Student cooking and nutrition

How does this peculiar breed of human beings sustain their existence is a very interesting question. A student kitchen is probably the place with most improvisations on a square meter in existance. Let us consider some typical food groups:

Beer
No doubt about it, it is good. It contains malt, which is a source of energy, and hops and alcohol, which are antiseptic. So it is both delicious and healthy - a rare combination. Furthermore, it can be used as a "hair of the dog", providing a precious jump-start on hangover mornings. One of Belgium's kings is famous for deciding that his subjects should drink beer, not water. This turned out to be a life-saver for many people, because water in these times was considered fresh when there was life in it and clean when all the frogs and tadpoles have been taken out. No need to study microbiology to imagine where this road goes. Hellooo, infections! So drink beer. It will save your life.

Coffee
Dual-use nutrient. It keeps you awake and functioning... well, in most of the cases at least. Me - I can drink half a litre and go straight to bed. In the dreadful situation that there is no more beer in the fridge when you awake after the wildest party ever, coffee can kick you in the head good enough to start your day.

Pasta
Another critical food. It can be combined with absolutely everything - sweet stuff, salty stuff, herbs, spices, ketchup (this is a whole group by itself), even au naturelle. The last one is only pasta without any additives and usually appears on the table a day or two before next payday. The advantages are that it is a really cheap and really fast way of providing carbohydrates. The disadvantage is that it gets boring soon. This, however, can be circumvented by eating different types of pasta: spaghetti, macaroni, tagliatelle and so on and so forth. It is still the same pasta, just the different shapes create the illusion of eating various foods.

For the ones with Asian preferences, there are instant noodles. Same as pasta, but made out of rice. Even faster but not always cheaper.

Ketchup
Universal spice. Goes on everything. When the amount of kethup exceeds that of the food, a ketchup abuse occurs.

Meat
Source of lipids and proteins. Usually found as a trace ingredient in hamburgers, salami, sausages, meatballs and other processed stuff. It is commonly combined with other animal parts, chemical stuff with at least fifteen syllables and good old starch.

Junk food
Chips, chocolate, salt sticks, cookies, beer nuts and everything else people consume at parties. Students party a lot, therefore their junk food consumption can be considerably high. Moreover, chocolate can be successfully used as an anti-depressant. It is sweet and contains ephedrine... or was it dopamine? Does not matter, it is still good. Have a secret stash, just in case. Five-six bars should be adequate amount for emergencies.

Vegetables
Yeah, right.

Sugar
Welcome in all forms. It can be found in coffee or tea, in the coke/juice/fizzy drink you buy, in an ordinary lump you crunch while passing-by, in the cakes and cookies you have for your afternoon snack. In ketchup, mustard, sauces, jams, sausages. Sugar means energy. Energy good. Taken in the afternoon, it gives you a welcome boost which enables you to continue working until 21.00. If you have errands after this time, consider going back to the basics, i.e. coffee and beer.

Negotiating ice

Winter has come. Yesterday, a white blanket of snow covered the land, hiding paths, tracks, nasty puddles from the last rain and turning all bicycles into lookalikes. The city had enough residual heat to melt some of the snow. That did not matter, the frozen water crystals kept on dancing, plummeting and finally resting on the ground, until they consumed all the warmth and buried the streets beneath themselves.

The clouds dissipated. Night fell. Countless students cycled home (after some initial confusion which exactly snow-covered modern art masterpiece represents their bike), leaving a myriad of tracks in the soft water-snowy slurry. Morning came.

I had to go out to the lab to help a friend of mine with his experiment. First surprise: the cycle roads were not cleaned up. Apparently, winter managed to surprise the municipality once again, even with the early warning it received several weeks ago. Never mind that. My bike has new strong grip tires, I said to myself, a little snow should not be a problem. I would have been right, save for the fact that there was something else besides the little snow. Ice. All the beautiful criss-crossing bike tracks from last evening had frozen during the night, adding some excitement to the show. Usually, ice is not that big of a problem by itself. The actual problem was that both my tires had their own opinion on which of the thousand tracks they should follow. This turned the whole trip into a rope-dancing kind of experience, with all my muscles strained to keep my balance. Not a very pleasant thing to do. Even less when you consider the speed limits. Any velocity greater than that of an enraged garden snail would inevitably lead to my fall. And I do not like falling. Dropping down flat on your nose from 2 m height is definitely not my idea of pleasure.

Speaking of ideas, I had a really bright one. I adjusted my course and started cycling on the street instead. Boy, was that a mistake. Yes, the street was cleaned and it was significantly easier to propel myself forward. However, I had to share it with some actual drivers. Most of them still having their summer tires on. Not a nice view, considering how close I was to the action. This sort of thing is best watched on YouTube, not when you have to struggle to avoid participating in it. Luckily, I was spared any incidents. I wonder what will happen next, when I have to go downtown. Literally. Karolinabacken, here I come...

Under the rain... again

It is 1 o'clock in the morning, when I go out from the castle. For those of you that you do not know it, this is one of my several working places that sustain my existence in this Northern country. All decent folk have already gone to bed, alone or with company. Even the students, the people that make Uppsala what it is, are nowhere in sight. The streets are completely empty... as they have been countless nights before.

Only me, my bike and the rain are moving. I love this bicycle. It has been in my possession for more than three years now, carrying me through winds and snow, through blizzards and rain, over ice and mud. I no longer need to steer it with my hands. The subtle changes of pressure on the frame are enough to make it go where I want it to. If only everything else obeyed my whims as easily as my trustworthy bike...

I am tired. One more shift as a waiter has passed by. In the end of it, the last remaining employees that have not yet got home sit down on a table with the boss and trade stories. Everyday problems, past amusements and future plans were laid out. I listen. In my glass I have some 12-years old Bowmore single malt scotch whiskey. One of my favourites. The smoky taste teases my tongue, while the amber-coloured liquid lazily makes its way down my throat, washing the strain away. The boss is happy with our work and treats us to a beer. A local one, named Uppsala. Quite nice, I should say. A full-bodied lager with ale undertones. Recommendable.

I am cycling. The drinks and the company have pushed the busy evening into oblivion. No more shall I remember the awkwardly-behaving guests, the hot plates and the annoying pretentious old ladies. All what is left is the smiles of my coworkers, the lovely a-capella band and the delicious chocolate dessert offered by the chefs.

It is raining again. Celestial tears splash quietly on my cheeks as I glide unheard in the night. Their cold calmness is both numbing and invigorating. They take everything away, dissolve it and let it pour down from me as ink from a sheet of paper. I am blank again now, waiting to be filled. System of a Down booms in my ears, replenishing my supplies of rage and stubbornness, the two things that have always kept me focused on who I am and where I am going.

Finally, I am in front of my dormitory. One last look into the sky, feeling the raindrops caressing my face. An evening ritual follows. Time to go to sleep. I hope I dream.

Facebook - disconnecting people

Thanks to [censored] for sharing this story

A friend of mine decides to create a Facebook account, in order to be able to stay in touch with all his friends, associates and affiliates all over the world. However, he has no idea which ones of his friends have already created accounts, so he decides to leave this task for later. The first one that finds him is an ex-girlfriend of him, one that has not called him since they broke up.

When he decides to accept her friendship offer, a friend detail dialog box pops up, asking from where he knew this girl. He does not know that answering this question is not obligatory. After a brief consideration about who actually collects this data, he decides to go for it and clicks "We dated". The engine asks how it was. Answer is "Nice and sweet". The last question is "What now?" He explains they have remained friends. The interrogation is over and he sends the friend detail request.

Several days later he receives her answer. According to her they are more in a "Not talking to each other" than a "Still friends" kind of situation. To clarify this confusion, they actually start talking. And are having nice conversations to the point she asks him out on a concert. He accepts.

