I once met a wonderful girl called Hilde on a bus in Tromso, northern Norway, and we've been writing to each other fairly regularly for several years, via my parents' permanent address. One day I got a letter from Germany, saying that she was down there and would be travelling north soon, and perhaps we could meet up as she passed Uppsala. Great, I said, and sent off a card asking her for a phone number on which I could contact her and make arrangements. Four days later I got another letter signed Hilde, this time from Oslo, with address and phone number. A little surprising that it was so quick, but more surprising was that it was a love letter, quite unlike any previous missives from the lady.
Ah ha, I thought. Ah ha. Ah ha. This continued for some time, until I could think of other words again. Hmmm, I thought. Oooooh. Gosh. Hmmm (again). Perhaps she never revealed these emotions before because we were so far away from each other, but now thought I should be warned about what she was going to do to me as she passed through Uppsala. Not that I was entirely sure, since the letter was mostly in hand-written Norwegian, and used a vocabulary with which I wasn't really familiar, but the general idea was obvious.
So, I phoned the number in Oslo and asked for Hilde. Strange response.
"Is that the Olsen residence ?"
"Yes, my name is Olsen."
"Ah, good, do you have someone called Hilde staying with you ?"
"I am Hilde."
"Err, Hilde whom ?"
Oh, I see, wrong Hilde (they're probably all called Hilde there, I thought).
"I believe a friend of mine also called Hilde is staying with you ?"
"Err, But I got a letter from her with this number in it..."
"Oh, is that Mark Harris ?"
"I sent the letter."
"Did you used to work in Oslo ?"
"Oh dear, I thought you were someone I used to know in Oslo, an Englishman who moved away to Sweden, and I found your address from the Swedish Tax Register."
"So you're the wrong Hilde, and I'm the wrong Mark then ?"
"Err, looks like it."
Pretty bizarre, huh ? And their signatures were indistinguishable, there were a couple of words of English at the bottom of the letter in case I didn't understand the rest, and it was timed almost perfectly. I guess God gets bored in the summer holidays too, and plays games like this. She managed not to sound embarrased during the ensuing conversation, despite the apparent sound of husband and children in the background. My Hilde, incidentally, did contact me later, and visited. She was as sweet as ever, but just as platonic too.
Norway seems to be a good source of stories, or perhaps I just spend a lot of my free time there. Either way, I should share a few more snippets.
Like how I was driving through some verdant mountains in the north when I
spotted a beautiful waterfall tumbling down through the greenery, and stopped
to photograph it. It was a bit tricky to frame, and I had to wedge myself
upside-down in a ditch to get under my tripod. At which point a VW van full of
heroic Norwegian men came round the corner, skidded to a halt a little way
passed me, and came to rescue this obvious victim of some terrible road
accident. I'm not sure that they were convinced that I really was healthy,
but I was able to pursuade them that I didn't have acute problems.
The Oslo trip
I like the Swedish working habits. By some astrological freak, two bank
holidays both turned up in one week, and so being cool dudes, Pharmacia decided
it wasn't worth going in for just 3 days, and closed the Uppsala site for the
whole week. Since they'd just given me a car so I could come to work out of
hours, I thought I'd better familiarise myself with the controls, and so drove
to Norway for the week. The trip was particularly entertaining, with lots of
interesting and friendly people to be met along the way.
One policeman was especially friendly, going to great lengths to catch up with me so he could wave at me and get my autograph. And he said he'd like to meet me again sometime. They must be particularly badly paid here, as he wants me to foot the bill. Also, he was driving a dirty 5-year old Saab, and couldn't afford flashy stickers or lights. I think maybe they spent too much on all the nice electronic equipment under the dash. I think it was probably a radio reciever, though it must have been tuned to long-wave, as the digital display was displaying a number too big to be an FM station, and he assured me it wasn't malfunctioning.
