Life’s a Beach

Lomma Beach House is the headquarters of Kite.se, the biggest kite surfing school in southern Sweden. It was built mostly by friends all with the common desire to have a place where everyone and anyone would feel welcome to come chill out, relax and converse with like minded people.
When the wind is good, the house is used for kite courses, and when the sun is shining we are selling ice cream and beach food to the public.
No two days are the same, but the morning breakfast ritual is firmly in place. We arrive out at the beach, perhaps go for a quick wake up swim, then settle in for a glorious breakfast the Swedish way. Coffee machine humming, an array of cereals, yoghurts and fruits, followed by soft and hard breads topped with caviar, cheeses and cucumber. It’s a feast for kings and time is taken to enjoy each mouthful, and to soak up the early morning sun on the deck. One would have to try very hard to have a bad day after a start like this.

 

 

 

 

 

The house is staffed by young travellers recruited from the HelpX website. It is much like the set up we used at El Elefante Amarillo, with the Work Away volunteers.
Take two French girls, two Spaniards, an Irish girl, a good handful of fresh young Americans and any Swedes that happen to be lying around, mix together with a generous helping of spontaneity, leave to cook a while in a sauna and you have a fail proof recipe for madness.

A Change Will Do You Good.

 

At the time of my last post I was working in sunny Spain , learning a lot at a new job and planning a week long trip back to Sweden for Midsummers.

The crisis is very much a reality in Spain. Even if you manage to find employment , there is no guarantee you will get paid. The restaurant business is a tough industry to be in at the best of times. Andalucía relies heavily on the tourists dollar, and although the tourists are still there, they are much more reluctant to part with their money. High end restaurants, such as Tragabuches (where the least you can expect to spend per person for a meal, is €100) are experiencing empty dining rooms night after night. Meanwhile the middle range restaurants seem to be faring a lot better. There is a real need for flexibility. Unless these high end places change their concepts and open themselves to other markets, by offering more affordable options, the prognosis is fatal.

Although I was grateful for such a great learning opportunity, I ended up losing money when I started work at Tragabuches. It is now August and after numerous bounced checks and subsequent bank fees, I am yet to be paid for the 270 odd hours I worked in June. It’s an unfortunate fact of life but we need money to survive and when the work/ life ratio is unbalanced, motivation wanes.

While back in Sweden for Midsummers, my friend Erik offered me a role he had offered me almost two years earlier. It meant spending all my days out at the beach, starting up food sales to the public in a brand new kite surfing house. It was an appealing offer.

 

               

So one week before my 26th birthday, I went back to Spain, quit my job, broke up with my boyfriend, moved out of my house and was back in Sweden within a week.

Although I adore Spain and the Spanish culture, I struggled to find my place there. Whereas I feel very much at home in Sweden. So while Sweden may not have the sunshine and cheap cervezas, nor does my new job hold the prestige that comes with working at a place like Tragabuches, life at the beach, surrounded by a great group of young people isn’t such a bad trade.

 

Gordon Ramseys Latino Twin

         
At the request of my mother I am now going to begin posting about more recent events as well as trying to continue the story of the past three years leading up to now.

Its a Monday, my day off from my new job in Ronda, and I am inside, avoiding the inferno that is southern Spain in summer. After spending part of the winter working as a chalet chef in Austria ( I’ll get to that later) I returned to Spain hoping to find work. My chances didn’t look good, as the current unemployment rate here in Andalucía is about 40%. However after a few weeks enjoying being back in the village I headed into Ronda, armed with my usual ignorance, my newly translated CV, and Edu, my personal translator. There was only one place I wanted to work. Hidden down a small side street just off the Plaza del Toros , is Tragabuches, Ronda's only Michelin starred restaurant, well known for its creative cuisine, tiny portions and high prices.

Marching towards Tragabuches , a highly amused Edu, asked me what exactly my plan was. Did I think I could just knock on the door and say

‘ Hey, I’d like a job please. I don’t have any formal qualifications, I’ve never worked in a restaurant of this standard, I can get a bit stroppy if you yell at me and my Spanish is poor to non-existent, but I don’t mind working hard’.

