The Struggles of Riding A Bicycle

A little over a month in now. Welcome to life in Sweden. Never mind that is 4.30 am and I can’t sleep. But that’s a sob story for another day. Well, what do you want to know? Class is class. Life is life. Friends are being made. I am slowly sorting out my shit, but that’s just a never ending mess and a constant work in progress (I feel like that Greek guy who forever has to push a boulder up a hill when it comes to sorting out my shit - Sisyphus). But, I have invested in a bicycle. It’s the little things, ya know. Although, I say that, but my bicycle isn’t actually that small (nor was it a small purchase).

Ooooh, a castle

The sun shines here too

Anyway, I have discovered that my bike riding skills really do leave a little to be desired. For starters, I can’t ride in a straight line. Just in general. Even if I am completely sober and at my most functional. Then there is the bike itself. Turns out that bikes here are set up differently to all the other ones I have ever ridden in NZ. Swedish bikes have one hand brake and one back (pedal) brake. The one hand brake is on the left hand side of the handle bars and is the front tyre brake. Completely throwing all of my ingrained childhood beliefs about how a bike is (and most definitely SHOULD) be set up out the window, having only ever ridden NZ bikes with two hand brakes of which the back brake was on the left of the handle bars and the front on the right. Figuring out the braking system has left me very close to (and yes, unfortunately sometimes completely) pitching over the handle bars. And then, yesterday, I discovered (after letting someone else ride my bicycle) that my front tyre and the handle bars aren’t aligned at all, so to ride in a straight line, I had to have sideways handle bars. Still haven’t gotten this one fixed, but I am ever hopeful that this might fix all of my bike riding problems…

Something European

Same thing from another angle (#perspective)

But it gets worse, because if the bicycle itself doesn’t kill me, there are plenty of other hazards out and about trying to ruin my life. Nobody ever talks about how the road rules are different when they talk about the charm of biking around a European city. And I can tell you that there is nothing charming about being tooted at and yelled at out the window in loud, aggressive Swedish for biking the wrong way around a round about, cutting a little too close to a car, and my personal favourite; not saying thanks when a car let’s you go. And then, there are these nasty little beasties in this part of the world, smaller than a sandfly, more conniving and just borderline dangerous in general. You’ll be puddling along, minding your own bloody business when out of nowhere, BAM, a little beastie decides it likes the look of your face, your eye, or your esophagus. This leads to minutes of trying to extract said beastie from whichever part of your body it has tried to invade.

Tropical island paradise

Trees...

If you manage to ride your bike in a straight enough line as to avoid the traffic, remembered not to touch that hand brake, kept your mouth shut and been the most courteous and (falsely) pleasant person thanking all the passers by then you’re doing well. And I don’t want to belittle my achievement of not having died yet, but there is one more thing that requires some work. You see, to truly appear European, you have to arrive at university looking your best. Except I, without fail arrive at university dripping with sweat. It doesn’t matter if I bike as slowly as I possibly can (which is an entirely different challenge altogether). It usually takes me about 30 minutes to stop sweating, chill the fuck out and calm the fuck down. Which is actually pretty traumatic, especially while sitting next to all these Europeans who look like they’ve just walked off a Vogue runway. I’m going for feral New Zealander look. I think I’ve got it down pretty well.

Not my house

Such are the real and unadulterated struggles of living in a European city that you never hear about. If you want to talk to me about your own similar struggles, just flick me a message. I hear that there is strength in numbers and we people who are tormented by these bloody bicycles need to stick together; it’s a big ol’ world out there.

And that's a big ol' wall. 

Settling

It’s been a while since I last blogged about the intricate details of my inner workings, which usually means that nothing interesting has been happening. But in this case, that is not the case.  After I left the mighty US (USA!!! USA!!! USA!!!), I spent a week in Iceland visiting all the old haunts (except the one that had turned into a gentlemen’s club) with the Ghosts of Exchanges’ Passed before heading to Sweden to begin my masters degree.

Harpa

But let’s backtrack, to Iceland, the Land Of Fond Memories. If you have been reading my blog for long enough, you might remember one trip to Turkey with one Australian companion. Said companion was also present as one of the three in Iceland on this Mini Reunion. You may also remember, from the time we tripped around Turkey together that Said Companion turned up without his luggage. And had lost and found his passport (after a trip to the embassy). And then left his phone somewhere forgettable, and the phone was then held ransom by a taxi driver. And I mean, for all intents and purposes, he’s a trust worthy person, who manages to get himself into Masters programs on the other side of the world and to get himself there. He was in charge of accommodation and had been talking about it for a solid 2 months before we arrived in Iceland. And the other group members (myself and another Australian) trusted him to do the job. Except, he hadn’t. And Iceland isn’t the best place for trying to find beds at short notice over the weekend of The Reykjavik Marathon and Reykjavik Culture Night. It was musical beds every night of the week. And I am never trusting him to organize my life again. But, as dire chance and fateful cock-up would have it, he lost his bag with his laptop in it on the last day. As they say, karma’s a bitch.

Oh, hey Reykjavik!

The pond

Now, it was purely co-incidence that we were there for Reykjavik Culture Day (and Night), but a happier co-incidence has never occurred. The give out free waffles. They have music all through the. They had people dressed up as Vikings, including babies with swords (friendlier Vikings, you will never meet). AND they had the perfect cure to any hangover; dancing in the streets. Complete with a disco ball, DJ and grass dance floor so you could really get your bohemian dancing shoes on (bare feet).

Free waffles

Baby Vikings ft. sword

People for Africa

Dancing in the streets

And then I arrived in Sweden. And now I am in Sweden. Settling into life here. Slowly. After a very serious conversation with myself asking the hard questions, for example; what the fuck did you do?

But I took solace in the fact that the sun was shining

Actually, that’s the only real question that I asked myself, but it was a hard one. It took some getting used to; the fact that the only shadow that I had was my own once more. But I am settling into life here in Sweden well. And the friend making process hasn’t been hindered by the fact that my most fluent sentence of Swedish translates to, ‘what’s wrong with you?’ Such is the generous nature of the Swedes. But seriously, the town is gorgeous. The people are great. And the thought of spending two years here is infinitely less intimidating than it was on Day Dot. 

Välkommen till Sveriges!