At the same time, another friend of his uses the "X Me" application. The action he performs is... well, it is hard to explain it in English. Apparently, in their mother tongue they have a word that, according to context, can substitute almost every word in a sentence in case the person speaking does not remember it. Something like "you know", I guess. And without the context it becomes an euphemism for intercourse, or so I gathered from his explanations. So this other guy youknows our hero. And my friend decides to youknow back. However, instead of youknowing this single friend, he youknows everybody in his friend list, including this ex-girlfriend.

Her reaction is unknown, but my friend never received confirmation for that concert.
Facebook - disconnecting people.

First half of the autumn term, an overview

Thanks to Yang for making me write this, and to Torsten, Vroni and Vahid, for giving me something to write about...

After a long summer-autumn brake, I am back in front of the keyboard. Actually, I have been in front of the keyboard almost every day, but certain things prevented me from contributing often to my stash of presentable thoughts. The simplest conclusion is also the true one: I had lots of NOT presentable thoughts and activities, which I will... not share with you now. Or ever, for that matter.

What I will divulge, however, is that I have successfully completed a course in Protein Engineering. It was by far the greatest course I have ever taken. Where to start now... ok, first of all, I was late for the course. And not just 15 minutes fashionably late. I arrived no less than four days after the course has started. Laboratory groups have already been created, research activities assigned and a lot of labmate bonding was going on. Needless to say, I was feeling very out of place. To top it all, there was a mini-exam waiting around the corner and I had no idea what I was supposed to know for it.

Now is the time to mention that I was extremely lucky and was part of a really cool group. Vahid, an Iranian guy, and Vroni, a German girl, were very helpful and we always looked after each other during the course. Thank you very much, both of you, for having such a good time together in the lab (and not only there). There was a very strong feeling of unity in this course. We went out together several times, and our professor even took us to a field trip to one biological research company and then to the Stockholm opera, where we saw Eugen Onegin.

A few words about our professor. For those of you that have played Monopoli, he is the iconic white-mustached bald man, just in a lab coat instead of a tuxedo. For those of you who have not played this game (go and play the game!), he is over there to the left, prof. Torsten Unge. This is probably one of the best teachers I have ever had. He was always looking out for us, helping and advising us, and he really managed to unite us as a group. Under his guidance, we had the wonderful tradition to eat home-baked cake every day, prepared by one of the students. And trust me, after five-six hours in the lab, a nice cup of hot coffee or tea and a sugar injection (the cake) was just the thing we needed to feel ready to do some more researching.

We even played Frisbee during the incubation times... which were fairly long. Actually, we played with two Frisbees simultaneously... now this is challenging. Not only that, but our playground was an inner yard of the faculty, with a big statue in the middle. So the advanced throws included curved trajectories passing around, above and under the statue... with the occasional splash of water when we actually managed to hit it and the Frisbee fell into the fountain. Add some wind and rain and you get really high-leveled players.

After the end of the course, we gathered home at our (i.e. mine and Albena's place) for a sushi dinner and a party. This time the sushi was prepared by genuine Chinese, so we had the real deal. Aaah, raw salmon tastes good!

Aviation day

"This is aweseome, dude! High five!"
Two Albanian guys with immensely thirsty throats

Yesterday was the 1st of July. For many people in Bulgaria, this means travelling to the sea-shore and greeting the rising sun as it emerges from beneath the calm water of the Black sea. For some strange reason, the sea is always calm on July Morning. Anyway, people gather round the campfires, guitars are played, songs are sung... other interesting activities are done. This would have been my night save for one very important fact. The first of July is the aviation day, at least in Bulgaria. And on this particular aviation day, there was an aviation show at the air force base in Graf Ignatievo. Additionally, this day marked the end of a joint Bulgarian-American air force training, thus the aviation show featured a skill demonstration by the Thunderbirds, the third oldest demonstration group in the United States.

The story begins... exactly at 15.50, Eastern European Time, on the last day of June. I went out from home with a huge backpack filled with very useful things, including a knife, a book, some food, spare clothes, a rubber hose and an emergency supplies of handkerchiefs. After all, it was only 35 degrees in the shade... somebody might catch a cold. I had exactly twenty minutes to get to the Central Railway Station - a task not impossible, provided the tram comes just in time. Well, the tram did come just in time... but remained stationary for about ten minutes, since it was its first and last stop. While idly waiting for it and idly reading the graffiti on the nearby walls, I idly stumbled across a note that informed me about the new routes of the city transport due to repairs. Needless to say, the tram did not go to the Station at all. Swearing(1), I took one of the (in)famous minibuses of Sofia called Route Taxis or just Routers. Of course, I got harassed for being two minutes late (this is what you get when you are extremely punctual otherwise, so do not be). I gently swore (2) at the guy and we went to buy our tickets.

Our nutrition state dictated the purchase after the tickets. We bought a piece of sausage and some bread. Embarking on the train, we saw the carriages were almost full. Poor little souls, they did not know what was expecting them. Being very hungry, we hardly waited for the train to depart and produced the "good stuff" from our backpacks. Being VERY hungry, we barely resorted to using the knife and teared and bit and gnawed on the soft flesh of our prey. Well, I guess we were overdoing it a bit, but the terrified looks from the other passengers were well worth the exertion. Concluding our meal with a heroic portion of water and a villainous belch, the two barbarians decided that some culture was in order. My friend, Vruk (this is his nickname, his true name not disclosed due to security purposes), sunk into 'Bulgarian Ballads' by Theodor Trayanov. I, myself, preferred the gay and lively tales of Edgar Alan Poe. I do not know what this man had smoked, but I want some of the stuff... He is amazing.

Five to seven, the stonework of Plovdiv Central Railway Station shuddered as we jumped from the train. We called the guy that was supposed to meet us there, Blake. Turns out, he was not there. He was at home, watching TV, with the presumption that we were to arrive one hour later. Of course, we swore(3) at him. He came in fifteen minutes and we went to have a beer. A great thing, the beer. We call it "capped pastry". The Navy - "tinned steaks". Either way, it is both refreshing and nutritious. Having moistened our throats, Blake called our host for the night, Lews Terrin, also known as Lyoshtern, and with a regret informed him that we have not yet arrived. We have not disembarked the train. We would probably arrive with the next one, one hour later. Lyoshtern was so stunned by this piece of information that he went and did a Number 2. For those of you that do not know what that is... Ignorance is bliss. The only problem... ok, the only two problems, were that he was doing for more than thirty minutes during which he had left his cellular phone somewhere beneath a pillow or into a botomless pit, since he did not answer it.

We were beginning to feel really uneasy and swore (4) at Blake and again (5) at Lyoshtern. My father, who was in Plovdiv on wholly different grounds, came to have a beer with us and, hearing of our predicament, called his hotel and arranged for a double room. At the same time, Lyoshtern finally called. We swore (6) at him again and told him to wait for us on the bus station. Having eaten our canned steaks, we parted ways, i.e. said good-bye to my father and went to the Central Bus Station. There, barely failing to step on a small black curious suicidal kitten, me and Vruk got on the bus and were off to Brestnik, a small village several kilometres south of Plovdiv.

Lyoshtern offered us his kind hospitality, which we gratefully answered by eating a lot of food and drinking almost all the beer. We spared one bottle, though. After lots of laughter and a moderate amount of swearing at (7) and from (8) Blake, we went to bed. Sleeping through July morning, we got up at o7oo hours and woke up Lyoshtern. He was very pleased to see our mugs early in the morning and announced his pleasure with a variety of profanities (8) none of which were new to us. We took the bus to Plovdiv.