A plan, what novel idea. Thankfully just as we were nearing the door, one of Edus many cousins to waved us down. He works as the Maître at the restaurant next door and after hearing of my intention, told us to wait a while, while he went to talk to the owner who happened to be a friend. He came back out and told us we were to go through the back entrance where the head chef was waiting to meet us.

Walter is an Argentinian of indeterminate age and has been the head chef for a couple of years. He asked me what I was best at, I said desserts, he said good I’m looking for a girl to do desserts, you start tomorrow at 10.30. And that was it. I would like to say that he looked through my CV, asked me to demonstrate a few dishes and was so impressed that he hired me on the spot. It was all a bit strange and the nervy manner of the other three chefs was slightly off-putting. I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth though. After being there for almost a month, I now have my suspicions as to why I was literally able to walk into the job.

For my first day, Ivan a young Spanish chef who works in the meat and fish section ,showed me what I had to prepare. At the moment the amuse buche is a selection of caramelised macadamias, tiny bread sticks with a blue cheese foam and strips of Vietnamese rice paper which are fried very quickly in oil until they puff up like a prawn cracker and finally sprinkled with a wild mushroom powder. Everyone gets this once they are seated. However instead of an a la carte menu, there are tasting menus in three sizes. For desserts, there is Arroz con Leche with Crème of Arroz con Leche and a muscatel ice cream, which is on all three menus. There is also the Mousse de Chocolate with Sopa de Chocolate and Menta, chocolate ice cream and a funny chocolate sponge thing made with something called Malto , a product from Ferran Adria's Texturas range, this you get when you order the two larger menus. Basically the two desserts are rice pudding and chocolate mousse. When given a long name, plated in miniscule portions and with a few flower petals artfully placed around the plate, obviously it’s going to cost you a bit more.

                                                                      Rice Pudding

                                                                    Chocolate Mousse

While I was busy doing battle with the ice cream machine, I felt the atmosphere in the kitchen go very still. Turning to see what the cause was I saw Walter had entered the room and was standing at his little stand, running his eyes over his kingdom. The boys (did I say there were three, well there were now two) were very quietly scuttling about looking busy. Walter slowly made his way over to where Ivan was preparing a salad for staff lunch. Ivan went rigid and without warning Walter picked up a big metal pot and proceeded to smash the salad with it until all that was left was a trickle of juice running down the counter and a few bits of lettuce scattered on the floor. All the while yelling at Ivan saying very rude things about his mother. Apparently the staff salad wasn’t up to standard.





More on that later.

At home today I have been busy in my own kitchen baking Swedish hard bread. There is something to be said about the therapeutic effect of baking your own bread. Especially so for me, when it’s in my own kitchen, in my dressing gown, bare footed and free to get flour and dough all over the bench, the floor, and in my hair without a pair of hawkish eyes following my every move!

More Shabby Chic ( aka rip, shit and bust) than Avant Garde

                         

The Swedish Mating Game

With the festive season packed away for another year, the sparkling Christmas lights and cosy festive markets were replaced with snow turned to grey sludge and endless dark and cold days. The anticipation that precedes Christmas was replaced by dread at the thought of a long, cold, winter. Charlotta returned from Cork, reclaiming her room in the corridor, and I moved into a flat with four young Swedes.

 They were quite a different kettle of fish from the girls in the corridor. I was now living with a gamer, seemingly allergic to daylight hours (I suppose winter in Sweden was a happy time for him), an IT whiz and martial arts enthusiast, with an impressive collection of swords and an unnerving ability to convey his disapproval of almost everything I did with just an unwavering stare. This caused me to stop whichever offence I was committing at that moment to sit cross-legged on the carpet with hands on knees with the hope that by displaying submission he would be dissuaded from using the opportunity to practise whichever life-snatching move he had learnt that week. There was the self-confessed nymphomaniac whose somewhat vocal, extra-curricular activities, often accompanied by Barry White, drove  me to purchase industrial earplugs, kept close at hand, ready to be employed at any hour of the day. The final one was a rather pleasant med student who didn’t possess any character traits quite as distinctive as the others.

