Stockholm Art Swim Gents With No Visible Body Hair

After a super-busy weekend, last night I just felt like curling up and watching some telly. This is challenging as I live like an Amish person (no TV, no microwave, no car, no freezer -- although with far more OPI nail polishes than your average Amish person). So when I want to watch telly, I have to turn to illegal filesharing  wonderful, perfectly legal services like ABC iView.

Last night, I found a very cute little documentary called Men Who Swim, about the Swedish mens synchronised swimming team, delightfully named the Stockholm Art Swim Gents. Bless!

I was expecting some sort of Swedish Year of the Dogs, only with less Terry Wallis, so to that end I was somewhat disappointed. But I did thoroughly enjoy this sweet little film about trying to find some meaning in community.

This film firmly reinforced my beliefs that Swedish men are really very good-looking (if a bit hairless for mine -- my tastes run to the more hirsute), and that in Sweden it is perfectly acceptable, nay appropriate, to shower a billion times a day.

Good.

I love showering, but I live in Victoria, which has been plagued with drought for many years. Not only that, but I live in the people's republic of Brunswick (a somewhat green electorate) which means that if you took a second shower you could reasonably expect to be stoned to death in the Barkly Square car park amidst a sea of Subaru wagons sporting 3RRR stickers. How refreshing to note that I might be able to have a sneaky second shower when I am abroad. Oh, the luxury!

You know I don't like to bang on about these things, but did I mention that I am going to Sweden in five days? Oh, I did? Apolz.

Homesick.

Despite having a billion work-related things to do, I had one of those perfect Melbourne autumn weekends. I... ate at Pope Joan and Tyranny of Distance, slept, shopped, had a friend round for tea, made some hard decisions re: packing, attended Women of Letters, and am now curled up in a tracksuit, about to enjoy a tofu ginger stir-fry with fresh rice noodles and a few episodes of the West Wing. Even a spot of house-hunting was manageable amidst the joy of all the other stuff.

I am pretty excited that this time next week I'll be in Sweden (!!!!), but it is so wonderful to live in a city as fabulous as Melbourne, with its excellent coffee and my peeps and scarves and coats and literary wunderkinds. My heart breaks with how much I love this town. And I'm going to miss my favourite winter event, Community Cup.

I hope it's a nailbiter like last year (with the Megahertz ultimately victorious). Though of course, footy will be the winner on the day - unlike my beloved Fremantle Dockers yesterday. Let's not speak about that. I hate your stinkin' bayside gutz, St Kilda. You are the only thing on which Mick Malthouse and I can agree.

Melbourne's got shitful beaches and the public transport's fucked, and sometimes it's fucking freezing and/or pissing rain, but goddamnit it's got a good thing going.

Love you, M-town. Will miss you when I'm gone.

I'M OUT AT SEA, IN A KAYAK.

A few months back, I was in a meeting at work and my dad called my desk phone to speak to me. Unable to get through, he left a message with my colleague saying 'NO NEED TO CALL BACK, TELL HER I AM OUT AT SEA. IN A KAYAK.'

Today I bought a waterproof jacket because I will soon actually be out at sea in a kayak, right here. Doesn't it look pretty super-amazing?

A few years ago, on a family holiday in southwest WA, my dad went for an early-morning bike ride and came back and reported, full of vitriol, that he'd just seen 'some YUPPIES down the street, sipping their CAFE LATTES and reading their VOGUE MAGAZINES. And I thought to meself: now that's no way to have a holiday!'

Needless to say, my idea of a good time and my dad's don't necessarily align. But I am confident he will look forward to hearing about this particular adventure. 

I'll be kayaking with some colleagues who are also attending PLAIN 2011. If there is some sort of horrible accident, let it be known that the plain language world will be poorer for it.

