I can travel to other countries, but I can't take a bus across town.

One should always be a little improbable. - Oscar Wilde 

I was recently recommended a book called 'The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao,' only I misunderstood the person and thought they said, 'The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wilde.'

It made sense at the time.

I need to go to the V&A today, but must admit to not wanting to make the lengthy journey there and back again. I just know I'll fall asleep on the underground and wake up feeling foggy and disoriented. I was encouraged to take pictures while I'm there to blog about it (this is how people motivate me now, and usually it works), but then that only serves to remind me that I'm behind on blogging my Stockholm pics and anyway, I've already done the V&A.

So...back to Stockholm! This will probably be my last post with anything Sweden-related, so quick-quick in list let me mention the highlights of my time there:

-the furniture fair and festivities around town for design week
-snow snow snow and wet nose toes and ice-crunchy mittens

-gastronomic delights: salmon and dill and red onions and gerkins and goat's cheese and sunflower seeds and anchovies and mustard and roe and herring and meatballs and lingonberries and hot dogs and oh I miss you already...

I should post the food photos--notably those of The Greatest Food Hall Ever--but a lot of that will depend on whether or not I photo any dead birds today and my blog path re-routes.

A-hem.

Without much further ado...Stockholm!

I don't think there are words enough for how much it snowed beautiful it was. Even with the storm that started on Thursday morning, when I took the bottom-right photo of the still-dry streets. I was touring with the school-friends below and we were about to embark on a 'scenic walk along the Soder cliffs' when it started to fall. 'Oh how charming!' we thought as the first flakes began to dust our pretty scarves. 'This will make the view from the cliffs so lovely!' And so we started walking. And it kept snowing, heavier and denser and oh so thick. By the time we got to 'the scenic views,' there was zero visibility ('Can you see Ostermalm?' 'I think it's that fuzzy mass across the water?'), Caio's Italian leather loafers were committing suicide, and we were windmilling across the icy footpaths.

It was fantastic. 

'Okay, Aya, now let's play that Amarylis is Mommy and Caio is Daddy and you're Baby!' 

I would like to point out that both Amarylis (Belgium-Luxembourgian) and Caio (Brazilian) come from modelling families. That's why they're so tall and gorgeous. Aya comes from a Japanese family, which is why she's so tiny and gorgeous.

The rest of the day was spent blissing in and out of warm design shops and boutiques, having a cosy, hearty lunch at a sweet little cafe, and taking one more view-laden walk. (small cough)

If you squint real hard, you may see the tower in the mist. This might've been a castle, or a museum, or a house of lords, or the most striking architecture in all of Stockholm. Either way, this is all we could see during our blizzard hike. That is, when we were able to blink the snowflakes out of our eyes. It was awesome. To me. Maybe not to the others, who were cold, wet, and bedraggled, coerced out by my promises of 'the best views of Gamla Stan!' My attempts at cheer were futile: 'Hey, forget that silly castle! I'm sure it's nothing! Look at all that ice in the water! Guys! Ice! In the water! Isn't that wild??'

I don't think they were impressed.

This photo was taken before the hike, when we were all still friends.

I should really be getting to the museum now. If I stall much longer, it will be closed before I arrive. Unless, of course, I just go on Wednesday...

Hmmm.

Big hugs and love,
Esss

On the Museum of Childhood, Playhouses, and Pippi Longstocking

There is nothing in the world that can make you feel as childlike and ancient at the same time as a Museum of Childhood. I know, because I went to one today, and not only did I want to play with all of the toys, but I also wanted to push all of the small, screaming children out of my way to get to them. 

Crossing the floor of the Museum of Childhood was like traversing a room full of kinetic ping pong balls--there was always something tiny and moving underfoot. Children were constantly bumping and flying into my legs/hips/purse and ricocheting off into new trajectories without even noticing I was their obstacle. It was kind of awesome. Half the time I was tempted to bounce them off of each other just to see where they'd end up. They were so much more fun than the shouting hordes of older children that frequent the other museums around town. (A-hem, Natural History.)

Look at this: two entire floors of antique toys and dollhouses and things to play with and explore. All free! All the time! It's part of the V&A even though it's located across town in Bethnal Green. Who knew??

Speaking of feeling ancient: the dollhouse that my sister and I grew up playing with was in the Antique Playhouses section. That's right. Antique. My sister and I played with it over twenty years ago. Which we won't dwell on right now. And it also turns out--going by the signage--that it was created roughly forty years ago. Just like most of the toys in my grandmother's playroom. This was one of my mother's treasures that my sister and I inherited.  As soon as I saw it in the glass case, I dropped instantly to my knees to get a photo, bouncing away the children admiring its prehistoric qualities.

You see those two little yellow twin beds on the left? They were originally covered in a green styrofoam-esque substance. Our foam also disintegrated, leaving behind the same sticky residue you see here. We also had the same blue playpen upstairs, and the rocking horse, too. But no sewing table, which I had no idea I was missing out on until now. * stomping foot in the general direction of my mother, who I'll bet had it when she played with this the first time around * And the white column that the house pivots on? I used to pretend that was a ladder, which was way more fun to hop our no-legged dolls up than the stairs.

