God bless you, sir. I utter an exasperated “thank you,” he smiles and hands it over as the bus begins to slow down again. I gather my embarrassingly uncontrollable belongings and get off the bus. I leave the suitcase on the curb and dramatically stuff the detached handle into the nearby, tiny French trashcan. I roll drag the suitcase across the street and down a block to the next bus stop and wait, again.

I make it, at last, to the St. Genis Hostel only to discover that my room is on the sixth floor et n’y il a pas de ascensuer. No elevator. I lug the bag up each flight, just as the wiring is beginning to bust from the seems. I still have no idea what I’m going to do about this problem. I’m already having nightmares about how much it is going to cost me to buy a new luggage in Geneva.

My (temporary) room in St. Genis is very basic and smells like some sort of cleaning solvent. It takes me a good five minutes to figure out how to open the window, but when I do I can see the Jura and I have to smile despite it all. I want to wash my hands in the washbasin, but when I turn on the faucet the water sprays out at remarkably high pressure and at remarkably high temperature. My pants are doused. Hot showers, indeed. I’m so tired the world is starting to swim before my eyes.

I usually don’t cry during real life (usually only during movies, books, and emotional pieces of music) but here, I get pretty close. I change my pants, sit down on the simple, yellow-sheeted bed and think: What in the hell am I doing here, really?

I don’t know. But here I am. Here we go, guys.

Armchair Tranströmer: Från Mars -79

From March 2011, Ca-al-li-for-orn-ia

A bit of a silence here, you may have noticed. Calm before the storm, you may have guessed–and you would have guessed right. Let’s just say: PhysicsLand, reprise, Tuesday. Go.

Before all that, before the rush of an April in colder air, there’s this: I wanted to translate my first and favorite Tranströmer, lest March should pass and I should neglect to share it. Here it is, from the book “Det Vilda Torget, ” translated as well as the original.

From March -79

Tired of all who come with words, words but no language

I make my way to the snow-coverd island.

The wilderness has no words.

The unwritten pages spread out in every direction!

I come across the tracks of a deer in the snow.

Language but no words.

 

************************************************

Från Mars -79

Trött på alla som kommer med ord, ord men inget språk

for jag till den snötäckta ön.

Det vilda har inga ord.

De oskrivna sidorna breder ut sig åt alla håll!

Jag stöter på spåren av rådjursklövar i snön.

Språk men inga ord.

 

Meanwhile, in Sweden: Unshaved

Dear Sweden,

Really? A picture of a young woman in a crowd at a concert with a hairy armpit goes viral and awakens a riotous debate in Social media? Over shaving? Srsly? Forgive me if I appear to be laughing (choke). But this is for real.

http://www.aftonbladet.se/nyheter/article14511590.ab

“It’s not just about a Hairy Armpit,” right? It can’t be. Is it about sexism? Is it about how Hollywood is changing worldwide standards of socially sanctioned concepts of beauty?* Is it about freedom of expression? Decency? Is it about the “Most Politically Correct Country in the World” falling from grace?

http://ajour.se/kronika-det-handlar-inte-om-en-harig-armhala/

Hey. Hey guys. So maybe this debate thing is good. At least we’re talking about our feelings. So, let’s not invent problems, ok? Let’s face some of the things that are truly wrong here.** Is definitely possible. I’m just sayin’…

http://www.thelocal.se/39666/20120314/ (English!)

https://sverigedemokraterna.se/2012/03/12/sd-kvinnors-reklamfilm/ (way more offensive than hairy armpits)

etc., etc.

Kram!

/From the inside of a glass house, probably throwing stones.

……………………………………………………………

*Sorry.

**Oh, and take heed, America. It’s an election year.

Gridlock

“…but what can any body’s native air do for them in the months of January, February, and March?”

–Emma. Yes, Jane Austen’s Emma.*

…………………………………………..

Los Angeles: How I’ve always despised it, disapproved of it, and oh so readily disowned it.

Yet somehow, just when you’re living stoplight to stoplight on Sunset Boulevard, the radio station knows exactly which song to play. Rancorous advertisements are everywhere, and left turns are impossible. Artifice is business is artifice. Above it all are the Bel Air mansions, barely visible, turreted up on those sunwashed done-up dirtpile hillsides, flanked by neon lawns and earbudded, jogging wives. It’s easy to forget that the palm trees are iconic when you see them all the time.

