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).

Not everything that shines...

As I have previously mentioned, this is my third year of education in Sweden. Until now, I attended mandatory courses, common for the whole biology program. This year, the courses I take are only the ones I want to take.. which means a lot of genetics and no ecology or botanics. So, during those first two years we were more or less the same main group of students, with some newcomers and some interrupting or giving up for their own reasons. My closest colleagues were all with southern backgrounds: a Syrian, an Iranian, a Salvadoran, a Kurd girl. Together we were "svartskallarna" or the black skulls.. meaning we all had dark hairs, in contrast to the fair-headed vikings and valkyries. Well, actually, I was the only one with chestnut-brown hair, their were all black... so I was something like a honorary black brother. (I hereby want to ask any Afro-American readers.. though I seriously doubt there are any here.. not to take offense at this pun.)

This year at the immunology course there are only two people from the whole bunch of Swedes I used to study with.. and the whole black skull gang. The rest we had never seen before. We felt somehow isolated from the rest during our freshman years, therefore we wanted to mingle with the natives. As the result of a brilliant enlightening, we decided to seek contact with the blond and blue-eyed ones.

My first encounter was what you can call a lucky one. In my lab group I was assigned to work with a German girl and a short-haired blond human, whom I could not decide about: was that a soft-featured male or a masculine-faced female. Then I heard her speak and that dissipated my concerns. She turned out to be as pedantic as a Swede can be but I still think we can work nice together.

Today, during the 20 minute break we had, me and Peter, my best buddy at the university.. that he is a black skull goes without saying.. were standing in the cafeteria, wondering where to sit. An extremely blond girl and a guy of equal blondness, both attending the same course, invited us to them. In a couple of minutes Carlos, the Salvadoran, and a Swede joined us and we started a discussion. The first order of business were the recently passed elections. Now, I do not care at all about Swedish politics - as long as they leave me to finish my higher education without problems, the government is fine with me. Plus, as a foreigner I do not get to vote. The others were all Swedish citizens, however (some of them with non-Swedish backgrounds), so the discussion was really a lively one, even without my contribution to it.

Then someone mentioned the Christdemocrats which turned the conversation into the depths of religion and Christianity. The official religion of Sweden is Lutheran (a part of the protestant family) which included 78 % of the population but as it turned out, only one girl at the table was a Lutheran. I was starting to wonder if the aforementioned blonds were actually Swedes. Yes, the conversation was in Swedish but that did not tell me anything, even I can speak Swedish fluently by now.. though with a certain accent, especially when I am tired.. and my black-haired friends have been living in Sweden for more than fifteen years... more than enough to lose any accent.

So, our small society turned out to be extremely multifaceted - Peter is Syrian, Carlos is from El Salvador, the Swedish girl, myself - the Bulgarian... and the blond Ivana from Croatia and Adam from Poland. Discussing Swedish internal politics... I guess, yeah, not everything that shines is gold, respectively blond and Swede...

Fear

Imagine a forest at night. Not any other night though. A cloudless night, with the moon a needle-sharp sickle. The stars are tiny dots of light, enough only to reveal their own existence. No breeze can make the tree-tops sway. One can almost believe they see a broom-riding silhouette pass across Selena's face. Through this forest I had to pass, nearly two hours after midnight. Actually, it was my own choice, in order to avoid meeting the police. The thing is, I had forgotten my bicycle light on my desk. And the fine for cycling without lights is 300 SEK (33 EUR). For a single light. If the officer is feeling nasty, the fines can go over 700 SEK for the lack of front light, back light and wheel reflectors. Add to this that yesterday was Saturday night and the police were patrolling in search for club brawls, drunken students and lightless cyclists. Not eager to part with that sum, I chose to walk until I reach the forest, then cycle straight through it.

Usually, this is not impossible. Cycling through the pitch-black woods at full speed. I have done it more than once, using the slightly lighter colour of the track as a guiding rail. One time in winter I even did it without being able to see anything, only with the crunching of the snow under my tires telling me if I am still on the track or have veered away. So I knew I had the guts and the keen night-vision to pull myself through again.