 Around this time a girl I had met on the odd occasion in Christchurch, moved to Lund for a student exchange.  I wouldn’t say Kirsty and I hit it off straight away, but as the saying goes, beggars can’t be choosers, so we persisted.

I won’t lie, as much as I wax lyrical about the wonders of Sweden, winter of 2010 was brutal. Nothing brings people together like shared adversity. It soon became apparent that we both suffered from severe snow allergies. The most noticeable symptom of this debilitating illness is a weight gain of seven kilos overnight. Annoyingly, Swedish girls, having been exposed to the allergens from birth, develop immunity, thus maintaining their already unrivalled title as most disgustingly good-looking breed of the human race. This coupled with our terrible luck with the opposite sex saw us both slip into a bout of low confidence.

It didn’t stop us trying, however. It became a bit of a social experiment for us. After each fruitless night out we would retire to our favourite Turkish establishment, for a post-match play by play over a kebab. The only attention we managed to get was from the charming Turkish men. Using the attention as a balm for our bruised egos saw things getting out of hand one afternoon. So absorbed in inhaling the free fries that were now a foregone conclusion, we failed to notice we were the only customers and, that having closed the doors, three men were now closing in on us. The discussion of dowry soon got our attention however, that, the over-friendly hand on a knee and the other three men appearing from the kitchen. We made a run for it out the open kitchen door, grateful for the first time in our lives for coming from hardy, sheep-tossing stock. You Swedish girls may be beautiful but I’d like to see you spear-tackle six grown men. We didn’t stop running until we had scaled a 2m high fence and came face to face with a bunch of horrified mothers in a playcentre, shielding the eyes of their toddlers from the sight of two strange girls, dresses up around armpits and clutching the remains of their kebabs.

So what conclusions did we draw from our failed attempts to connect with the opposite sex? We had a number of excuses, fat and ugly was a popular one, foreign factor was often used as well. We really began to feel as though we were involved in a game where everyone else but us knew the rules. The mating game is hard enough when dealing your own culture, how were we ever going to figure it out here. It’s not that we were after boyfriends or even, you know, “love for a night,” just a little attention for goodness sake!

One night while discussing the situation over yet another bottle of vodka, unable to face another of our pitiful Bridget Jones ramblings, my flatmate (resident expert) stepped in to offer some advice. After listening to our game plan -make eyes at man in hope that this will be enough for him to get the hint and buy us a drink, she informed us that we needed to be more aggressive, that Swedish men were used to assertive women. She was appalled to learn that neither of us had ever made the first move when it came to boys. We weren’t against the idea, and were all for equality between the sexes. We had just never considered it before.

Emboldened by this new insight we thought we would try it out. Recently I had been finding excuses to go into a phone shop, to perve at the gorgeous sales assistant. My reasons for being there were starting to lose credibility and I was probably either starting to look like a stalker or a really pedantic selector of silicon phone protectors. Deciding this was the perfect opportunity to test out this new information, we devised a plan where I would just walk into the shop and ask him out. The target was busy with another customer when we arrived, so we mulled around the phone accessories for a while. The following is more or less what happened next.

Another Sales Assistant: Can I help you ladies with anything?

Me: No thank you, we’re here to talk to that other guy.

Another Sales Assistant: Raised eyebrows and a knowing smirk

Kirsty: Tries to distract him, with accessory related questioning.

Target is finally available. (Actually that’s something we didn’t factor in, what if he has a girlfriend???)

Target: What can I help you with?

Me: Heart racing, sweat patches no doubt appearing through my 15 layers of clothing.

Ah well actually I have a non-phone related question. Smooth Kate.

Do you want some coffee?  I know this is how it happens in American movies.  I mean only if you’re available.

 Other customers begin start to look over.

Target: Looking quite taken aback and uncomfortable. Uuuuuuuuuuuum yeah, I’ll think about it.

Me: Taking this as a promising sign, I stand there grinning like gormless twit, (we didn’t rehearse this far in.)

Target: Ah, do you want to give me your number?