I was lucky to have that charming 1970's dollhouse. I realized this after seeing the awful, austure dollhouses that 18th century children had to suffer through:

I know, right? It's so sad. Each of these was the size of a bookcase, and so poorly decorated it was embarrassing.

Word on the street--and by the 'street,' I mean 'the placard'--was that these houses were often used to teach girls how to keep house and entertain properly. It's important to know which parlour is for serving tea to unexpected callers and which is to be used to showcase your talented children should they dare to come down from the nursery where their tutor is failing to keep order. It's no small wonder so many of life's finer nuances were lost once these tools went out of circulation and people started moving into flats smaller than their dollhouse's drawing rooms.

On a related note, I must tell you about Sweden's Junibacken (pronounced very, very roughly, 'Yuni-bawk-in'). It is a wonderland for anybody who has ever read or loved a children's book. Notably read or loved a Swedish children's book. 'Have I read a Swedish children's book...?' you may ask yourself, much as I did, prior to stepping foot in this place. Because it's not like when our parents were reading us our bedtime stories they would stop to explain, 'Now this one is by a British author, but the next one is Finnish!' Because seriously, we're five. We're just psyched the orphan has special powers. But yes, we have read a Swedish children's story: Pippi Longstocking! And if you were lucky, you may even have enjoyed Mumin. (I don't recall seeing this little guy as a child, though--my first exposure to him was via designer coffee mugs and trays and cushions at modern decor shops. Out of curiosity, do any Americans of my generation recall a Mumin book from their childhood?) The rest of the stories--The Brothers Lionheart, The Children of Noisy Village, Ronia the Robber's Daughter, or any involving a little boy named Alfons--were all completely new to me. My first exposure to them was here, at this children's fairy tale land, where all of the homes of these beloved storybook characters have been lovingly recreated, and you can run in and out of little funny-shaped doors and up and down tiny winding staircases, and get your rear stuck in itty-bitty velvet armchairs, and frighten small children who are running to enter a house at the exact same time that you're folding yourself out of the front door, roaring like a giant.

This is Mumin's house! Aya, Sofia, Lisa, Amarylis, and I had a pretend tea party in here. These sorts of rooms DEMAND pretend tea parties.

Aya makes this chair look normal-sized.

I also managed to cram myself headfirst into Rut & Knut & Lilla Tjut's house through this unnaturally small hole--looking for all the world like Winnie the Pooh stuck in the honey tree--before realizing there was a proper adult-sized door on the other side.

I didn't even try the stairs.

And then, after a magical story train where the train car left the tracks and turned into a sky ride and sailed over cities and villages, where beautifully-designed story scenes were laid out with the greatest attention to the tiniest details, and a voice told us the stories as they unfolded before our silent, awe-struck car, we arrived at our final destination: Villa Villakula, Pippi Longstocking's house. Words cannot describe the way my heart leaped when I saw it. I felt like I was eight years old again, futilely trying to braid my hair, secretly mismatching my socks, and yearning for a horse to ride to school. We squeezed up the little tower stairs and saw Pippi's attic bed where she slept with her feet on the pillows, and climbed on the Old Mule, and sat in her kitchen, and * sigh * Words fail me. It was just too sweet and amazing. I wish more than anything I had my nieces (Hunter and Peypey, 9 and 3) with me. They would've LOVED it. I now want to send them loads of these Swedish children's stories (of which you can get more copies of here than there) and then return with them someday.

I should have pictures of Stockholm -scapes (city- or land-) in the next few days, so stay tuned!

Big hugs, and may you do something childlike (or -ish) today,
Essss

Stockholm, and the tiniest suitcase ever

I'm flying RyanAir for the first time tomorrow. I've heard horror stories about RyanAir. Like if your bag is even a millimeter too large, you get whopped with a mega-fee and are forced to check it in. And there's a fee if you do this, or that, and definitely the other. You have to print off your boarding pass at home. If you have to print it off at the airport, at an actual desk, with actual personnel, that'll cost you, too. £40, to be specific. All this explains why the plane ticket itself was only £28, and it also explains why I'm being uber-careful with my packing. I've measured my smallest carry-on suitcase to make sure it will pass muster, I've packed my mega-camera and my mini-messenger bag, and now I've got room left for...about a single change of clothes. That's okay, though, because I like to change clothes about as much as I like showering. So me and RyanAir, we might not be enemies after all.

And the destination? The Stockholm Furniture Fair and Design Week! It's going to be * amazing. * The entire city is full of exhibits and the island we're staying on--Sodermalm, at the recommendation of a local--is supposed to be the hippest part of the city. It's the grungy, edgy, indie part of Stockholm, where all the best shops and cafes and bites are located. YESSSSS! And last Saturday, I went to a bookstore and took macro photos of all the pages in the travel guides that had relevant tips and points of interest. (Yes, I'm too cheap to actually buy the guides themselves. Why, when I only need three pages out of each? And they'll be obsolete in a year?) (Also, is it bad that I totally think I need this? Just imagine the possibilities! Menu scanning! Recipes from cookbooks! Flyers and notices and excerpts from novels! And it fits right in your wallet!)