On the Central Station, we bought 4.5 litres of water (we should have bought more) and took a city bus to Bus Station North. There, we had a simple barbarian meal with some more sausages and bread under the astonished looks of some walking dead, er.. I mean senior citizens. Then we took a bus to Graf Ignatievo, which lies several kilometers north from Plovdiv. At half past nine we were in front of the main entrance to the air force base, under the searing sun, swearing (9) quietly at the guards who had a shade. At eleven o'clock we were allowed to enter after a none-too-strenuous luggage check. I mean, I was carrying a knife and a rubber hose in my backpack. Those were two concealed weapons, not that I had taken any trouble to actually conceal them. On the other hand, it seems a little difficult to sabotage an aircraft with less than a metre of rubber hose, but what do I know about military airplanes? Anyway, walking briskly in front of the huge crowd coming tight on our heels, we jumped around like children in a candy shop and started taking copious amounts of pictures.

A MiG-21 and a MiG-29: Fullcrum were open to the public and everyone could sit in the cockpit and feel like a real pilot. An awesome fighter-interceptor, that MiG-29. The Thunderbirds operated F-16: Viper, the Fullcrum's archnemesis. Sadly, we could not witness a direct competition between the two fighters, but the show was spectacular nevertheless. We took autographs from some of the pilots and the mechanics and even managed to hug a USAF officer without causing an international incident. Go us!

The show was opened at 1300 hours with a demonstration parachute jump performed by Bulgarian commandos. I shall skip the comments about beauty, functionality, mass jumps and rapid landing strikes from supersmall altitudes. One hour later, six of the eight Vipers started rolling towards the runway. The howling sounds from the air intakes were deafening. And then they arranged themselves on the runway. And then the engines roared. And then they were in the air.

The following sixty minutes cannot be described. A massive one-hour spiritual orgasm, filled to the brim with the beauty of those beasts, the prowess of their pilots and the grace of the maneuvers. Chasing themselves through the skies with supersonic speeds, standing still in the air only on the exhaust jet stream, flying in a tight formation, passing by each other with mere metres between the hulls, flying on their backs, those guys and gals rocked our world like an earthquake.

Well, not everything was sugar and spice. One of the fighters had a collision with a bird and had to land. The pilot then resumed the show on one of the spare planes. On the way back to Plovdiv... this looked like a nice torture. We have been standing under the sun for seven hours. Our necks and forearms were red and itchy. We have drunk more than six litres of water, without going to the bathroom even a single time. The next train for Plovdiv was not due for more than an hour. The busses were filled to the brim. A fifteen-kilometres long traffic jam blocked the way. Every single one of the 10 000 visitors wanted to get home as soon as possible. Public transport not being an option anymore, we decided to hitch-hike. Against the modest fee of one bottle of ice-cold water, the driver of a nice big air conditioned Subaru jeep agreed to take us to Plovdiv. There, we met with Arwen Undomiel. No, we were not delirious, it was a friend of ours with that nickname. We drank some more beer... God bless the Akkadians... or was it the Sumerians... whatever, God bless both of them for inventing beer. After that we took the train to Sofia and spent the next two and a half hours laughing, giggling and roaring (and of course, eating with our innate barbarian grace and manners, i.e. crumbs flying everywhere, panic-stricken mothers screaming for mercy... you know, the usual stuff).

And so, tired, sweaty, burned, dirty and stinky (I told you we were barbarians) we got off the train and on our respective chariots, I mean cars, towards a rest well-deserved. The End.

Chaos theory applications

Yesterday, I and my roommate went shopping to restock our dwindling supplies of nutrition. We were supposed to go to a supermarket with student-friendly, i.e. *very* low prizes and then look for an Arabic store so that we might purchase some more... exotic items, not very common in traditional Swedish cuisine.

Prior to our departure, I consulted my preferred weather forecast service - the window. It was cloudy, with a slight cold northwest wind, looking ready to pour down heavy amounts of rain any minute. Heeding the advice of my inner voice, I searched for my umbrella. I found it in the wardrobe, successfully playing the role of a sleeping bat. Luckily for me, it had not developed any life-threatening traits apart from the substantial layer of dust lying on the handle. I disentangled it from the pile of coat hangers and put it into my backpack. After giving in to my scroogy side, I provided it with company - two plastic bags, so that I would not have to pay extra for those in the store, should the need arise.

We were all set to go and ventured bravely towards the unknown stores of Uppsala. We managed to do a lot of window-shopping and a fairly good amount of actual shopping. We had been strolling around the streets for more than two hours when we finally got home. And in that time, not a single droplet of rain managed to land on our bodies. Not that we were using the umbrella, mind you. The ex-bat was now re-enlisted in the mimicry division, this time as a cat, purring quietly in my backpack. There was simply no rain at all. And I was certain that had I not taken the make-shift parachute, we would have been soaked after the first ten minutes of our journey.

This obvious application of the Murphy’s Law made me think. What if rain was not caused by wind patterns, air mass migrations, temperature shifting and all the complex climate machinery meteorologists try to sell to us as an excuse for not doing any actual work? What if it was simply the Chaos theory combined with quantum mechanics that was the real deal? Imagine that there is a city somewhere with a certain known population. Let us say that one half of those people have used their windows in the way I did. The quantum theory says that an object could be in one of several different states simultaneously and only the act of observation determined which state was the currently correct one... for this particular universe. This means that those people that looked through the window are the ones that actually influence the weather. The rest are simply victims.

Let us say that it was the same cloudy day in that town as it was yesterday here in Uppsala. There is a certain probability that it would rain. The actual rainfall, however, manifests itself according to Murphy's Law. In other words, if more than half of the people that looked through the window had not taken their umbrellas, raincoats or whatever waterproof device they would prefer, it would rain. It is as simple as that. The combined observation and resulting decision of a certain amount of people would generate enough influence waves in the fabric of space-time that it would shift the weather balance towards rain or no-rain. Presently, I am not sure how this can be applied in more serious weather effects such as tsunamis or hurricanes, but I am positive they are observed by a very large number of people, so that decisions and consequences thereof have much greater impact, thus resulting in much greater damage.

In conclusion, if it looks as rain, use your umbrella wisely. Sometimes rain is needed.

What being a King feels like

It was another night at work. This time, I was a waiter at a private party. Several days earlier, when my boss was recruiting me for this particular event, he said that the guests had requested that only female personnel should serve them. However, since there were not enough waitresses available on that particular evening, I had to fill in as a honourabale woman. No, no surgery was necessary, thank you.

When I arrived at the crime scene... I mean, the nation, I cast a quick glance at the quest list. Then another, this time slower. At the third peering into the sheet I managed to discern two female names. The other ninety-four were all men. Some kind of a men choir having a reunion. Poor souls, they were so desperate for female attention that they have specifically requested "No boys allowed!" Well, guess who was going to shatter their dreams. That's right, the Czech guy. I am an honourable woman, remember?

The first surprise of the evening manifested itself in that from the nearly hundred guests none were allergic to anything; there were even no vegetarians around. I wonder if this is somehow connected to the singing or to their thirst (look here for more details). Then, to even out my karma, I received a whole table for myself, while the others had one side of the table each. Not that I was complaining though. Having worked as a waiter at Uppsala Castle, I was amply able to keep up with them. What I *was* complaining about though was the fact that some of the singers had lungs only matched by the size of their bellies and their chairs were drawn so far back that they almost touched next table's chairs. It made squeezing between the tables a bit tricky, especially with the lack of any levitational abilities of my part.

The dinner was going smoothly as it gets, hors d'oeuvres out, red wine in, main course in, more red wine in, main course out, dessert... ah, you get the idea. Well, some of the guys were still hungry after the dinner due to the modest-sized portions but I think they got the rest in fluid form. To make it even nicer, the guests were singing. Not the usual Swedish out-of-tune, table-banging singing, mind you. Those fellows were professionals. Beautiful four-voiced canons, Gregorian chants, even the posh drinking songs sounded as if they were sung under the spires of the Uppsala Cathedral, not in our nation. It was amazing.