And then there was the 2nd red-headed hitchhiker that I picked up. She was very drunk, and spoke almost no English. I battled away in my best Swedish, using most of my stock phrases ("hello", "I'd like a large strong beer please", "No, I'm not that way inclined", "I don't understand Swedish", "I don't understand anything", "Bye" ) and I think that we established that her name was the diminutive form of Margery, which sounded remarkably like Margarine, and that she was "bad because she was thirsty". I think that mean't she was one of Sweden's huge stock of registered alcoholics. When I took a detour to drop her in town rather than by the side of the road, she told me that I was "snaell". This not being a word essential to getting a beer, I didn't know what it meant, but being a Germanic laguage, I thought maybe I was driving too fast, so I slowed down, but still I was snaell. Maybe she wants me to drive faster, I thought, so I speeded up, but to no avail. She then picked up my dictionary and pointed to the word "smaell". Well, it seems "smaell" translates to "spanking". My mind went mushy. Then it became very clear. Horribly clear. Five hours later we arrived in town. Well, it was probably 5 minutes, but it seemed like hours. There she stepped out, said "spanking" a few more times and disappeared from my life. Days later I understood what had happened. It seems she misread the small print of my dictionary, as it turns out that "snaell" means "nice". Trust the Scandinavians to confuse such words. What more can I say ? Well, if you've never been driving at a fair lick down Euroroute 18 with a drunk red-headed Swede sitting beside you waving the word "spanking" in front of your face, well, I can only urge you to try it. It sticks in the mind.
After that, I was quite unfazed by the guy who left me in charge of his hamburger joint while he popped out to find a map for me. My command of Norwegian being even more limited than my Swedish, I was unable even to get the customers to buy me a beer, and could only smile and say "Hello, I don't speak Norwegian".
The first red-headed hitchhiker was also entertaining, but paled beside Margerine. She was a huge lesbian, also drunk, who had had a fight with her girlfriend the night before, and been thrown out of their house, so she was trying to get home to her mother's. She was so big that the inertia-reel seat belt ran out of travel before it reached the clip. Unwilling to admit this though, she dutifully held it a couple of inches away from the clip for the rest of the journey. I don't know if this was for my benefit or that of the police.
Running later than I had intended, I ended up staying in a hideously expensive hotel in Lillestroem, where a friendly local offered to show me around Oslo the next day. Unfortunately his friendliness went further still, culminating at 1am in an invitation to forget about my hotel booking and go back to his place, the wife and daughter, with whom he had a few hours earlier lived, having mysteriously disappeared from his life.
Yes, it was one of those trips that always make me check the mileage on the
car, in case I didn't really go, and it was just something in that week-old
curry. In this case there were 1500km unaccounted for by the curry theory,
so I think it must really have happened. And then there's the bruises.....
The Finnish phantom
It's early Monday morning, and my telephone rings.
"Mark Harris for Symbicom"
"Hello ! This is Lotta..."
Oh good, I know a lot of Lottas, and they range from adorable to unbearably adorable. But which one was this ? I didn't recognise the voice.
I have a neighbour called Lotta ? No, I have no neighbour called Lotta. Neighbour at work ? No, I have no neighbours at work. An unmet neighbour in Norby ? But she sounds like she knows me. I'll play along.
"Sorry to call you at work, but it's about the translations."
Translations ? I help with translations sometimes, but not recently, and not for people called Lotta. Think, think. Nothing.
"Err, and exactly which translations would they be ?"
"The Finnish ones."
Finnish ? Finnish ? The only Finnish I could translate would be 'Cheers' or
'This appliance must not be covered' (compulsory on electric fires in Sweden).
"Err, I'm sorry, but it's Monday morning and I'm having a bout of Alzheimers, could you tell me a little more ?"
"When we met in Buckingham you asked me about doing some Scandinavian translations for your company."
Ah, Buckingham. My neighbour in Buckingham. No, no Lottas there. And why would I tell her that I needed translations to Finnish.
"Was this in a bar ?"
"No, outside my house. You asked me if I was Finnish. I must have the wrong person. Sorry. Bye"
"Err, wait. I don't think that there are too many Mark Harrises from Buckingham working in Scandinavia, but I'm afraid I still don't remember talking to you."
"It was about five days ago."
"Two weeks ? I was home two weeks ago..."
"No, last week. It must have been someone else, he lives next to me in North End Square. I'd better wait till I get back there. I'm in Finland now.