The happiest feet

There are lots of wonderful things to look forward to about going on holidays, not all of them especially glamorous. (Sister Chops, for one, actually loves plane food. But I digress.) Today I performed one of my favourite pre-holiday tasks: the obligatory purchase of the new Bonds tracksuit, not to be worn until flight night. (Yes, I am one of those people who flies in a tracksuit. But it's quite a stylish one, truth be told. I promise you I'll accessorise properly, ok?)

I also bought me some Happy Socks! Happy Socks are the greatest invention since the Holeproof Explorer, which was the greatest invention since the earth commenced its merry wanderings round the sun.  How could you not be happy with these on yer tootsies?

Postscript: 12 sleeps to go now, and I am getting pretty excited. Presently, my enthusiasm is related to the fact that my neighbours are having extraordinarily, blushingly loud intercourse and I feel that staying in hotels for a month will be a welcome reprieve from the nightly coitus overhearus to which I am subjected.

Flying overseas.

This song has been occupying most of my waking thoughts and some of my sleeping ones for the last day or two.

Sure, the video may not feature BEYONCE ON HORSEBACK (!!!!!!!!!!), but I'm loving this track and the appearance from Solange (the Dannii Minogue of the Knowles family).

BRUTAL.

Not that this is in any way travel-related, but if you ever want to enjoy pedestrian activities such as holding down food or sleeping at any point in your future, I'd advise not drinking four long blacks then going to see Snowtown.

Parlez-vous popular expressions from phrasebook?

Yesterday my lovely colleague gave me a bunch of guidebooks from her recent trip to Europe. This colleague is beyond wonderful because not only does she love Rihanna as much (if not more) than I, the Lonely Planet French Phrasebook (1ed, 1997) has bemused me greatly since it came into my hands.

Here are some things that I found interesting from dipping into this popular reference tool. Firstly, it instructs me on several very amusing but completely useless dated phrases. "Je voudrais achete une cassette audio?" (I probably don't need to buy a blank audiotape,  merci beaucoup, but can you tell me where I can get a micro-sim?)

Secondly, the phrasebook contains some common medical problems that I would be reluctant to mention to my local Friendly's Chemist, never mind the risk of being sneered at by a French pharmacist. "Je suis constipe!" you whisper, clutching your gut region. ("I am constipated after eating an entire wheel of brie and 2km of baguette! Help!") The Frenchy chemist of my imagination laughs in a derisive, Parisian manner and tells you to smoke more cigarettes and drink more coffee and take your whingeing back to whichever backwards swamp you crawled out of, before lighting un cigarette herself and resuming filing her nails.

There is a small (and I mean bijoux) text box devoted to swearing. Now, anyone who has ever engaged in conversation with me would be fully aware that I rely on expletives to pepper my language, and generally make me sound like a common woman who lacks both judgement and intellect. So I was disappointed to know that the most potent swearword that the LP French Phrasebook (1ed) can proffer is merde (shit). "Shit" is what I say when I drop a pencil and have to go 20cm out of my way to retrieve it under my desk. The kind of language I need in my arsenal for when I am looking for a cab in an unknown city to get me to an airport I can't pronounce in 40 minutes flat is entirely stronger. I need curse coaching.

And because I ultimately lack maturity, the section on Dating & Romance had me in fits of hysteria. I would die laughing if someone said to me in my native English 'You're a great lover. How was it for you?' HAHA LOLZ AS IF. No-one talks like that (except Tommy Wiseau) and I think the world is richer for it. This is why I find it amusing that the Dating & Romance section is concluded with the hugely useful phrase Ne ris pas! Je suis serieux/seriuse. (Don't laugh, I'm not kidding.)

Fake packing (part two in a series)

There's a little place in Switzerland that I somehow stumbled across and booked on a whim. It's got a big lake and rowboats and mountains and, I'm hoping, hours of peaceful relaxation.

Think I need...

1 x floppy straw hat to protect pasty skin
1 x much-loved Country Road beach towel
1 x pair Liberty of London sunglasses
1 x pair ancient Funkis red clogs for clomping around by lake.

CHECKIT.

The four days I'm spending here comes after two weeks of urban exploration. I'm pretty sure it'll be a giant snooze*.