In a rush of lane changes, I’m swept out onto (the) 405 and into the masses. There is a working idleness in it, the mechanics of the drive, propelled by habit and necessity. Although we seem sedate, we’re really sizing each other up like nervous animals without knowing it; relic instincts from more primitive times certainly do not always go underutilized.

Is there a kinship in it? We’re not brushing shoulders, oh no, far from it. Nonetheless, in this sticky suffering, this flow of souls there must be some means of connection. At once I’m searching all over for it, desperately trying to spin some rapturous meaning from my inescapable immobility. It’s proving difficult, considering all I can seem to think about is how, more likely than not, the man in the Bentley next to me has air conditioning. My Isuzu does not. In SoCal it is always warm. Heat must be why our population grows and spreads so magically, I think, like bacteria.

Yes. California. Southern Ca.li.for.ni.a. An absolutely improbable reality, like a cactus flower.

And LA, LA is our sprawling, sweating metropolis with no center but instead burning white or brown horizons. Broad and crowded avenues. Palm trees. Heat rising from the cement. Actors and what-have-you. Everything is teeming, crawling, barely moving. And here I am, in the mind-numbing daily motorcade, swimming in thick frustration amidst the throngs of folks who, for the love of Pete, just wanna make it home. Against all precedent, the steering wheel starts to feel good under my hands: As if it somehow fits, belongs there. Or I belong here. Belonging? An empty space opens up in front of me and without thinking, I accelerate a little. Belonging? My stomach drops. Ah, there it was. I found it. My freeway rapture.

…………………………………………..

*An aside: Is it my fault that I’m finding this book tedious?

Round Deux

An excerpt from a recent phone conversation.

………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Grandpa: So, I guess they speak Swiss over there, don’t they?

Me: Actually, there are three national languages: French, Italian, and Swiss German.

GP: So, what do they speak in Geneva?

Me: French.

GP: Ah! S’il vous plaits,  Mademoiselle!

Me: Oui, oui! Français!

GP: Oh, oui! And you’ll be seeing all those young men in the suspenders and tight leather shorts!

Me: Geez. Really, Grandpa?

GP: Yoooo-deele-heeeee-hooooo!!

Indeed, GP. indeed.

 

Armchair Linguistics: Tranströmer

I have a book of Tranströmer, untranslated. I got it in the mail. I thought, this should be interesting. I thought, why not? So here comes one. Oh, and let me know if something doesn’t, erm, make sense.

Prelude, from “17 Poems”

Waking up is a skydive from dreaming.

Free from a choking whirl sinks

the traveler, toward the morning’s green zone.

Things flame up. He recognizes- from the

trilling lark’s vantage – the noble systems of treeroots,

their underground swaying lamps. But above ground

there is- in a tropical flood – greenness, with

lifted arms, listening

to the rhythm of an invisible pump. And he

sinks towards the summer, slipping down 

into its bright craters, down

through shafts of greendamp ages

trembling under the sun’s turbine. So it is halted

this vertical journey through the moment and the wings

spread out to the osprey’s perch over rushing water.

The Bronze Age Trumpet’s

outcast tone

hangs over the abyss.

 

In the day’s first hours consciousness understands the world

just as the hand grips a sunwarmed stone.

The traveler stands beneath the tree. Shall,

after the crash through the whirl of death,

a great light unfold over his head?

 

………………………………………………………………..

 

 Preludium

 

Uppvaknandet är ett fallskärmshopp från drömmen.

Fri från den kvävande virveln sjunker

resenären mot morgonens gröna zon.

Tingen flammar upp. Han förnimmer – i dallrande lärkans

position – de mäktiga trädrotsystemens

underjordiskt svängande lampor. Men ovan jord

står – i tropiskt flöde – grönskan, med

lyftade armar, lyssnande

till rytmen från ett osynligt pumpverk. Och han

sjunker mot sommaren, firas ned

i dess bländade krater, ned

genom schakt av grönfuktiga åldrar

skälvande under solturbinen. Så hejdas

denna lodräta färd genom ögonblicket och vingarna breddas

till fiskgjusens vila över ett strömmande vatten.

Bronsålderslurens

fredlösa ton

hänger över det bottenlösa.

 

I dagens första timmar kan medvetandet omfatta världen

som handen griper en solvarm sten.