Me:  Oh yeah, ok.  Actually I don’t know my number.

By this stage quite a crowd has gathered and are beginning to enjoy the show.

I have to ask Kirsty for my number, so the other sales assistant escorts her over to us clearly not wanting to miss this.

Kirsty has just lost another phone so doesn’t have my number either.

Target: Asks for my full name and date of birth.

Me:  Feeling a little insulted. I’m not too old for you.

Target: Obviously eager to get the nutcase out of his store, informs me that as this is a phone shop, he is able to find my number with a few quick clicks on the screen in front of him, if I would just give him the information.

Triumphant that a boy has asked for my number, we turn to leave the store.

Target: Hey, my name is Christian.

Pfft and?

We found a glass of wine and settled in to debrief. We were both feeling emotionally drained. Kirsty’s heart was thumping so hard during the whole episode; she didn’t hear all that was said. Feeling empowered, we declared that from now on this is how we would approach the problem.

I was looking forward to the next part of the experiment, where the boy would call and we would take that coffee. At that time I had been having a few problems with the taxi driver who until recently drove me to work for “free”. As a precaution, I answered all unidentified calls as Janet. So when one of these calls came through, and Janet answered, the guy, flustered, apologised, saying he was looking for Kate. Realising it was Phone Shop Boy I quickly reassured him that it really was Kate and I only said Janet because I had a Kurdish taxi driver called Azad stalking me. He hung up pretty quickly.

God Jul; Christmas time in Sweden

Lund is a beautiful small university town in the very south of Sweden. With incredible old buildings and a heaving student atmosphere I was lucky to end up in a corridor with eight girls’ right in the centre. Attached to our building was a catering company which I talked into giving me a few hours a week, so I only had to walk through our living room door to get to work.

As mentioned earlier, the Swedes have a reputation of being a tough nut to crack. Some describe them as being cold. I can understand how this misconception may arise. Some of the greatest, truly kind hearted people I know are Swedish. As an outsider however, it may take a while to infiltrate their tight social groups. New Zealanders are known for being open people, happily welcoming strangers into their homes. You may meet someone for the first time, exchange numbers and arrange to socialise later on, and generally speaking forming these social connections is fairly simple.

 The first month in Lund was a struggle. I had trouble finding a proper job and couldn’t seem to make friends with the girls. They were all friendly and polite, but all had their own friends and things to do. I would wait for the invitation to join them that would be instantaneous in New Zealand. It was the first time I had ever had to think about how to make friends. It almost felt like being in the dating game. However I remember the moment I felt as though I had been accepted into the group. We had a corridor breakfast where everybody contributed and sat around the table for hours chatting away. From then on the girls were so open and kind and genuine towards me. My friendships with each of these girls are as genuine as only my oldest school friendships and a select few others. You have to earn your friendships, but once you have, the friendship is far more rewarding than one more easily gained. A word from the wise. If you wish to make Swedish friends in Sweden quickly, go when the sun is shining.
 

The girls I lived with were all weird and wonderful in their own way. They encouraged me to speak Swedish, without the greatest results unfortunately, but the effort was appreciated. Swedes really know how to make a place cosy and homely. There was always the smell of baking wafting through the corridor, breakfast was eaten together and regularly someone would make everyone dinner, where we would all sit around the big table, properly laid with candles and plenty of wine. Here we would sit up for hours as girls everywhere do talking about the same things I would talk about with my girlfriends at home.

It was harder than anticipated to find a more permanent job. It was only after bumping into a fellow kiwi in Malmo (a bigger city ten minutes away by train and another 30 minutes away from Copenhagen) who was also in the food industry and who put in a good word for me with his friends at the Hilton, did I have success. I started off in the catering kitchen on a short term basis in the lead up to Christmas. This was quite a change from the tiny one person kitchen in Kvinnaböske. In total there were five kitchens and more than 15 chefs with only five of us girls. To be honest a place like the Hilton is essentially a high class fast food joint, but I was certainly in no position to be picky. After Christmas a place opened up for the breakfast shift, which I was lucky enough to be offered. (Although I didn’t feel so fortunate during my daily commute, which involved being up at 4am, literally walking through snow for half an hour to catch the train to Malmo, then sprinting to the bus which took me to work to start at 5.30). An environment like the one at the Hilton is probably one of the better ways to pick up a language fast. Being constantly surrounded by it, others not having time  to stop to speak English and having to place daily orders in Swedish meant I finally made a bit of progress with the language. It was here in a very male dominated environment that I also picked up the most disgusting Swedish any of my other friends had ever heard.