In the end, the guests sang for the staff. We went into the dining hall in a straight line and bravely faced them. First it was a thank-you song, then the national anthem of Sweden. Now *that* was something I consider myself lucky to have witnessed. Generally I cannot be touched by other anthems except my own country's. This time I received goose bumps all over. And after that, the lights were dimmed and the fellowship dismounted their chairs. They started singing a love song. And very slowly, they approached and encircled our line. After a brief commotion just in front of me (after all, they wanted to sing for a girl, not for a guy) all ninety-six singers got down on their knees and grabbed our hands. The girls blushed immediately, and the guys that had got hold of my manipulative appendages had a hard time not bursting in laugh from the absurd situation, as did I. I felt like a King and every nobleman was swearing an oath of allegiance. The effect was almost ruined, though, when one of them kissed my right hand. His moustache tickled!

Bartender stories

It has been raining the whole morning and I am getting sick of rearranging the paragraphs in my degree project... might just as well write something.

Last Friday night I was managing the pub at the place (ok, one of the places) I work. The music was nice (I was choosing it), the orders were going smooth... until THEY came. Among students in Uppsala there is a peculiar habit called pub crawling. This would probably need some explanation. In our little town with 200 000 inhabitants, 40 000 of which are students, there are 13 student unions. Much like fraternities in the United States, but it is compulsory to be a member of one of them. Each and every of these "nations", as they are called, has its own pub. A pub crawl is therefore an event which comprises visiting every student pub in town and having one beer in it. Now, thirteen beers on one night are manageable, though for the price of repeated visits to the toilet. What is really putting a strain on the whole affair is that the pubs are only open from 18.00 to 01.00, with the bars refusing to take orders after 00.30. This leaves exactly half an hour for each pub. That is, if you could teleport from pub to pub with the beer waiting for you. Since the powers of telekinesis are still lacking in the common population, one has to go between the pubs. And some of them lie good 15 minutes from one another... and the time needed to reach the next one increases proportionally with the amount of the imbibed beverages. So actually you have 10 minutes per beer. And this is dangerously near to this particular state when one has to pray to the porcelain god... those usually leave a bad aftertaste. For my part, I prefer a little slower-paced drinking... and more eating.

Back to our story. It was around 11 o'clock when a jolly laughing gang endeavouring such a holy quest as conquering all the pubs in Uppsala came to GH nation. One of them was particularly under the influence, with walking trajectory representing a line from the second degree ("A curved line from the first degree is a straight line!", my lab assistant in mathematics during my freshman year in Bulgaria). According to protocol (and trusting a sudden prophetic revelation about near future cleaning-events should I do otherwise), I refused to serve her alcohol on the account that she was too intoxicated. "How do you see I'm drunk", she asked me. "Well, for one part, you are talking too damn high and are irritating all the other guests, and for the other, you couldn't even walk in a straight line from the bar to the piano". Trying to prove me wrong she marched on to the piano... proving only that the zigzag is the shortest distance between two pubs. So when I told her that under no circumstances this evening I was going to give her anything with a higher alcohol concentration than tap water, she was infuriated.

"What are you, a fucking Russian?", she asked me? Well, I certainly have not had intercourse with anyone from that country, so I regretfully admitted that this was not the case. Then she apparently thought I was deaf or blind or suffering from a short term memory loss, because she started speaking from a distance of half a centimetre from my nose. Now, I am a tall guy so she had to stretch up really good, which made me snicker despite my futile efforts to keep a stern face. Seeing this she showed me the finger (I managed to restrain myself from grabbing that finger and breaking it, now that would have been foolish), and left the pub to everybody's relief. Later, one of the waitresses reported having seen her urinating on the outer wall of the pub, thus exacting her revenge. Sadly, it was utterly pointless in the light of the huge amount of water coming down from the sky two days later. I cannot think of any moral for this story, but rumours about this encounter spread fast in the nation and everybody was equally amused and appalled. Except the real Russian, he was laughing his heart out.

Excuses

It's official - I am lazy. It has been almost three months since I last posted anything in here. I could mention a lot of reasons: my stay in Bulgaria was so filled with social events (meeting relatives, friends, colleagues, all kinds of loved ones), relationship maintenance and.. well.. could see that coming, could you... parties, that I have not had time to sit on the computer and chat, let alone concentrate my thoughts enough for a decent piece of blogging.

Then there was my trip back to Sweden - even more dreadful (yes, it is possible) than the one to Bulgaria. If you see the ending part of my last post, you will notice a promise to myself never to fly with LOT again. This flight.. or should I say flights... confirmed my determination. I departed from Sofia in a heavy rain with almost an hour late. Being only 60 minutes late is nothing compared to my previous experience with the Polish Airlines. The thing is, I had a window of 45 minutes to get off the airplane, navigate the twists and turns of Warsaw airport bureaucracy and get on my next flight, the one headed for Stockholm. Needless to say, I missed that one. Instead, I found myself flying towards Berlin, in the same heavy rain.

Here is the place to mention that I was not traveling alone. Ok, literally speaking, I was the only passenger on these flights I was inclined to care for. However, a person very close to my heart was constantly in my thoughts. She had taken an earlier flight, same destination, different carrier. We had an appointment that she would wait for me at Arlanda, the Stockholm airport, for the three hours it would take me to travel from Warsaw to Stockholm. You can imagine my frustration when I found out I had to fly to Berlin and there board another plane, which was supposed to arrive at Arlanda around... well, three hours later than planned. Thus, in the brief interval between flights in Warsaw I was frantically writing SMSes to her and a Swedish friend of mine, explaining the situation and arranging a meeting between them, so that he could pick her up from the airport. If you have waited for six hours at an airport with no place to go, you can understand what I am talking about.

And there I was, several thousand kilometers above Europe, flying not north, but west. Upon arrival in Berlin I start searching for my plane. Well, first, I had to explain to the security officer what a physiological solution is and why I carry a bottle of it in my backpack. Luckily he was familiar with contact lense problems and was not too grumpy about my bottle exceeding the allowed 100 ml of liquid allowed on board. Then I found out two things: a) my plane is propeller-driven, which means that a 40 minute jet flight turns into 90 minutes of casual strolling in the skies, and b) the extremely efficient clerks at Warsaw airport had forgotten to book a place for me on the next flight. Not only for me, but for a 13 year old Swedish boy going back home from a family visit... by himself. I suppose it was that boy that saved the day with his cute disappointed face that managed to melt the hearts of the German clerks. We received our boarding cards and were admitted on board as soon as possible. We took off in the same heavy rain. Where had all that water come from?

Turbulence. I have experienced a lot of those, the airplane getting shaky, the wings vibrating like those of a dragon fly, and the flight acquiring the overall sensation of driving along an old village road without any pavement. This one was worse. Remembering the scary stories passed around in waiting lounges, I tightened my safety belt so that a sudden drop would not send my head smashing against the luggage compartment, leaving me with the mild inconvenience of a broken neck. The strategy was working... at least until I felt the call of nature. Waiting for the plane to settle down somewhat, I managed to fight it for a while. Then I squeezed into the tiny coffin having the dubious honour of carrying the name "WC". As soon as I did that I noticed two dimensional problems. First, my head was 20 cm higher than the ceiling, and second, my shoulders could barely fit inside. Were those planes planned by dwarves or by gnomes, I will not stop wondering. Exhaling and lodging myself inside did the trick.

Long story short, I managed to land in Stockholm in one piece. The heavy rainfall that was chasing me through the whole continent had decided to camouflage as a heavy snowfall for this special occasion. After just missing the bus for Uppsala, with the next one due in half an hour, and a 40 minute trip north, there I was, at the Central railway station, nine hours after I had started my trip from Bulgaria, waiting for my friend to come and pick me up.