*PLEASE. Cannot wait.

Fake packing (part one in a series)

Today I'm doing some trip practise, considering I will be taking off in exactly three weeks and a few hours. If previous trips are anything to go by, I predict that in three weeks I will be sitting on my bed breathing into a brown paper bag, paralysed with fear and all my shit strewn about the place. My state of panic will be exacerbated by the fact that the items listed in my carefully considered Trip Packing Spreadsheet do not in any way fit inside a standard piece of luggage.

So today I did some fake packing -- practise. Not only did I practise squeezing these items into my hand luggage, this is also a practice blog post from the iPad/iPhone camera combo. So far, I have not required the services of a brown paper bag. I also noted, happily, that the contents of my hand luggage, namely:

• 1 x James Pringle vintage woollen lap blanket
• 1 x iPad 
• 1 x Siri Hustvedt novel 
• 1 x camera 
• 1 x posh moisuturiser
• 1 x passport (which contains murderous internal photograph displaying each of 27 chins to their best potential) 

... fits quite happily into my hand luggage bag. Phew. 

Eagle-eyed readers of Chops Abroad may note that the chosen reading material is a novel called The Summer Without Men*, by my favourite writer Siri Hustvedt. It has taken a considerable amount of uncharacteristic self-discipline to keep this one on my shelf for the last few months, as I usually like to devour Mrs Paul Auster's work within minutes of publication. I think it is a partially amusing, topical choice of book, as I am enjoying (for better or worse) a gap year from man-hunting. And I'm spending two weeks in France with six other women, a week in Berlin with another woman, and as for the conference I'm attending... well, let's just say I work in a vagina-centric industry. So it may well turn out to be The Summer Without Men for me. And I imagine that reading a book like this on a plane is hardly going to make any handsome foreign strangers think 'Gee, what a literary megababe. I bet she's super-approachable.' 

As you were. 

*I note that the Amazon user reviews give this book an average rating of 3 out of a possible 5 stars. Yeah, well, haters gonna. I'm reserving judgement until when I'm halfway between here and Doha airport with nothing else to read but the instructions on how to use my vom bag effectively. 

Things I have been led to believe about Europe (part 1 in a series)

1. Everyone in Sweden is stupidly attractive and tanned.
2. I probably won't do a poo the whole time I'm in Germany.
3. Everyone everywhere speaks the Queen's perfect English and nothing will be in any way challenging (except, perhaps, point 2 -- see above).

When in Europe, LOOK SHARP

So, I am going to a Eurovision party this weekend in order to partake in some cultural education before departure. I felt it only right that I represent Sweden, as it is my first port of call, and Roxette's Look Sharp was the first album I ever chose myself.

And hasn't it aged well?

I have never watched Eurovision before, but I'm willing to give it a shot. I'm also led to believe I should be making meatballs or some shit.

Away we go...

Dear friends, family and internet loiterers, 

I am going to Europe in June, and here's something of a record. 

My itinerary looks a bit like this:

• Stockholm (for a work conference, and buying pants and shoes befitting of tall people)
• Berlin (for art and sausages)
• Gersau (for wacky Swiss mountainside chateau lake paradise complete with rowboats and cable cars)
• Paris (for spending times with two of my bestest BFFs and hoping that rats don't nibble on our lady areas in the catacombs) 
• Stupidly picturesque village in the south of France (self-explanatory)

Here's some things I have organised: 

• Most flights 
• Most accommodation 
• A lodger to water the one and only plant in my apartment
• A book to read on the plane 
• A Google map of all Sephora locations within reach. 

Here's some things I haven't organised:

• Learning any Swedish/German/French beyond ja/schaudenfreude/steak frites 
• How to get from any airport to anywhere else 
• Finding any awesome Swedish metal/noise/drone bands to go see
• Choosing violent and/or offensive films that I should watch on the plane so that no children sit near me. 

Just over three weeks to go and I am yet to check off these pertinent details! Wish me luck. Pls.