If you are a great lover of all things Christmas, Sweden is the place to be. Christmas starts early here with festivities beginning in late November, early December and continuing through to mid-January. Celebrations begin with Advent, four Sundays before Christmas. A candle is lit every week until Christmas. Every morning in the corridor everyone would gather to watch the years Christmas themed Advent program on TV. In the afternoons ,fika ( Swedish afternoon tea) consisted of pepparkakor ( ginger snaps) washed down with glasses of glögg, a spiced, red wine based drink, warmed with raisins and slivered almonds added at the end.

On the dawn of the 13th, Lucia processions take place around the country. Young girls dressed as angels, sing traditional carols while the public warm themselves with more glögg and delicious saffron buns.

As Christmas approached, we were kept busy at the Hilton with countless Julbord bookings. Julbord is smörgåsbord gone crazy with Christmas fever. Office parties feasted on Christmas ham, smoked eel, boiled eggs topped with caviar, gravlax, boiled potatoes slathered in dill butter, liver pate, pork sausages, lutfisk (a fish preserved in a similar fashion to the Spanish Bacalao, and usually saved especially for Christmas time) and of course no Swedish table would be complete without a variety of pickled herring and copious amounts of beer and schnapps. Traditional Christmas dessert is a sweet, creamy rice pudding with a single almond hidden within. It is said, the lucky (or not, depending on your own view) person who gets the almond, will be the next to be married.

Despite the fact it was dark outside by the time work had finished at 3pm, the walk home every day in the lead up the Christmas, was magical. Every shop had extravagant decorations in the bid to outdo each other for the best window display. Stalls lined the main street of Malmo offering all things Christmas. The smell of roasting chestnuts wafting through the air, intricate Christmas lights, lighting a path to the train station, temporary ice skating rinks with adults and children all entering the festive spirit. Topped off with plenty of snow and Christmas music, Christmas finally made a bit of sense (from a secular point of view at least). I imagine Father Christmas (or Tomten in Swedish) would be a lot more comfortable here than at home, where the poor thing has to suffer through the season, sweating away in his thick, woollen get up, as we sing inherited carols about sleigh bells and snow, all the while contemplating whether or not we have time to nip to the beach before finishing our Christmas shopping!

A few days before Christmas, I made my way ‘home’ to Karin’s at Kvinnaböske. Out in countryside where the snow reaches up to the fence lines and is as yet untouched and pure white, in the stillness that comes with snowfall you can almost hear the jingle of a sleigh, as the fat bearded man in red, begins his deliveries. Christmas day here is celebrated on the 24th. With gifts wrapped and waiting under the tree, house spotless and every spare surface occupied by burning candles. Everyone enjoys a long meal from the Julbord, until 3pm when the whole household gather around to watch Donald Duck on TV, (an interesting variation of the Queens speech). Finally it’s time for the best part; the opening of the presents.Previously I had theorised that with the time difference between the two hemispheres, if he worked really quickly, it was conceivable that Father Christmas might manage to deliver to all children before the dawn of the 25th. With the fresh knowledge that children in the Northern hemisphere have been opening their gifts at roughly the same time as children in the Southern hemisphere, a niggling doubt has crept into my mind.

While nothing beats Christmas at home with my family and our own peculiar traditions, having the girls in the corridor enthusiastically including me in their own traditions and to spend my first white Christmas at Karin’s with her family who all spoiled me ridiculously, is something I won’t soon forget.

 

Let's start at the beginning; part II

I can’t tell you too much about my first impressions of Sweden. I was far too absorbed in the biggest heart break in the history of the world, to register the postcard perfect scenery speeding by the window, as the train made its way from Stockholm to Båstad, my destination of self- imposed exile.