And here we come to my third excuse of being tardy: I have moved out. I am living on my own now, which is actually heaps of fun but not that much blogging. But I am happy as a bug in a rug, and with this I leave you until next time. Not in three months, definitely.

The long way home

Yesterday was a nightmare. Truly, a concoction of events most devious, born in the wicked mind of an imaginative witch with at least three science-fiction awards. Absolutely everything that could go wrong went wrong. Not even Murphy can top that.

The journey, as every other, starts with waking up. Five o'clock in the morning, with more than four hours left to dawn. In the heart of the winter, Swedish nights are long and dark. After hauling my heavy suitcase in my uncle's Toyota's trunk, I sit inside and am given a ride to the central bus station. From there, I shall catch a bus to the airport, 40 km southward. While waiting for the bus, I realize that I have done the smartest thing in the history of airway travelling ever. I have forgotten my ticket. Lamenting my ingeniousness, I call my uncle and ask him to bring me the ticket. While I wait for him, the bus comes and leaves. The next one is supposed to come in half an hour.

Waiting for another thirty minutes would bring me dangerously near to the closing of check-ups for my flight. With this comforting thought in mind, I grab my suitcase (with wheels broken off during the last flight, hooray for the gentle airport workers) and rush off to the railway station, which is next to the bus station. Puffing on the platform, I see a train leaving towards Stockholm. After a short inquiry inside, I realise that was the morning train to Arlanda and the next one
is not due for an hour. Heavily panting, I haul the suitcase back to the bus station, waiting for the next bus.

On the bright side, I met one of my course mates and had a nice talk with her during our trip to the airport. Once there, I proceed to the relevant desk. Or desks. Well, numbers 74 to 81. With huge queues in front of every single one. Looking for an alternative solution, I spot a nearby clerk. I ask her how to check in my luggage for the 7.55 flight (the clock currently shows 7.35). She tells me to use the terminals for self check-in - a nice Swedish innovation; it is really time-saving. The time saving innovation wastes no time in telling me that my flight is closed. Of course it is, says the clerk, the flights close half an hour before take-off. Extremely helpful, is she not? After a half-threatening, half-pleading look from my 197 cm height, she advises me to turn to an emergency desk close by. There, an Indian-looking guy fluent in at least four languages calls some kind of supervisor and directs me to the desk where I can check-in my luggage. In through the scanner, alongside the winding corridors, past the passport control, down a flight of stairs... and I find myself outside, staring at my plane. In horror, I see that it is an Embryer. When I mount the ladder, I can look directly over the plane. Hunching, I crawl inside and squeeze myself into the seat. Have you ever seen those mimes in the glass box? After yesterday, I can easily perform this act.

The plane takes off and proceeds towards Warsaw. We are offered drinks and breakfast. I do not know how many of you have used the services of the Polish LOT airways, but their stewardesses usually speak only Polish. When you announce that you, for some strange reason, are not familiar with that particular language, they half-heartedly switch to English. The next time they pass you they have completely forgotten you do not speak like the former Pope and start again in Polish. It is enough to drive a catatonic into a raging frenzy. This time the stewardess actually remembers I was with international background. Incredible! This heightens my spirit enough so that I actually smile when I enter the main building of Warsaw airport.

Not for long. A stone-dropping, teeth-shattering landing marks my arrival in Poland. Then, I get to the desk for international transit only to encounter one of the aforementioned personae, trying desperately to explain something in Polish. After an imbecile look from my side, she explains to me that I am a transit traveller and have to go to the international desk. Completely stunned, I point upwards, to the big red "International transit" sign just above our heads. It turns out I have to go to the next desk. I get a transit stamp on my ticket and proceed through the scanner. A scream stops me in my tracks. The Polish-talking lady is gesticulating frantically to me to get back. I inquire about the reason for this commotion. She grabs my ticket and puts another stamp, identical to the first one. Then I am free to go. Shaking my head, I proceed to the gate.

A short queue of about 20 people greets me at the gate. It turns out the gate is actually two gates, with two flights leaving almost simultaneously - one for Sankt Petersburg at 10.50 and one for Sofia at 11.00. Only one scanner works, with not less than five soldiers from the border guards, clad in khaki uniforms, only lacking machine guns. The queue is advancing painfully slow and swelling to gigantic proportions. Wondering why five soldiers cannot complete the scanning any faster, I wait patiently for my turn. In front of me, a lady activates the alarm and is advised to get off her shoes. As she threads barefoot through the scanner, her every possession is analysed with a scientist-honouring scrutiny. Deciding I am not taking my shoes off, I pass with wide strides through the portal. Not triggering anything, thank God. Then I explain the purpose of my mobile phone, digital camera, iPod, charging cables for the bunch and a toy I bought in Uppsala. Eventually, I am allowed to continue on my way.

I pass through the gate and sit in the bus that will bring us to the aircraft. Making myself comfortable, I switch on the iPod and sink in eternal bliss under the sounds of Rhapsody. Suddenly, I notice the people are getting up and leaving the bus. I take off my headphones and hear a voice over the intercom, instructing us to leave the bus and get back to the waiting lounge, since our flight is being delayed. I start to get nervous. The thing is, a group of about 10 friends plus my family is going to wait for me on Sofia Airport with the cruel intention to get me to a big fair for celebration. With the flight delayed for more than an hour, there is no way I can make it to Sofia in time for the start of the party.

Gritting my teeth, I sit down in the lounge and read a book I bought for a friend of mine. I apologise, Alexander, but it was either that or complete boredom looking at the frowning faces around me. Finally, the gate is opened for boarding again. I start down the corridor when another scream stops me. Briefly pondering on the possibility that I am in Italy instead of Poland, I turn around. A lady explains that she has to see my pass and boarding card. "You saw them about half an hour ago!", I exclaim. True that as it is, she seems to suffer from a short term memory loss and insists to check my boarding card again. That behind me, I sit in the bus, then in the plane. Luckily, it is a Boeing this time. We take off.

The stewardesses speak English here as well. I am shocked with disbelief. About twenty-five minutes before landing, the pilot announces that the fog above Sofia is too thick for a safe landing. We are to land in Plovdiv, about 150 km to east-southeast. When the plane takes a left turn, I manage to pass a quick look over Sofia. Imagine a cooking pot formed of mountains, filled to the brim with grey boiling soup. Well, there is definitely no landing possibility here. We land at what I suspect is the "Graf Ignatievo" Airport, about 6 km south from Plovdiv. Immediately, I turn on my mobile phone and ring my parents and friends to inform them that I am still alive, though slightly misplaced in space (and time).

We wait in the plane. Meanwhile, I notice nature wants to reclaim all the juices, water and red wine I digested during the flights. When I emerge from the suspiciously Embryer-tight toilet, I hear that there are no ladders for us to get down with. Picturing a "Die Hard" scenario in my head, I offer my services as to jump down from the plane and take the passengers one by one. Luckily, a ladder arrives soon enough. The next plot twist comes with the news that the busses, supposed to get us to Sofia, have not yet left from the capitol. My joy at about zero degrees Kelvin, I wait patiently for the pass control with the intention to rent a car and get out of this place as soon as I reclaim my luggage.

The waiting seems endless. More planes arrive and the hall fills with passengers. All the clerks at the passport control desks seem to be one-handed, movement impaired or incapacitated in some other way. One hour later I hold my suitcase. The bottle of Italian Campolieti seems intact, or at least there is nothing dripping from inside. The busses have not left Sofia yet, according to the latest new. In a strange smile of Fortuna, the girl sitting next to me in the plane meets an old classmate for the first time in fifteen years. The guy is kind enough to offer us passage to Plovdiv, where we can buy bus tickets. Meanwhile, my mother rings me and pleadingly tries to convince me that I have to take the train, since the dense fogs, covering Sofia and the motorways, make travelling extremely dangerous. We get in Plovdiv at about 17.10 (my flight was scheduled to land at 13.55, or that is what the ticket said). At the bus station we learn that there are busses every hour, with the next one due in 50 minutes. Tired of waiting and desperately wanting to get home, we hail a cab and make a deal with the driver - 80 leva (40 Euro) to Sofia. (The taxi drivers at the airport wanted at least 140).