And now--with all this lovely info brimming at my fingertips--I'm working on a personalized google map with color-coded push-pins marking all the places to see. Red for design exhibits, yellow for food, blue for tourist-y places...it looks like a pile of confetti just exploded all over this thing. Soder is NOT going to know what hit it.

Big hugs, and see you soon!
Essss

On Mexico, Museums, and Millinery: It's Alliteration Friday

These are absolutely mad pairings, but in an attempt to cover three weeks of activity in three pictures, some jarring must be done. You'll go from the peaceful tranquility of a beach to a cold and windy night in London in the span of about five seconds, and for that I apologize.

But here we go!

You see this lovely beach? This was my home in Mexico last week. It was * amazing. * The first day was gorgeous and blustery and all the consequent days were sunny and hot and just...perfect. They asked for nothing more than a good book in a lounge chair, which I happily obliged. 

And then the return to London four days ago. I somehow thought that in my time away an entire season had passed (my vacation was that leisurely and drawn out) and that I would return to a balmy pre-spring 50-something, but instead there's been a recent cold snap and the wind is even more biting than before. My defences against it are woefully inadequate. I'm constantly finding chores to do around the house so as to avoid going out.  (Errands wha? Look at that piling of ironing!)

On Wednesday night, though, I had tickets to see Stephen Jones at the Design Museum, and no cold front was going to keep me from that front row.

Despite the wind whipping off the Thames so fiercely that it made me understand why people curl up in the snow to die, I couldn't resist stopping to take a photo...I love Tower Bridge.  It makes me think of princesses and castles and wedding cakes.

The event at the Design Museum was a conversation between Colin McDowell and milliner Stephen Jones. The closest I've ever come to a milliner is my sister, who knits fantastic hats. And Stephen Jones was a glorious piece of work. He and Colin (I'm totally on a first-name basis now) gossiped wickedly away about fashion industry peers, Stephen's design process, and who said what to who at that one show that one time and ohhhh was she mad! They kept stopping guiltily in the course of these stories--'oh, I shouldn't say this'--and then after a second pause, with a small laugh--'well, what can it hurt? So THEN she...' The entire audience was in stitches. And the whole thing made me want to sprint right down to his shop at Covent Garden and spend a thousand pounds on a hat for the races. The races that I don't go to, but will once I get my hat.

Isn't he dapper? He was also wearing some knock-out lavender shoes that I regretfully didn't get in this photo.

I've got to jet now, but here's one more picture for the road. Big hugs,

Esss

on middle school, the lake district, and yet more homework

In the sixth grade hall of my middle school, now many moons ago, each of the teachers had decorated their classroom door. Some of them were clearly inspirational: 'Hang in there!' with a construction paper monkey hanging from a construction paper tree. Encouraging: 'Have a beary nice day!' With the requisite cuddly teddy with arms outspread. And then there was the door that I never understood. It wasn't inspiring. It wasn't encouraging. It wasn't even explanatory: 'Welcome to the Wonderful World of Math!' No, it was the following: 'With one foot in cold water and one foot in hot water, on the whole, you're average!' I tried to get it, I really did. But to this day its meaning (or perhaps intent is the better word) is lost on me. And because this door confused me, and because I spent every day looking at it in passing and trying to figure it out, it is permanently embedded in my memory. And random things will trigger it. Just the simple act of putting my foot in a bath of hot water now and I hear: 'On the whole, you're average!'

It's really nice.

Almost as nice as this container of extra crunchy Jif from Jenn that I am currently spooning to death. So...gooooood... * insert sound of Homer eating a donut here *

I think I like rain. But only aggressive rain--the sort of rain that streaks the window panes and makes a pattering sound and darkens the sky. This is good rain. Intentional rain. It's doing that right now, and between that and the gentle hum of the washing machine, soothing things are happening.

Though I don't need to be soothed as much as I need to write an entire research log on materials and processes in the woodmill and metal shop. The biggest problem with this task--other than lack of time and interest--is that all my note-taking while in these places happened on whatever nearby writing surface I could find--one of ten notebooks in my purse, on my hand, up the sides of handouts. So now I'm rifling through all these scraps and trying to make sense of things like 'cross-cut against grain, ripping cutting with grain, 40 mm, plinth, chamfered edge.' I don't even know if half of these are actual words.

Did you know that first year marks don't count at my school? I don't know if that's a UK thing or specific to my particular Uni, but I think it's bizarre. Also, unmotivating. Also, wonderful.

This is totally unrelated, but which of these two pictures do you like better?

 

 

I took them a couple months ago in the Lake District. Did I ever post those photos? I don't remember. This dementia is killing me. Just in case:

The best time to love the Lake District is on an early morning walk from the cabin to the village for a hot croissant and coffee at the one cafe that may or may not be open.

* sigh * To be there now. Big hugs, and back to work,
Essss