Tonight, it was different. My pupils were probably the size of my irises, yet I could still see nothing. An eerie silence had set over the forest, cushioning every sound. Even the cars, driving on the street 50 m from me, could not break this shroud, void of even the tiniest chime.

Usually, I am not superstitious. Or, better said, I am but I never believe something bad could happen to me. I have gone under ladders, broken a mirror, continued walking after a black cat had crossed the street. In fact when I see the black cat crossing, I am even more eager to go through there, to shatter the spell with my passing, so that others can walk unharmed.
My personal safety has never been that big of an issue for me. I know my limits and I have full trust in my senses, muscles and reflexes. I have climbed sheer rocks without a support, I have been swimming underwater until I started seeing red spots, I have stood on the bow of a ship during a storm, not holding on to anything, jumped from places people are afraid to get up to. The secret is called risk and environment assessment. In every single second I knew where my body was, where the next ledge, the water surface, the nearest rope were, exactly what to do.

Tonight, again it was different. A black cat had crossed my way and this time I could not get the spell-breaking sensation. It was more that the spell wrapped itself around me, invisible tentacles grasping at my bike and at myself. Under normal circumstances my willpower is enough to make an evil donkey turn around and attend its own business. This time, after an eight hour long shift in the pub, it was not in its best shape.

As soon as I entered the forest, I was confused. I could not remember if the next right turn was after two or after twenty metres, or whether the path was supposed to pass to the left or to the right of this tree. I though my eyes still needed readjustment, so I stopped and waited for some minutes. Even while standing still in a complete silence, I could not hear anything. And I could not see the light track on the path. I decided to turn back and try another entrance.

The second time it was even worse. I could not discern whether I was cycling on ground, gravel or grass. I was forced to stop again. It was as if something was pushing me away from the forest. "Go Away, Mortal One, We Do Not Want Your Kind In Here!" As soon as I realised that, fear, terrifying cold fear trickled down my veins, nearly freezing me in place. For the first time in so long that I can not even remember, I was afraid for myself. Normally, the only way to scare (and then enrage) me is to threaten my loved ones. I turned back and started for the well-lit streets. Refusing to give in to the dread, I continued cycling at my current speed, looking for police cars. Luckily, I did not meet any and was able to crawl under my blanket without further incidents, sinking into the depths of Morphaeus' realm.

Tonight, the cat and the woods got the better of me. But mark my words, Forest: Next time it is I who shall be victorious!

Names...

"O, sancta simplicitas!" These were the words cried out by the Czech theologist Jan Hus at his execution when he saw an old woman adding more firewood to his burning stake. To be "simplus'' in Latin is both to be innocent, humble and modest - the original meaning in this phrase - but also to be ignorant, credulous and naïve. Those last words can adequately represent my astonishment at a certain Swede's profanity.

We were both working at the club I wrote about in my previous post, though not on the same occasion. A common friend introduced us to each other. When he heard my name, he immediately asked if I have seen the movie Constantine. What?! I mean, is that the association this name calls to mind? The image of a "world-travelling, mage-like misfit who investigates supernatural mysteries"? (quotation IMDb) Another piece of Hollywood Doomsday-prevented-by-the-good-guys "epic"? What about Gaius Flavius Valerius Aurelius Constantinus, also known as Constantine the Great, the man who threw such a big boulder in the lake of history that its ripples are still deciding over our lives today. The man that single-handedly influenced the fate of Europe for millennia to come. What about his magnificent capitol, Constantinople, the Queen of the Cities, where countless invading armies have broken their fangs and claws; the last bastion of Christianity in Southeastern Europe; the city that stood tall and proud for almost a century after the neighbouring lands have been drowned in the blood of their own people, shed by the Ottoman scimitar. I mean, hasn't this guy attended any history classes at all? This is supposed to be common knowledge. What brings me greatest... no, it is not anger, it is sorrow for these commercialised people... is that it was not the first time. The number lies around ten. And in the oldest and biggest University town of Scandinavia (the University was founded in 1477), this is a disturbing tendency indeed.