A one hour long drive on the highway gets us to Sofia with no fogs at all. Meanwhile it turns out that my mobile service provider has screwed something up with the network settings and no one is able to connect with me, nor can I call anybody. I manage to call my parents and tell them where to wait for me. They pick me up and we go to the fair afterparty. I greet my friends, leave some small presents and, almost sleeping standing, get home. I stuff myself full of my mother’s delightful culinary picks and, weighing two kilograms more than before dinner, sink into a blissful twelve-hour long sleep with lots of pleasant dreams about a certain enamoring green-eyed lady.

This was my last time I fly with LOT.

Experience and competence

Recently, I have started a new job as a waiter at the Uppsala Castle. The reason that Uppsala has a Castle has nothing to do with the town having been an actual capitol once or a certain strategic value. It is pure politics and power struggles. Long story short, Gustaf Vasa, the Swedish king who ordered the castle to be built, wanted to be more independent from the Pope and separated the Swedish church from Rome. Needless to say, the Archbishop was not too happy with that and started condemning the King. The latter responded in moving to Uppsala, building a small fortress withing cannon fire distance from the Uppsala Cathedral and acquiring a residence door to door (or backyard to backyard to be more exact) with the Archbishop. This had the desired effect and the Church stopped poking its nose in the state matters. Or at least it did it with more subtlety.

Today, the King once again lives in Stockholm, but the Uppsala Castle, together with the Church and the University, is one of the city's symboles. It has suffered at least two fires and several architects, plus some really appalling paint jobs and the cannons still point in the direction of the Cathedral. One can never know, I guess. A couple of museums are stationed in the different halls. Every December 13th, the Nobel prize winners have a traditional lunch in the Throne Hall.
Yesterday, I was working on a dinner for the municipal seniors. In the same Throne Hall as the Nobelists. The purpose of the dinner is to award medals to the most prominent senior workers, those that have been in service for more than twenty-five years. These are people that have dealt with the problems and joys, ups and downs of Uppsala for at least quarter of a century. As it turned out, this has nothing to do with their actual competence.

The date, time and place of the occasion are known months in advance. The Hall is booked, a menu is prepared, waiters are recruited according to how many guests are expected. A band is hired, one of the most talented "nyckelharpa" (that is the Swedish national instrument) players. People are ringing in about allergies, special desires, table placing and all minor details that have to be discussed in order to make a perfect evening. And couple of days before yesterday, a guy rings and asks: "But.. where the hell is that castle?"

I'll let silence speak for itself.

Frustrated muttering

Looks like winter forgot to turn off the stove and moved out after only two or three days of snow. Autumn is back with all its glory, i.e. a whole day of calming, wetting, unstoppable rain. The temperatures are up to 5-10 degrees Celsius, which for Swedish November is like a sauna. Hm... it does not look like I have something interesting to say today. Oh, there is one:

My cousin pursues a master degree in Computer sciences. Well, not exactly Master of Science, because Swedish degree system is something of a hybrid between the normal Bachelor and Master degrees. Usually, you become a Bachelor after three years of full-time studies and a Master of Science after two more years, or five years in total. Swedes become "Magister" after four years of study and in English that is translated as... Master of Science. So, the guy is going after a "Magister " degree, but that is still a Master in the rest of the world. Not a normal Master but still a Master. Like.. ah, forget it. In his studies he learns about all kinds of strange logic constructs, higher mathematics, protocols, computer languages and so on. Right now he has to do a paper on something called IPv6.. I think that is the correct spelling. From what I could understand from his frustrated muttering, this is a broadly used Internet access and/or security protocol. The whole Uppsala university uses it. No, not the whole. ONE department has not yet upgraded to the v6 protocol and uses older versions. Who is that, you will ask. Simple: the Department of Internet Technologies. Figures. Furthermore, they are the only department that has hard-copy course evaluation forms only. All the other faculties and departments have switched to web-based evaluation forms - much easier to process. The irony is... well.. iron.

I have to go back to studying now. Microbial genetics is very interesting, but the course book is a lethal weapon - 500 pages in hardcover. Moreover, I am starting a literature project which is going to be a secret now but I promise I will let you on some sneak peeks later on. Toodle-pip!

Winter stubbornness enhancements

The winter is officially here. The first snow has come and has brought a couple of friends: Wind and Chill.. together they are playing Blizzard. A twirling windblow greeted me as soon as I opened the door, covering me with a myriad of snowflakes. I shivered, put on my gloves and started towards my bicycle. The poor pedal-driven transportation device was so covered in snow that I was not sure if it was really a bicycle or some strange prehistoric beast, frozen in time. I decided against cycling today and was off to the bus station. The wind seemed to blow in every direction and the snowflakes danced and swivelled and twirled. Then they saw me and rushed cheerfully towards me, blinding my eyes, filling my neck despite the scarf, and attaching themselves to every surface of my body and apparel. The air currents themselves wanted to greet me and blew constantly against my face, whether I switched direction or not. I saw a lone crow flying backwars and then sideways, trying desperately to free itself from the minitornado around it rush to a shelter. I thought "That's not so bad, I should have taken my bike".

And then I came out of the neatly organised neighbourhood, with identical rows of identical houses on identical streets with identical cul-de-sacs in their ends... into the open field that is the major part of Sweden. The wind blow was so strong that I staggered for a moment, then pulled myself together and crawled towards the bus stop. The snowflakes no longer greeted me happily. Each and every one of them became a tiny frozen whip, stinging my exposed skin with ice-hot blows. My ears were so cold that I though they would fall off and shatter on the ground. Even the crows were gone. All that was left was me, the snowy road, and the wind.

In the not-so-long past days when I did Taekwon-do, my coach used to say: "Do not blink when you are sparring! That can cost you the fight". Everybody's natural reflex is to close their eyes when they see an object coming towars their face. If you do that in a fight however, you lose critical input data for your opponents stance, distance and performance. Sure, there are masters that have honed their other senses so well that they can fight without the need of vision. Well, I am not among them, I need my visual perception. So the blizzard turned to be an excellent exercise in willpower. Or stubbornness. The thing is, if you manage to keep your eyes opened in a snow storm with the wind delivering thousands of miniature hits towars your face, than keeping them open when a single pair of fists is flying around should be a child's play. As soon as I decided to try this exercise however, all the snowflakes decided that my beautiful brown eyes are the best spot in the world for landing and melting. Those that could not come into my eyes lodged themselves into my eyelashes. Thus, I invented the cheapest and simplest mascara ever! Go me!

Now my blogging time is up and I have to go to the Genetics lab and see if my experiment with bacteriophages was successful. One other thing before I go: agar stinks! This rich, full-bodied stench is going to haunt my dreams. And to think I am going to keep doing this for the rest of my life.... science is indeed a cruel mistress.

Student health care and combinatorial abilities

Beer is healthy! No doubt of that. Some of you have probably heard of scientific articles saying that beer improves breast milk quality. My own mother was drinking half a pint of beer every couple of days when she was feeding my sister. I do not know if it is because of that or of something else but my "baby"-sister packs the strongest punch I have seen in a girl. Do not expect any face-slapping from her, only a good honest bone-shattering right straight. Beer yeast tablets are said to prevent or at least diminish the extent of acne. You all know them, those annoying zits that threatened to ruin your perfect image of an adolescent god(ess). Furthermore, beer contains alcohol (amazing, is it not) and hops and both of those have antiseptic properties.

