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Swedish Wednesday
It was a day of “unexpected Swedishness”.
First, a colleague who had recently visited Sweden had brought me copies of some Swedish magazines. There was one that was a bit like “Woman’s Day”. The other was a bit more like “Women’s Weekly”.
It was a lovely gift, especially since the Swedish in these magazines is reasonably simple and straightforward. I was able to skim through the magazines as quickly as I would a similar magazine at the supermarket.
Actually, another colleague (who doesn’t speak Swedish) had no problems following the stories either. I guess it’s because the story of Brad and Angelina is reasonably straightforward, no matter what language you speak.
Still, she noted the magazine was full of “Swedish people I’ve never heard of…”
The other magazine featured the more well-known Agnetha Faltskog, as having appeared recently at a Swedish Royal function.
Minutes later, another colleague turned up with a guest from Sveriges Radio in Kalmar, a town in Southern Sweden. She was in Australia, as her son is studying here for a year. And although I knew she was coming, I wasn’t expecting her today.
“Why do you speak Swedish?”, she asked. A question for which there is no easy answer.
“Kom med mig”, I said to her, as I took her around to meet my colleague who is half-Swedish/half-Australian.
For a country that’s on the other side of the world, and on opposite parts of our hemispheres, she seemed a little surprised to discover a large amount of Swedishness.
Both she and her son mentioned there was a lot of interest in Sweden for both Australia and New Zealand. “Everyone wants to come here”, they told us.
Somehow, I didn’t feel so strange after all.
A house is not a home
It has finally happened. Four and a half years after the catastrophic floods tore through my hometown of Lismore, my sister and brother-in-law’s house has been demolished.
The house was severely damaged when the floodwaters rose all the way to the roof. Thankfully, my sister, brother-in-law, and nephew were able to escape just in time, rescued the following morning from the rising tide.
We spent a great deal of time cleaning up that place. Practically everything inside was destroyed, and we ended up having to throw mountains of belongings out onto the street—a heartbreaking scene repeated across hundreds, perhaps thousands, of properties in Lismore following that terrible disaster.
They moved back in after about six months, but it was never quite the same. The ghosts of the event lingered in the rooms. I recall my sister staring into space on many occasions, imagining the water creeping back up through the floorboards.
In the wake of the devastation, the New South Wales government established a buyback scheme to help relocate residents out of high-risk flood zones. A couple of years ago, working alongside a local organisation called Social Futures, and a man called Tim, my sister secured a buyback, making them eligible to receive the pre-flood value of the property. Following that, they entered into a partnership with my niece to purchase a new home on higher ground in East Lismore—a wonderful fresh start where my brother-in-law still lives today, though my dear sister sadly passed away around this time last year.
For a long time, the old house sat empty. We understand there were even some squatters for a while, mirroring the quiet desolation of most houses in that pocket of South Lismore. Across the wider city, opinion remains somewhat divided on the buyout and clearance plans; many residents are deeply concerned to see beautiful heritage homes and irreplaceable timber ending up in landfill, while once-vibrant housing areas are steadily turned into empty, silent blocks.
A few months ago, the next-door neighbour’s house was demolished. Then, over the last couple of weeks, my sister’s turn came. Despite the house being nearly a hundred years old—with gorgeous timber hidden inside—it also contained a significant amount of asbestos. Because it wasn’t deemed suitable to be physically lifted and relocated to higher ground, the salvageable timber was reclaimed, and the remainder of the structure was torn down.
Even though we knew it was inevitable, the reality of it still caught us by surprise, stirring up a deep wave of emotional upset for the family. For me, the most distressing moment was receiving a video from my niece capturing the exact second the roof collapsed onto the foundations. To watch the house smashed down to the ground in an instant was confronting. I could hear the tears in her voice when she sent it through.
Never get sick of the bridge.
Nice light tonight.
Bei Jing Dumpling
A couple of weeks ago I was sitting at the bus-stop near the corner of Cleveland and Crown Streets (Surry Hills) and a Chinese guy came up to me, asking for directions. He showed me a piece of paper with the address “432 Cleveland Street” written on it. As I don’t speak Chinese and his English was limited, it was a case of “look, point and direct”. Not all the houses/buildings in this area are numbered, so it took a moment or two to identify 432 as a small local restaurant called “Bei Jing Dumpling”.
I’d been there only once, not long after it opened, and to be honest, I wasn’t that impressed. I thought the food was OK, and I was actually the only person dining there.
But after helping that man the other week, I’ve wondered if it was worth revisiting. That someone was travelling with a piece of paper with only an address, made me think there may have been something more special about the place that I hadn’t previously considered. And so late this afternoon/evening I did.
Arriving late afternoon there were only a handful of people. But by the time I left (45 minutes later) the place was packed. I had dumplings with pork and cabbage, and they were excellent. Freshly made. On top of that, the staff seemed very friendly. I was the only non-Asian person eating there, so it looks like the hipsters of Surry Hills haven’t discovered it yet.
Second Hand Store
“Oh my goodness, that looks just like something I made in wordwork class thirty-something years ago” was my first reaction when I saw the shell-covered jewellery box in the second hand shop on Oxford Street late yesterday. On closer inspection, I noticed this one displayed a greater level of professionalism (you might say) than might have been evident in the craftsmanship of a 12 year old. Besides, I know THAT particular piece of child-craft (hipsters would love it) remains safely back home in Lismore. I haven’t looked closely at it in over twenty years, though I might do so when I head back home in a couple of weeks.
This particular second hand store on Oxford Street is quite an oddity. Located in the midst of a stretch of bars, restaurants and sex shops, it really stands out. As you enter the doorway, you never really knowing if you’re entering a legitimate shop or maybe the overcrowded house of someone with hoarding instincts. Like the famous overcrowded bookstore in Newtown, you’re never really able to walk very far in the shop without the need to excuse yourself as you pass by someone else. When I popped in there late yesterday for a look around there was just one other. As I left, two others were coming in.
The shop is a wonderful collection of items. Some of it is plain junk, of course. But as I looked around I saw some things I found genuinely very interesting. There’s a painting on the wall, for example, which I asked about, and told the bloke I would come back in over the weekend to purchase. There’s also some lovely old radios in good condition. If you’re ever on Oxford Street, it’s definitely worth a look.
Melodifestivalen 2021 Deltävling #3
Back in the days of 7-inch vinyl, there was always the B-side. There was the hit song on the A-side, and on the B-side there was, generally speaking, a song favoured by the artist, but never likely to be a hit record.
I often quite liked the B-sides. They were often good songs. In 1977, ABBA released an “alternative version” of their song, “Why Did It Have To Be Me” called, “Happy Hawaii” (described as an earlier version of the song), which was interesting to hear. Occasionally, there were double A-side records. But generally, B-sides were the also-rans.
And that’s how I feel about Heat 3 of Melodifestivalen, the Swedish contest which chooses an entry for the Eurovision Song Contest. They were all quite good songs, but nothing really memorable.
The only song which I thought was really any good, both in the song and in the performance was “Visions”.
I think part of the problem with Melodifestivalen at the moment is the small talent pool of songwriters and singers. With a few exceptions, it’s the same people every year. Or if they’re not the same people, it’s people who look and sound like others.
Every year it’s the same. There’s a bunch of pop songs (though nothing terribly contempoary); there’s a rock band; there’s a dansband (Swedish spelling); there’s a few older people. And every year, it really comes down to two or three mostly young men competing.
I think it’s time for a revamp.