I have learnt something very important these last few weeks, which is extremely pertinent to my life in Sweden.
I really like snow.
I like the fluffy dust heaping on the street, the crunch as it compacts and the pristine sheets it leaves wherever it falls. I especially like when it drifts down in fat clumps, sticking to my hair and revealing the star shapes I’d thought needed a microscope to be seen. I also enjoy what it isn’t: rain. Only the first rain of summer, back in Australia, compares to the glee and staring about that instantly mark me as a foreigner.
This last week is had continued to fall, though the tramping of feet, strewing of salt and fineness of the snow means that it isn’t anywhere near knee height yet.
Watching the snow build up is a part of a life far away that I hadn’t considered before I left, namely the seasons. Australia, at least in the south-west, has two seasons. Hot and dry and wet and cold. Whereas Sweden has a whole host of them, 3 of which I have experienced so far. Since our arrival in late August green turned brown, the long days shortened and clouds descended. It was dark, and cold for a while, almost claustrophobic, though lit by stars in windows and candles. Then snow came in a burst and returned later in earnest, coating the world outside almost to monochrome. Next I suppose the rain will come, the snow will turn to ice and slush (bleagh) and slowly brown will turn green again and I can stop wearing thermals, a thick jacket and my small army of beanies, gloves and scarves. Then the whole cycle will continue, and no doubt I’ll eagerly anticipate the first drifts of snow.
So other than gazing about at the weather, what else have I be doing since the last update? Well, not very much really. I’ve been going to classes and studying, occasionally going out and wondering how on earth I’m going to find a job. The only event that really deserves a mention is Sunday, which as many of my readers will remember, was Australia Day. This far from home I felt disconnected from the usual umming and aahing about Invasion Day and Survivor Day and post-colonial guilt, instead revelling a bit in stereotypes that I would have shuddered at previously. We had been invited to a bbq arranged by an Australian friend, and tromped over bearing sausages, beer, wine, a koala shaped hat, an apron emplasoned with images of Perth and subtly green and yellow clothes. At the party were more Australians than we’d so far met in Göteborg, and after chatting and snacking on traditional food (sausage rolls, shapes), we realised that our time here has been quietly changing us, so that in a strange way be felt a bit like outsiders. Possibly we need more exposure to Australians, or maybe it was because they were all from the eastern states. None of which took away from our enjoyment of the day, which also involved the very slow cooking of our sausages on a bbq that had been recently cleared of snow.
Before I sign off for another week I feel I ought to mention that last Monday made it 5 months since we arrived in Sweden, and I will have to report back in a few weeks as to whether I have managed to wrap my head around the idea of being here for 6 months. Time is a funny thing.