What I discovered during a late-night rain cycling yesterday, (I always get brilliant insights into the nature of things when water is pouring on my head, though I prefer the bathroom conditions) was that beer has a positive on the adaptive immune system as well. For those of you that have not witnessed my great progress in the field of immunology, this is the part of the immune system that governs the antibody response and deploys the majority of the white blood cells, or leucocytes. Now, in the recent decades, people in Europe and North America suffer considerably less frequently of parasitic infections. Tapeworms, amoebas, trypanosomas, they only get those when they omit hygenic guidelines or have too much fun in African or Asian lakes. As a consequence of this, a whole part of the immune system that usually deals with exactly those infections, is left unemployed. Eventually it got bored of just sitting idle and doing nothing, and started manifesting itself as allergies. At least that is one hypothesis why there are so many different allergies in the Western world and why their numbers rise constantly.

Sweden is one of the best examples. People here have allergies against pretty much everything: gluten, milk, meat, fish, crabs, onions, soya, potatoes, chocolate, strawberries, bread, you name it. It is almost impossible to gather more than 10 people for dinner without at least one of them complaining about some ingredient. Poor chefs in this country! Not to mention the vegetarians and the vegans. If God has wanted me to eat only grass and leaves, He would have given me the intestine and dental apparatus of a cow. I have my canine teeth and no cellulosa-degrading bacteria in my gut, so I intend to make good usage of my situation and stick to the steaks.

Well, not all Swedish parties are like this. I am a member of a certain oenological society and we have the nice idea of sitting together and taste, discuss and enjoy a selected amount of different beverages, including, but not limited to, beer. In order to make the whole thing a civilised and cultured event, we also consume food, thus skipping the vomit and the headaches. And here comes the health part. Of all thirty or so people, the total number of allergic, vegetarian or vegan drinkers equals exactly... zero. So, join the oenological society and you will not only get to taste things you have never heard of but you will improve your overall physical condition as well!

As a side note, I was playing scrabble against a Swede and a Costarican yesterday. We were playing in English, because that is a second language to us all, so there would be no strange forgotten dialect words. None of them seemed to happy when I made the word DODO and scored around 24 points because of a certain "Whole word multiplied by four"-square. Even one other Swede, who was observing the showdown, did not want to acknowledge it. My salvation manifested itself in Virginie Delporte, last year chairman of the oenological society. She needed nothing more than a look on the word to confirm my version. After this, the Swedes left and I continued beating the Costarican. I was leading with around 60 points when a friend of ours, Hitesh (see this post) came and messed the whole board. Bloody Indian! So, the moral of the story is that beer not only improves your health, it expands your general culture as well!

Mythology hunting and science hypocrisy

Hail there, good folks. Accept my humble apologies for the lack of a new story for such a long time. There were quite a few of you that liked my ramblings. I guess this made my muse jealous and she flew away, shouting something about Jamaica. I found her yesterday evening, she was hiding behind the couch, trembling and eating popcorn. It did not take me long to determine that the trembles were due to the generous amount of Jamaican rum she had consumed. Before passing into a much-needed hibernation, she promised me to help me write something today. So now, here she is, having a massive hangover but eager to cooperate. Right, dear? *shakes the whip meaningfully* That's a good girl.

Now then. In the morning we had a protein purification lab. Well, the lab is still going on but we are taking a one hour break. I am very amused by the subtle ways the university is trying to get rid of us students, thus supporting Terry Prattchet's hypothesis that the students are just a minor inconvenience when you are trying to run a university.

We were supposed to perform a protein separation technique called SDS-PAGE (Sodium dodecyl-sulfate polyacrylamide gel electrophoresis). Impressive, is it not? The technique itself consists of putting two glass plates together and filling the interspace with a solution which is then left to polymerise, i.e. become a gel. To complicate things a bit, there is a comb-like device inserted into the liquid before it solidifies, so that wells can be formed. And here comes the insidious plot against us, dramatis personae in the comedy called higher education.

We were given two types of glass plates, one with interspace of one millimeter and one with 0.75 millimeters. However, we were oblivious to this fact (and put our trust in the lab assistants who were supposed to know what they were giving us). Since we took it for granted that there should be only one plate and one comb type, we continued happily with our preparations. We were supposed to insert the combs into the gel solution very carefully, so no air bubbles are trapped. If you have ever tried to insert a one millimeter comb into a 0.75 millimeter space than you would know that it is necessary to use force. Combining strength and force, you crouch down so you level your face with the device you are trying to prepare and switch on your hand-eye coordination.

So what, you ask. Well, the "so what" part comes here. Acrylamide is toxic. So toxic we have to use special gloves and work on special ventilated benches. Fully aware of this fact, I tried to force the comb between the glasses without trapping those infernal bubbles. And then it happened.. the comb went all the way in, cracked one of the glasses (fortunately it did not break) and splashed all the surplus acrylamide-containing solution straight into my face. Strike one for the plotters. Huzzah! Luckily there was a sink nearby so I was able to wash my face without sustaining serious damage.

Now I have to go back to that place and conclude my experiment. I am entering the dark jungle of the immunology experiments. Wish me luck!

Pliska

Imagine a vast flatland, with endless wheat fields stretching towards the horizon. A dusty road cuts straight through fields and small hills. A group of riding warriors, skilled and proud, are coming back from patrolling duty. The horses are tired, the men are dirty and sweaty. Their chainmail and leather armours do not shine, made for war and not for beauty. Their swords, however, are sharp, and the reflexive bows can start spitting deadly arrows in a heartbeat. Slowly, a city emerges from the quivering hot air. The towers seem to be soaring above the ground, then the city walls appear and bind them to the earth. Fires start burning in the horsemen's black eyes, they spur on the steeds and fly cheeringly towars the city.

This is Pliska. The first capitol of the First Bulgarian Kingdom. The name derives from the protobulgarian word "Plyuska", meaning "the city in the field". Founded in 681 by Khan Asparukh, it was located about a day's horsemarch from the Byzanthinian border. This was not only a capitol, but a starting point for future war campaigns as well. The lack of nearby mountains ensured a great visibility range, thus omitting every possibility for a surprise attack. The walls of the inner fortress were nearly 3 meters thick and 12 meters tall, and the outer city was surrounded by moats and ramparts. In 892, the King organised a pagan revolt against the newly integrated Christianity and was dethroned. The capitol was moved to Preslav.

Near Pliska lie the ruins of the biggest basilica in Europe. Contrary to the popular definition of the word, synonimous to a cathedral, basilica actually means "a church with a marketplace". There were only three such churches in Europe - one in Rome, one in Kiev and one in Pliska.

The huge nave could contain hundreds of piligrims, while other hundreds could make their purchases on the market. On the picture to the left, the market is just outside the two leftmost arches and it too was covered. The two lateral aisles contain stone sarcophaguses, the resting places of honoured, yet unknown people. Outside the northern aisle there were living quarters for the clergy and a huge well. Thus only a perimeter wall is missing in order for this complex to become a fully secluded and independent monastery.

The roughcast of both the city and the basilica is unique. More than thirty years of analyses could not determine its ingredients or how it was able to withstand fire, destruction and time for more than a millennium. It is known that it consists of sand, small stones, crushed bricks and... some kind of milk. Only a direct hit with another stone can break it. I have tested it myself. In comparison, modern mortar can be scraped away with as little as a fingertip. So, even though today the city in the fields is nothing more than playground for the sweeping winds, its walls have not yet revealed their secrets.

Earth

The most basic of the elements. The foundation of all that is. It is also the most inert of the elements. Wherever one's footsteps carry them, they will always find their bearings and stand firmly on the ground. The earth will always give the weary traveller a place to rest their head. A single rock may provide them with shelter in the stormy night, and when the dreads of the world are riding the four winds, the small insignificant human will marvel at their immortal glory, safe in his hide-out. On the next day, when the skies are clear and the sun is sending its blissful rays down, they can continue their journey.