I spent my first night at the home of one of the three couples who own the hotel. In the morning I met Karin , whos English is generally very good, but due to the quirky kiwi accent and habit of speaking very fast, wondered what language I was speaking. She took me by the arm, spoke very slowly in English so I could understand and announced that she was my Swedish mother and I was to come to her at any time of the day or night for whatever reason.

 She is partly responsible for my love of Sweden. In the following year she treated me just like a daughter. I was always welcome at her home, my room always ready, should I feel the need to come ‘home’ for a few days after the summer, when I moved north to Lund. Midsommers, Christmas, Easter ( more on Swedish celebrations later) and birthdays were all celebrated with my Swedish family.

Karin on Midsommers day

My arrival coincided with Bjäre Potato week. In nearby Båstad, along with celebrations dedicated to potatoes, ten restaurants from the region had to showcase their food every morning for the week. In order to encourage people to begin dining out again after a winter spent in hibernation, each restaurant also had their own set menu for the week, at a reduced rate. So my first day was spent prepping the courses on our menu as well as a few hundred canapés for Tim ( my new boss) to take into Båstad the following day. The next morning I spent a few hours adding the finishing touches to the canapés. Tim left Viktoria and I to it, reassuring us that it would be fine with only twelve people booked for lunch and in any case he would only be gone a couple of hours. I should mention at this point the kitchen was in the middle of being refitted so there were only two big barbeque's, to cook on until the new equipment arrived. All was set to go, tables set for maximum capacity of around fifty inside and out, gleaming glassware and cutlery, plates warming and the first course of soup, heating. I was even quietly congratulating myself at having prepped extra, just in case we had one or two drop-ins. This was going to be a breeze.

The first few tables arrived and got their courses on time, the chicken was even cooked right through.
 I must have repressed the memory of what happened in the following few hours. I am told that on top of the twelve booked the anticipated few drop-ins escalated to more than fifty. Anything we had ordered in for the dinner service was used, after that was gone; alternatives to the menu were offered and ordered.

I remember looking up in horror as Viktoria came through to ask if we could do another table of six that had just walked in. I told her no way in hell, she told them of course not a problem, let me show your table and I’ll ask the “chef” what we can offer you. Somehow Viktoria managed to serve all of these people, reset tables, settle bills and wash the mountain of dishes, all the while with a smile on her face. I wasn’t so graceful; too traumatised to even be grateful that none of the customers seemed to contract food poisoning.
I will never forget the sensation of that first lunch service, the feeling of the wheels only just hanging on by one loose nut while you’re speeding out of control down a zigzagging mountain road.
Tim returned in time to see the last guests leaving and suffice to say was over the moon with the unexpected turn out. Stocks were restored for the dinner service and we went in for round two. After finishing for the evening, with just one tearful breakdown from me, quickly remedied by Tim with a shot of brandy, I crawled into bed to face reality.
Let me tell you the glee at having pulled off such a big scam, convincing someone I had capabilities I now quite clearly wasn’t in possession of, was fast replaced with sheer terror. I was not looking forward to the next day.


In the end, life in the kitchen was made easier, with the realisation that going home wasn’t an option. After restaurant week, things calmed down to a far more reasonable pace. An al a carte menu was offered for the remainder of the summer and gradually my confidence in the kitchen grew. We can’t have done too badly as we were awarded highly recommended in the national restaurant guide after just one summer.

Down time at work: Tim and Viktoria

So it was definitely more of a learning cliff than a curve. I am now fully aware that ‘have experience making school lunches for my family’ does not translate to ‘can run a commercial kitchen.’

Despite its curious name, Kvinnaböske, which translates directly to woman's bush, couldn’t have been in a more picturesque setting. Set out in the countryside, about 8km from Båstad, the hotel, with its thatched roof and red exterior, looks a little like the gingerbread house from Hansel and Gretel. One direction looks out over fields of horses down to the most beautiful white sandy beaches just five minutes away by car. Behind the hotel, lays an expanse of forests where, depending on the season, you can go foraging for wild mushrooms, Raspberries, Blueberries or Hjörtron berries ( Cloud berry). I was even lucky enough to spot a baby white reindeer and her mother, when out riding with Viktoria one winter’s morning. 