Well, to restore your faith in the intellectual capabilities of the descendants of Alfred Nobel and Celsius, it was in fact a Swede that made the greatest joke with my name. All of my abdominal muscles were aching when I finally managed to catch my breath after some minutes of hysteric laughter. I was working late shift in the pub. It was almost one o'clock, i.e. closing time. A couple of friends were finishing their ales when one of them suddenly asked me:

"Hey, Konstantin, have you ever considered buying an Opel?"

As a matter of fact, I have not. I am more inclined into buying a Volkswagen - a really simple and affordable car to maintain. Yes, it fully stands up to its name - A People's Car... figures. So I answer with a question, messiah-style:

"No, why would I need an Opel?"
"Well, your name is Konstantin. So, if you buy an Opel, you can dub it Konstantinopel!"

Thank you, Fredrik! I have really started considering bringing this joke to life.

Advertising and multiprofile jobs

Great news, everyone! It appears that exactly one week after it was started, Bioramblings got its first spam. There was a comment to my last post that clearly had nothing to do with anything I had written. Instead it stated content dissatisfaction and suggested that I should start advertising on my blog. Now, I do not know if it was a real life spammer or a spambot, and frankly, I don't give a rat's tail about it. If I wanted to advertise here, I would have done it already. If someone wants to put ads in their blogs, that's fine with me. The comment was deleted immediately and the same fate awaits its possible successors. This place was meant for thought sharing in an enjoyable way, please keep it like that.

With that taken care of (hopefully) I return to today's story.

If you still haven't tried working in a wardrobe, do not miss that chance. If there was a competition for the job with a most diverse profile, that would be it. It is like working at a Buddhist temple, demographic agency, fashion store, perfume distillery, alcohol clinic and psychiatrist's at the same time. And if you have the dubious luck of working on the same day as the previous bar master - biochemistry experiment laboratory or oenological tasting... both are true.

Yesterday, the club that I work at, had a disco night. This happens every other Wednesday and together with a pregnant woman's mood is the most variable thing you can think of. Two weeks ago it was such a hit, that people could not enter... or leave, for that matter. The stress was enormous. So the management decided to hire some extra hands for yesterday night. Trust me when I tell you it was a complete disaster. There were hardly more than 40, maximum 50 people in the building. And we have had club nights with 400+ guests. Anyway, I'm sitting behind the wardrobe counter, reading specialised articles in molecular biology. One hour passes, then a second one follows suit. Well, I think, I started at 18.30, and people sort of do not like to go to clubs and pubs when it is daylight, they wait until darkness falls. Those of you that have worked in a pub will agree with me. During the summer there is not a single soul in the pub until 21.00. In the winter people are sometimes waiting in line to get in even before the opening hour.

When the cathedral's bells announced nine o'clock, people finally started showing up. But not in a steady flow, so that I can do my job with the highest efficiency. Oh, my, no! They were entering (and later leaving) in groups of 5-8, making me dance around my workplace like a happy cannibal tribe around a missionary. On the other side, it is normal that people come to the club together. It feels a little strange if you do not know anyone. People are herd-partying animals. I guess it still beats sitting and reading about mice with pneumonia, though.

So, operating and normal work frequency, I started examining the people rushing around with a drink, a guy/lady or their own heads in hand. No Sleepy Hollow associations here, it was that a couple of ladies had a little bit too much to drink. Not that they regretted it. Heh. I soon started noticing things I was glad to see... and others that left me plain stunned. Clothing, for example. There were girls... yeah, I will mostly talk about female clothing here, because to me a guy looks equally good in T-shirt, jeans and sneakers or in something more fancy. I'm not implying that badly clad men do not exist, they just decided to stay home yesterday. Like I was saying, there were girls from all regions of the hotness scale, ranging from coyote ugly (an African big mamma who was so drunk on the last Student's day that she almost raped me in broad daylight, luckily she didn't recognise me yesterday), through plain, cute, charming, pretty to stunningly beautiful. No, I lied about the last one. No stunningly beautiful ladies at that club night. Well, on the other hand my opinion is a liiiitle influenced, so come and see for yourself, you might see something you like.