Sorry to bother you. Bye."
Do I have blackouts ? Do I have blackouts severe enough to somnambulate to England, pick up Finnish girls, and still be back in time for work ? Do Finnish girls hallucinate ? Accurately ? Can I astrally project ? Or am I, as someone suggested, surrounded by an improbability field ?
I have never worked out this event.
So there I was, first time on skis, heading down the biggest slopes with
everybody else. And doing pretty well, I thought, after barely an hour on the
nursery slopes. Shame North Carolina is sub-tropical though, not a good
climate for powder snow. More conducive to sheet ice. Which I soon hit, and,
adult prodigy though I may be, I soon passed my maximum sustainable speed and
fell horribly. Some time later I became aware of big red snow-mobiles,
stretchers and paramedics. Rather excessive, I thought, for a little bang on
the head, but professionals that they were, they put me through the rigours of
a lucidity test. I scored just one, for succesfully guessing my own name, but
the rest of the questions were way beyond me. The irony is, when I came round I
was actually fully functional immediately, but they asked trick questions like
"What day is it ?". Do I know what day it is today ? No. Am I ever sure what
day it is ? Did I have the slightest chance of knowing what day it was in the
middle of my holiday ? Hardly a fair question. "What is your telephone number ?"
followed. Yeah, right, I'm always phoning myself, aren't I ? And I'd just
moved and got a new number too. No points there. So one last chance - "Where
are you from ?". Ooh, me Sir, me Sir, I can do that one. Except does he mean
where originally, where from in The States, or where am I staying in the
resort ? Hmm. Just a moment while I construct a nice sentence that covers all
these possibilities. But wait, why are you strapping me to this snow-mobile ?
Why are you whizzing me off to the clinic ? I'm fine. This is as good as I
get. In fact it was a good three hours before the medics realised the problem
was congenital, and that they may as well let me go. One of my friends promised
to keep an eye on me, and rush me back if I showed any signs of normality.
The art gallery
It was a Saturday morning soon after I had moved to Uppsala, Sweden, and although I had been here long enough to get invited to the party that had rewarded me with a reasonable hangover, I hadn't been here long enough to become as rich as the natives. So I was wearing a ragged second-hand leather jacket and was drinking coffee at the cheapest place in town, which happened to be the city art gallery. And as luck would have it, there was an opening party for a modern art display that day, which meant that a) there were free peanuts to balance my diet, and b) I looked really out of place amongst all the Sunday-bests.
Now I'm rather fond of modern art when it shows some inspiration, but standing
in front of a pile of Volvo bumpers before the coffee had percolated my nervous system,
I was pretty sure that this example was simply junk.
At which point a rather attractive woman came up to me and said "Hurdygurdywurdy ?".
Swedes really do say that, it's not just the muppet chef. In fact it's all they say,
but the meaning can vary from a simple "Hello", to an extended discourse on
Bergman's influence on the suicide rate in Scandinavia.
But given our current situation, it was pretty obvious that in this case it must mean
"So what do you think of this piece ?", so being as honest as I could,
I summoned up my entire Swedish vocabulary and said "Yes, it's very good, yes,
yes, very good.". To which she replied "Hurdygurdywurdygurdywurdy".
The coffee had now gotten far enough that I realised that I was painting myself into
a corner and had to come clean that I had no idea what she was talking about.
"Oh, I'm sorry, but you have such a Swedish name" she said in perfect English.
"Errr, how do you know my name ?"
"It's written underneath."
"Errr, what was that first question again ?"
"I said, Did you make this ?"
Yep, my raggy clothes and dodgy blood chemistry had made her think that I was the sort of person who would pile up a bunch of car parts and call it art, and I had admitted to it in a less than humble way.
So we chuckled and chatted away the morning, and then sort of dated for a few months before we drifted apart again. Since then I've hung around a lot of art galleries in tatty clothes and looking hungover, but it doesn't seem to be a reliable method to meet women. It's better to get a dog.
The Swedish language uses two devices that are not registered by native English speakers,
viz. pitch change and vowel length.