Cloud berries, Blueberries and Chanterelle mushrooms

Looking across the restaurant to the sea

Viktoria riding into the forest

I moved into a derelict old farm cottage 200m down the road. One day I returned from a day off to find five young Swedish guys had also moved in. They were friends of Tim's who were promoting their kitesurfing school at the Swedish tennis open, held annually in Båstad. Apart from Viktoria they were the first Swedes I had met my own age. As therapeutic as working 15 hour days 6 days a week is, having the attention of five lovely, entertaining Swedish boys will do the same job in a fraction of the time. Delusions aside, the following three weeks were great fun. Mornings would start with a walk down to the beach for a swim (that summer was almost as good, weather wise as the following one, with sunny skies and 24 degrees plus the norm) followed by work for Viktoria and I, with the boys occasionally coming in to serve later in the day once they had finished doing kitesurfy stuff in town. The evenings were spent in Båstad.

                        Boys donning the fetching uniform of Kvinnaböske Krog

Erik doing some nifty trick

Now is probably a good time to describe what happens over the weeks of the tennis. The permanent population is about 4700, this swells to more than 25,000 over these weeks. This is when a number of businesses make their profit, enabling them to close down for the remainder of the year. The attraction as it turns out, is not the tennis, but the opportunity for the Stureplan Brats to sail their yachts into the harbour, spray champagne over the plebs and climb a few rungs in their social hierarchy, before sailing off to the next summer hot spot. The pampered spawn of Stockholm's fabulous, Brats tend to operate in packs, easily identified by their slicked back hair, pink pressed shirts and never empty glass of champagne. Brat spectators also account for the swell in numbers. Although slightly disturbing to watch, tennis weeks in Båstad are well worth experiencing. Brat behaviour is by no means the norm for the average Swede, nonetheless it is a fascinating phenomenon.

Ageing Brat

It was during these weeks that our first proper cultural exchange took place. After one of the boys ran out of the kitchen, close to tears and clutching his throat, having mistaken my Vegemite for chocolate spread, they decided to introduce me to a Swedish delicacy.

Vs

Literal translation 'sour herring'

 Surströmming is the name given to fermented herring. As Henrik's mother was from the north, where surstörmming has its origins, he was self-appointed expert on the dish. Alarm bells should have been ringing when he herded us all outside just to open the tin. (In the north many homes have an outhouse far away from the main house, especially for eating surströmming). If you are game/stupid enough to partake in such event, it’s advisable to wear old clothing and stand well away from the tin, as it bursts open, drenching unwitting bystanders with a nauseating spray of rotten fish. To be fair Henrik had put a lot of care and effort into doing the dish some justice. Each of us were handed a piece of hard bread with boiled potato, dill crème fraiche and a sliver of the herring. Erik went first and put on quite a display of theatrics just getting it to his mouth followed by projectile vomiting and a torrent of swearing in Swedish, The others all followed suit, each meeting the same fate, until it was my turn, and I can tell you my senses have never been so horrendously violated by anything like it before. Words cannot describe the smell that would linger for the rest of summer, in the garden, in the toilet, on clothes that little flecks of other peoples vomit had unknowingly landed on and in the resulting nightmares for the months to follow. I can smell it now two years later and hundreds of miles away in my bedroom in Spain. Any thoughts that the others before me were being overly dramatic were dispelled as I too wretched into the neighbours garden.


Despite our reactions, which may have been due to Henrik's inexpert preparations, I am told that many people actually do enjoy this dish, although I think it unfair to place it in the same category as our beloved Vegemite.

 Between Karin, the kite boys and Viktoria's family alone I never once experienced the supposed coldness of the Swedish. In fact I was often overwhelmed by their total kindness and hospitality toward me.
So after such a great summer I jumped at the chance to stay longer when my friend, Charlotta offered me her room in a small student corridor in nearby Lund, while she went on exchange to Cork for three months.