A similar scale could be drawn about the garments they had on. There were very elegant tight trousers and bodies, bold miniskirts and deep cleavages as well as casually dressed fun seekers. Then there were the others. Combinations of stern shirt, vest and necktie, a knee-long skirt and... hold tight... and sneakers. The whole effect of a gorgeous yet untouchable lady was spoiled by this piece of footwear. Or knee-long shorts plus ankle-reaching tight skiing-trousers.. and by tight I mean sausage wrapper-kinda tight. If it was a panty-hose, that would at least had given it some charm. But those skiing-trousers.. thanks, but no, thanks.

Fragrances. I can not tell much about them, since I know very little in this subject. There were musky, flowery, fruity, spicy and.. none. Yeah, in one or two cases the guest had apparently decided to go by androstenone and... erm... the female sweat stink substance, whatever its name.

Then the real fun part started. The guests were getting drunk. First the ladies, later on the gentlemen. The battle-ready, rhythmic click-clack of the high-heels became a disoriented clatter, the surefooted feline grace of the parquet lions gave way to a more gorilla-like wobbling pace. Girls started entering the men's restroom... and then leaving with either reddened faces or a smile that was something in between hungry and satisfied. For some obscure reason the guys never ever confused the WCs. Do we have some sixth sense that leads us directly to the much needed urinals or we just scan the surroundings upon entry, making mental notes where the facilities are? Another possibility is that because we are able to withstand bigger amounts of alcohol, our focal focusing power is at a little better level, so we can actually see if the little human figurine on the sign wears trousers or a skirt.

Then some strange things occurred. Now, the wardrobe at the club is free of charge, its price included in the entry fee. When I told this to some of the more influenced guests, however, they were so overjoyed that some of left me tips that twice exceeded the normal wardrobe fee. Oh, well, they are not getting that back. As the night progressed, I discovered that I was able to distinguish the coin value by the sound it made when falling in my tip jar. I am not sure if that is a sign of keen hearing or just greediness, though.

Have you smelled hay that has endured the first rain and has started decomposing? A really rich and filling smell, isn't it? And not at all unpleasant. It's still hay though. Something we associate with ticks, needles, cows and Fanfan the Tulip. I guess you can imagine my surprise when the bar master, Rafael, handed me a cocktail he had named Moquito - green coloured, with a lot of ice and the taste of a whole haystack. It was great, but I couldn't recognise the alcohol. And I know, that Rafael makes non-alcoholic cocktails only when you pay him and/or threaten his life. Probably some kind of liquor. So, for those of you planning a trip to Uppsala - drop by at GH Nation, Trädgårdsgatan 9, and have a Moquito. You won't regret it. Oh, and make sure it is a disco night. Otherwise you are only going to have a beer.

Inner peace, coloured emotions, modern art

I was cycling through the woods yesterday, I had just finished working. The weather was great: around twenty-something degrees (Celsius, I'm not a masochist), not a single cloud in the whole wide sky. And the sky above Uppsala is really wide, there are no mountains teasing the eye, just endless fields, low-rolling hills and lots of woods. It is also kinda pale. Not the saturated blue of the southern skies, it seems like some angel accidentally dropped his milk glass, thereby diluting the sky. Far on the horizon it goes into more milk-with-blue whitish than the blue-with-milk just above your head. So the only clouds in the whole azure were the jet streams of the occasional airplane, highlighting the whole blue pureness, just as a minor defect in a diamond makes it even more beautiful. Inside the coniferous woods in Uppsala there are cycling ways that snake to the left and to the right, around big glacier-age boulders and between tree giants - pines, mostly - that have seen more springs than I have seen dawns.