Misunderstanding pitch change seldom causes trouble, but does brighten up the law
of public access that states "you may cross private land, but must keep away from any homes",
but which sounds to foreigners like "you may cross private land, but must keep away from the garden gnomes".
Vowel length, on the other hand, gets me everytime. The worst example is how "short" mutates into "horny" by just a tiny elongation of the vowel (approx. cawt and caawt). Not good for me being 4ft 6 and linguistically challenged. So there I was in a bar with a friend who introduced me to two enormous, gorgeous, blonde Swedish girls. Excuse the tautology - two Swedish girls will suffice. They were late because it was slow walking through the deep snow, and I replied that it was particularly difficult for me because I was so 'short'. Or that's what I thought I said, but the girls looked at me strangely, so I explained what I was talking about by holding my hand a metre and half up and saying "I'm this short". A look of bewilderment (perhaps tinged with awe) crossed there faces, so clearly they needed more context to get my meaning, so I explained how back in England I seldom felt short, but here in Sweden, especially standing next to big Swedish girls, I felt particularly short. I never saw the girls again, and it was days before my friend decided it was time to tell me what I had been telling them...
English coffee, Swedish politeness
My mother was an expert in British cooking, and so I can eat and drink pretty much anything, including last winter's mixture of instant coffee and high-fat powdered milk that has been lurking in my skating backpack through the summer. I realise that coffee can taste better, but my roots have led to low culinary expectations, and so I sprinkle this mixture into some boiling water from a thermos and throw in some snow to cool it to drinkable temperatures. I was doing this on a rock in the middle of a frozen lake one bitter winter's afternoon, when a fellow lone skater came up to me and told a sad tale of having been out for many hours and being extremly cold and thirsty, and could he maybe scrounge a little coffee from me. I said that he was very welcome, and warned him about the quality, but he said he was desperate and would be very grateful, so I duely made him a cup. As he tasted it, a strange collection of expressions came over his face, until he suddenly came out with : "Uh this is great, uh, in fact this is so good that I think I'm going to save it for later", and duely poured the coffee into his empty thermos and skated away. I wonder if he's still telling the story too.
Photographs I haven't taken in public conveniences
So there I was, in a public toilet in a park in Cambridge, when I noticed a hole in the wall. No, this isn't another George Michael story, because then I saw that underneath was an official sign labelling the hole as a disposal point for sharps, so presumably they've had trouble with junkies littering the floor with needles. Then I saw that the label was repeated in Braille, and my brain spun. So do they also have trouble with blind junkies littering ? Perhaps even more so, since they probably get through more needles whilst trying to hit a vein by trial and error. But do blind people really run their hands all over the walls of public toilets in case there is a message for them ? Or have I got this all wrong, and do the Braille messages that one finds under restroom labels actually all say "Euuueew, now wash your hands please" ? Anyway, I wanted to photograph this sign, but the booth was too small to get my camera out inside, and I didn't really want to have to explain what it was that I'd done that made me go out and rush back in with a camera.
Similarly in a dilapidated petrol station in Rocky Flats, Colorado, where the sign read that the water was not potable due to Plutonium contamination. Whether or not that was true, I still wanted a picture of the sign, but with a badly fitting door leading straight out to the cashier, again I didn't want to have to explain flashes of light coming out of the toilet (though I could blame it on the plutonium, I suppose). That's why I need a pocket-sized, high-ISO camera.
Have molecule, will travel
I was driving through Sheffield with a large plastic model of the molecule dihydrofolate reductase
filling the back seat, as you do, when I stopped for petrol and a tiny little
garage in the suburbs, attended by an very old man who was sitting in an armchair
on the pavement outside as I drew up. As he filled the tank he peered into the back,
and said :
"Is that a molecule ?", I confirmed that it was, and he continued, rather hesitantly, and sort of fading away into thought at the end of each sentence :
"I saw one of those on TV once."
"Apparently we're made up of lots of those..."
"And in turn, the universe is made up of lots of us..."
"Funny when you think about it, isn't it ?"
"That'll be 10 pounds 20 please"
And with that he went back to his armchair to refine his unification theory.
My guess is that he's still telling the story too.
© Mark Harris 2008