Let's Start at the Beginning

 
After more than two years away from home, and numerous half written stories about adventures in France and life in a tiny Spanish village, I am going to start at the beginning.

I know Sweden cannot compete with the romanticism of Southern Europe. With the information we are fed at home, when thinking about Southern Europe, we may conjure up pictures of year round sunshine, an abundance of fine wine and food, and of course people whose main priorities in life are to enjoy these things. We may imagine they have the work / life balance figured out just right. Family is at the core and work does not dictate life’s priorities. The numerous religious festivals serve as an excuse for a week off from work to dance and indulge in cervezas.

If asked to describe the characters of these people we may use adjectives such as passionate, sociable, impulsive and hot blooded. My own impressions so far, are more or less in line with these stereotypes. This is perhaps why I have struggled to write anything I feel is interesting or original about my time in France and Spain.

 For most people I talk to, the choice between a story from southern Europe or Sweden is an easy one. Like being asked which would you prefer: a three course meal, starting with a bowl of the freshest mussels, steamed open in a broth of white wine and garlic, to be followed by a Beef Daube where the slowly cooked beef is so tender it melts in your mouth leaving just a hint of orange on the palate and finally, Madame can I tempt you with a selection of our regions tastiest cheese and fruit pastes or perhaps you would prefer the house special, the chocolate fondant, a decadent dessert with a molten chocolate centre? Or would you simply prefer a jar of slimy pickled herring? Bit of a no brainer.

Or...

Tough choice

We hear so little about Scandinavia from home. Those without fear of exposing their geographical ineptitude, may venture a few tentative guesses; IKEA, high cost of living, polar bears roaming the streets, relentless cold and the only light source, the illuminating blonde hair on the heads of all the blue eyed beauties. The general conclusion (even to be found in guide books) is that Swedes are a humourless and distant people. The recent popularity of Stieg Larssons brilliant but chilling novels probably hasn’t done a lot to promote tourism to the area either.

I confess to not knowing much about Sweden until I arrived. However, as I had no intention of being left at home, while my then boyfriend went on a boys trip around South America, I accepted the first of the many jobs I applied for on the internet. I didn’t care where I went; I was just desperate to leave first! Not that I admitted my ignorance to anyone, scornful of those who confused Sweden with Switzerland, including my boyfriend who reassured me that I would be fine in Sweden with all that Swiss chocolate. In fact I doubt I could have even pointed to where on the world map I was, until at least three weeks into my stay.
I hope this convinces you of how truly underrated and wonderful this part of the world is, if not to persuade you to visit it yourself one day, then at least give you an idea as to why a three month trip lasted more than a year. 


Excuse the preamble, but I should explain how I found myself in a Swedish kitchen.  From a young age I had a passion for cooking. However, I was always fully aware that it was to be more of a hobby rather than something to be taken seriously as a path to the land of grown-ups; hence the not to be mentioned, failed attempt to study something respectable at university. I don’t mean to implicate my father in the aforementioned crime of: formerly high achieving daughter, drops out of Law school and coincidently the Real World, leaving parents to try to explain to family and friends, what exactly it is she’s up to (lets plead insanity, far tidier no?). But this passion certainly wasn’t inherited from my mother (I’m sure she feels she’s failed somewhat, in setting an example, in finding the perfect husband. If it’s any consolation I think my sister has that lesson well in hand). I’m afraid it has to be said it comes from Dad, who—with his love of fresh home grown food, curiosity with new styles and habit of spending hours in speciality stores searching for treasures from around the world to experiment with—always had an exciting, delicious and lovingly created meal on the table, even after a hard day’s work on the farm and with the added challenge of accommodating the finicky whims of teenage girls.

So the obvious and sensible course of action while waiting for a bruised ego to heal, would be to enrol in a course for culinary arts, gain a formal education and take it from there. Or you could take an audacious shortcut and tweak your CV just enough to convince the owner of a restaurant to let you run their kitchen. I left home with a few merino thermals, my shiny new knife, one cook book and an astonishing amount of ignorance.

If this muppet can pull it off...