Stockholm- A Culture Capital

Stockholm- A Culture Capital
“The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.” – St. Augustine

Saturday, January 15, 2011

Angry New Year

Unbelievable. When I stopped home on my way to a party to find my room mate had moved out. (YAY) The flat was next to trashed. (Not so yay, but half expected) Dishes in the sink, and food left rotting out. The slow realization that it will take me a full day to get the old shit from my scummy, fat, drunken monster of a room mate out of my life for good. (Worth it in the end). Oh and the extremely slow realization that my clothes I had put in the washing machine happen to not be in my room, in the kitchen, my room mate’s room, ANY cupboard, garbage, bathroom, or closet. They were not on the balcony….

So where could they be? I look around again. Where could they be? I love my clothes; hopefully he didn’t take them by mistake…Where COULD THEY BE?

Open window on the balcony… No way.

Look Down… Yes way!

In fact way, way. Down is my clothes hanging like ghosts throughout the tree branches far below my 14th floor balcony (UNBELIEVABLE!) That drunken old bastard! So, despite my shock and need for revenge I suit up, grab the broom and see if I can get my clothes from the trees outside. Some of my favorites-- Khaki pants from my brother’s wedding, a sweater from Germany, a dress shirt from Spain, and another from South Africa. Unbelievable. I mean are you kidding me? Housing will be getting a call about this.

I manage to fish down the sweater, only mildly damaging my broom. But can’t reach the others so go up the 3rd floor hoping to go out on the balcony and get the others. A woman from her door is yelling at me in Russian but I have no idea what she is saying, then she get to the door and opens it with a slow mumble. She lets me in and I say some nonsense in no language either of us know but I point to my recovered sweater and the broom and point to her door. She doesn’t stop my advance into her flat so she must have noticed the clothes. I go in and the dog barks like a hellhound as it wipes its ass all over the floor. Instantly I am hit with the musky scent of years of hot dank isolation.

Memories of Detroit ghetto coming whirling back to me as I enter the dark flat and the Babushka locks the door and calms the dog. I start to advance to the balcony before I can get no for an answer, I fumble for the light but she turns it on and I meet her scowling bed ridden husband, I say hi in Russian and go to the balcony, easily grab my pants, and narrowly miss the African plaid. I use an old ski rod I find on the balcony but can’t manage to unhook the sleeve. As I am teetering over the edge head first I decide my life is worth more this new years than to get my last 2 shirts, so I go back inside and plan to return the next day when I have more time or hire out a fire truck.

The Old Russians keep talking to me as if I was their Grandson but everything just spins through my head with the rage and disbelief I am feeling. Finally the newest phrase my students taught me pops into my head. Ya Nyez Nayu! I don’t know! The old man keeps talking. Ya Nyez Nayu! HE keeps talking, then he yells it back ‘Ya Nyez Nayu?!’

At this point I decide to leave. I take a rain check for the night and decide to bring in the new year with friends, hopefully it does turn happy.

1 comment:

  1. It takes a certain degree of charm to sweet talk your way into a Russian bab's flat whilst wielding a broom... well done xx