Resenären står under trädet. Skall,

efter störtningen genom dödens virvel,

ett stort ljus vecklas ut över hans huvud?

Okejdå, Fastlagsbullar

varning: may contain svengelska, nostalgi, and poor grammar

För två sedan (var det sååå länge sedan?!) kom jag på att det vore kul att översätta Semlor receptet till engelska, eftersom jag lyckade inte hitta en bra och enkel version på nättet. Jag och några kompisar hade nyss lagat hembakat semlor och så tog jag receptet vi hade använt och skissade ut det så bra som jag kunde på amerikansk engelska. Det var faktist första riktiga ‘sv–>en’ översättningen jag hade försökt.*

Nyfiken? Hittar du receptet här

Nu har två år gått förbi: jag bor såklart inte längre i Sverige och har själv inte ens ätit en semla i år… men ändå är detta recept som jag översatte i 2010 bloggens mest besökta inlägg…of all time.  Jag får kolla statistiken och det står att 68 hungriga och semla-på-engelska-sökande själar har tittat på just detta inlägg under de senaste dagar! Det kanske inte verkar vara så mycket egentligen, men, trust me, 68 personer räknar som massor när det gäller den här liten, liten blogg.

Vad jag blir glad när jag ser att så mycket folk kollar receptet och antagligen bakar sina egna semlor, ändå på engelska! Det kan tyda bara att det är dags resa tillbaka i tiden och baka lite kalifornienska semlor här hemma. Tyvärr är det inte lätt att hitta mandelmassa i USA…men man kan väl försöka!

……………………………………….

Translation: It’s Fat Tuesday, so bake some Semlor y’all.

Curious: Find you the recipe here

……………………………………….

*Och så firar jag första översättningen med att lägga upp första inlägget skrivit nästan helt på svenska. Tänkte köra nåt nytt bara, och det högst troligen kommer inte hända igen Rätta mitt språk om ni vill! Jag var aldrig duktig på grammatiken…

tout-terrain, tout-puissant

He’s your prototypical cycling dude de un certain âge: His head is shaved or balding or more probably both, he’s wearing neon framed sunglasses and if I could see his calves I’m sure they would leave me with no doubts that he could destroy me up a hill on any given day. He is of course, the dude standing behind the table at the Specialized demo I’ve just rolled up to. And, naturally, I’ve just signed my life away for the sake of riding bicycles.

“Bring her back in an hour and try another one,” he smiles and extends a 2012 Specialized Epic 29er in my direction. I’ve never really even ridden a full suspension bike before, let alone a top-of-the-line, brand new, perfectly maintained one. He doesn’t know it, but I’m fighting back tears of joy.

*****************************

Holy Moses, this bike is eating the trail for breakfast. My internal monologue becomes fixated that phrase: Eating the trail for breakfast. Eating the trail for breakfast. I keep repeating it with each turn of the crank.  I’m climbing a fireroad named BFI. I’m not sure what the letters stand for, but after a few minutes I can hazard a guess: Big F***ing Incline. My heart is exploding, but it hardly matters because this bike climbs like a hardtail and still manages to, yes, eat the trail for breakfast. En breve: it climbs with hardtail efficiency, but, ahem, better.

At (what I thought was) the top of the climb I turn around to greet the Pacific, glimmering and vast, two blues meeting, the horizon. California weather so flawless sometimes, it truly is almost disgusting. A guy on a Santa Cruz downhill bike about to head down the trail finds it in his heart to yell, “You’re outrageous!” as he passes by; Apparently this isn’t the normal way up. But no, it’s not me that’s outrageous, I want to yell back, it’s this bike, you see….the bike climbed it I didn’t climb it at all!

Next up: single track and downhill. I am shocked (that was indeed a pun) to find that I am riding, or more accurately, the bike is riding up and down things that would have knocked me off of my ol’ Marin: Rocks, berms, switchbacks, washboard fireroads. Emboldened by the existence of a rear shock and a functioning set of brakes, I come to the conclusion that yes, a bike like this would be an absolute game changer. Is it really supposed to be this much fun? Really? Are you sure this isn’t cheating?

*****************

I ended up trying an Epic and a Safire (read: spending about 2.5 hours test riding bikes waaaaay outside of my price range. Shhh, don’t tell the sales guys.) Survey says: Epic > Safire.