Earth - the life-giver. An assiduous farmer plants a seed into the fertile soil. And a different one, a little bit farther. A third one goes into the ground. Soon, a thin stem emerges. Some time passes and this stem has become a flower so beautiful that his son will use it to steal the heart of his beloved one. The other one is a corn stalk, heavy with the fruits that are going to feed his family during the coming winter. The last - a mighty oak, rising high above the ground, enduring freezing winters and searing summers, its myriad of leaves whispering with the wisdom of the ancients.

The desert. A vast stretch of ground, covered with sand dunes or with wind-barren steps. It is only the brave that dare venture into those unwelcoming realms. On every step they evade their doom, courting demise, meeting the cold stare of oblivion. Sometimes they succeed and manage to pass more or less unscathed. Then their hearts start longing for the hardships, the dangers and endeavours, and they enter the perdition one more time. Sometimes only bare bones mark where the traveller drew their final breath, with only the wind remaining to tell their tale. The rolling sand, the hissing grass soon consume everything.

But woe to ye, insolent worm on the face of Mother Earth, if you manage to anger her. The ground quakes under your very feet, boulders are tossed high in the air only to fall down, crushing everything with a stone fist. Fiery lava flows like inevitable painful ending, igniting clothes, skin and bones alike. The sand storm twirls, the corns grinding the flesh until nothing is left. And then the silence comes. The end has been. It is time for a new beginning.

"The Light shine on you, and the Creator shelter you. The last embrace of the mother welcome you home." (Quote Robert Jordan, Wheel of Time, Book 2: The Great Hunt)

Lactose-induced sexual attraction

Warning! This following piece of writing contains facts and opinions that may be deemed racistic and/or xenophobic. The author wishes to imply that this blog is of purely entertaining purposes, i.e. no offense is meant. By continuing reading it you accept the author's explanation. Otherwise, you may consider not reading this post. Thank you!

Before I came to Sweden two years ago, I shared the image that the rest of the world has for Swedish girls - namely the image of tall, slender, fair, blue-eyed goddesses that can empty a man's soul with but a single glance and render him unconscious using only a smile. As a side note, this was a major issue for my girlfriend back then.. Oh, jealousy, thy name is insanity. It turned out, however, this was not the truth. The aforementioned goddesses comprise only a small part of the Swedish female population. The majority has become a victim of evolution, which, as we know, does not care that much about appearance but instead is interested in keeping the species alive in the current conditions.

By current conditions I mean temperatures that can drop from plus 10 (here this is considered warm) to minus 20 in a single night. It is very hard for metabolism to switch over for such a short time period. This is why insulation is needed. In other words, lots of Swedish girls have amounts of soft tissues I do not consider attractive. In the rare cases they do not, I am discontent with their facial features. (Picky, aren't I?) And in the extremely rare cases they fit the northern goddess image, they express either an Ice Queen attitude or you can do the infamous cartoon experiment with a flashlight beam coming out of the other ear. (Extremely picky, aren't I?). I guess a couple of hundred years of isolation and inbreeding can do this to a population.

At first, I though my infatuation with another female representative would have an impact on my judgement. Even without this factor though, the conditions described above remained in power. I started wondering if there was some serious misunderstanding between my visual input and my endocrine functions. This theory was also nullified by the fact that currently I am high above Cloud 9 (called Seventh Heaven in other cultures) plus I find some international students both well-spoken, intelligent and attractive. Purely aesthetically speaking, of course.

Now, I did not want to be the odd man out, i.e. the Queer-that-does-not-like-Swedish-girls, so I kept my opinions to myself. Furthermore, it is not very polite pointing out other people's imperfections. It is a luxury kept exclusively for friends. You can easily imagine my relief when an Indian guy, whom a lot of women here consider very attractive, complained about having the same problem. Now, we are both men of science (he is conducting some kind of research on bovine fetuses), so we put our heads together in an effort to elaborate a theory about the reasons and solutions for our predicament.

We started out like this. First, we clarified, we do not find Swedish girls that much of attraction. Then we got into account the famous statement that "All men are the same", shouted on multiple occasions by frustrated or infuriated women all over the world. If this was correct, then the Swedish men were also not quite happy with their women. Thus the theory quickly faced its first major problem: how is the Swedish nation still alive?

For thousands of years mankind has through trial and error encountered many substances with peculiar physiological properties. Some of those had a major impact on the secretion of certain hormones and other metabolites, leading to increased libido and lust. Those, as we know, are called aphrodisiacs. Potent ones include oysters (I can vouch for the effects of this one), sepia bone and rhinocerous horn among others. Those can be really expensive, not to mention poisonous if ingested in high amounts (rotten oysters.. ouch). Our aphrodisiac had to be both potent, inexpensive and easily accessible. After all, the fate of a whole nation was at stake.

Our choice fell on milk. The denizens of Scandinavia consume copious amounts of milk and dairy products every day. Thus, a simple backbone theory was introduced: In order for the Swedes to be attracted to their women, they have to ingest a lot of cheese. Being true men of science, we decided to test this theory ourselves and eat a lot of cheese every day while at the same time monitor our internal reactions to the native females.

Around this time the bar closed and we went home. We soon discovered that the theory did not work quite as expected. My friend fell in love with a German girl and I am enamored by a member of my own tribe, the Bulgarians. It was still a nice theory, though.

Eluding the meshwire

All of us have either cheated or tried to cheat at an exam. Sometimes the cheat method is so cunning that it has to be remembered. Let me tell you of two methods, very similar to each other, developed independently in Bulgaria and Germany.

In high school, we used to have a term exam in Mathematics. Actually, we had term exams in everything, but it was in Mathematics where we had to chat smart. In the beginning of every term, our teacher would give us a one or two hundred problems. Four of those would then comprise the exam. Mathematics was definitely my subject but I still managed to hold my head above the water. There were some of my classmates, however, that were Maths geniuses, as well as some that could not solve their way out of a wet paper bag. What we did, was following. Those of us who had some idea how to solve the hundreds of problems, we put our heads together and solved them probably two weeks before the exam, writing them down really nice and readable with all the small details. Then we photocopied that for all our classmates whose only task was to sit down and study the questions. On the day of the exam, one copy of the solved problems was hidden in a convenient spot (I am not telling which one) in the restrooms. So, if one or more of the exam problems would seem unsolvable, you could always feign (or have a real one, even better) toilet emergency, go to the little humanoids' room and take a look at the elusive solution. Et voilá - the test is passed.

This works fine only if you know the questions or problems that are going to be given. For example it is very useful in the aforementioned situation, as well as all exams where you have to write on one of a series of known questions. This is how the university exams in biology or history can be taken. However, if the exam is a multiple choice test, nothing can ensure that you know all the questions. Unless, of course, there are some unchanging test variants and you acquire them all. Provided the latter is not possible, there are still ways out of the situation. Here, the German students come to help.

A small group of students synchronise their watches before the exam. The smartest of them solves the questions in a flash and then gives a sign. The others start note the time. After a couple of minutes, the smart guy goes out - either to the toilet or hands in his papers or whatever. Suddenly, the others start writing and hand in their answers in a couple of minutes. The secret? Simple. When the smart one goes out, the others take a look at their watches. Let us say, it has been 29 minutes since he went out and the exam had 6 Yes-No questions. And 29 in binary is 011101. So, the first answer is No, the second Yes and so on. Apart from the obvious limitations, occurring at questions with more than one answer or exams with more than 8 questions, this is an amazing method. Go, Germany!

The moral is... cheating is allowed if you do not get caught. (Applicable only for exams, human relations are not governed by this rule).