I was doing my usual cycle sprint which takes me 8-10 minutes from the faculty to the place where I hang my jacket (the time it takes me to walk this distance is about 45 minutes to one hour). Suddenly I asked myself: "Where the heck am I rushing to?" I had nothing important to do, my exam had just passed, the work for today was finished. All that was remaining was an enjoyable evening of resting my senses and talking to friends. Like in a dangerous fight, time slowed down, and with it I slowed down as well. Cycling leisurely, being passed by the hectic Swedes who were hurrying to get to the stores, shop, make dinner and hit the couch in front of the TV before their favourite show starts, I was being engulfed by the magic atmosphere of the forest. A bug hummed next to my year, then a sunbeam that has managed to go down all the way between the spread-out branches danced on my face as if asking: "Do you want to play, slow one?" Before I could even start considering the question, the medallion on my chest reflected the ray and sent on the ground, accepting the challenge: "Game on, sunny!"

The blue sky, the green forest and the yellow sun made me wonder if emotions could be described as colours. Like an immense canvas, there was the deep purple majestic feeling of the surrounding trees. Then there was a warm mahogany joy that my beloved one has passed her exams, combined with the deep blue admiration I have for her - she is a great person plus she had passed three consecutive exams with only a single day to study between them, a feat
I still find nigh-impossible. And due to the fact that her work was unfairly judged - a flashing, pulsating jagged lightning of angry orange. Next came the soft green self-satisfaction that my plans and goals are slowly being fulfilled and a yellowish longing for my family, for her, for my friends. Like ink in a water glass, there was azure optimism and hope, no, faith, that everything is going to be just fine.

Then I came to the reason why I don't like modern art. The art of modernists, impressionists and futurists - it reflects inner feelings, fears, hopes and desires, sometimes things even the artists are not aware of. Therefore the best location for a modern art piece is at is creator's home. Only then and there, in the surroundings of this persons environment, the message encoded in the work can be communicated to the others. And the others... well, they are friends and relatives, people that know the artist, know how he thinks and feels and reacts. They will know how to listen to his wordless speech.

Now the time of reflections is over, it's time to plunge again head-first into the everyday challenges of life. I have lessons to attend, a project to develop, two jobs to go to and lots of people to make smile. See ya.

Congratulations

Rejoice, good folks, for today, the twelfth day of the ninth month in the Year of the Dog, is the day that my only sibling concludes her sixteenth revolution aroung this giant ball of flaming hydrogen and helium we use to call the Sun. In other words, happy birthday, sis! I do not know why the turning of 16 years is of such importance, at least in Bulgaria. According to the legislature, one stops being minor at 14, and is adolescent until 18. Come to think of it, that can be the exact reason - reaching the halfway point between child and adult. A bit like Caesar when crossing Rubicon. Heh, imagine Caesar's sixteenth birthday in the context of modern European society. Brutus, Marcus Antonius and Octavianus Augustus gathered around the birthday-boy, singing "Happy birthday to you!" in latin, and then little Caesar sighs and says "Alea jacta est", and then blows the candles.

The two years after that are filled with stress and work and fun and all the emotions you can think of plus a couple of those you can not. And by saying filled, I mean filled to the brim and overflowing. Truly a great time. Sis, I wish you that you can live it to its whole extent and never ever regret a single thing. *kiss*

In other news, the immunology exam came and went. If I have ever learned something usefil while studying, it is that you have to go to the lectures. The first two questions were horrible. Well, horrible for me, because I had missed the first lectures due to the great organisation of the Swedish migration board. Really, those guys could sleep their lives if only given the chance. But that's past. The good thing is that I attended all the other lectures, thus was able to fill the remaining five pages of the exam with my extremely beautiful handstyle, characterised by one of my Swedish teachers as "Mordor runes". Other victims of my handwriting say it's "not very readable". Strange. Seems perfectly readable to me... Oh well, c'est la vie, as the denisens of the Parisian streets like to say. I still may be able to get over the "high-score" threshold and get better credentials in my academic transcipt. *hopes so*

Another strange thing. Swedish exams. Now the only thing that those lack to become a "bed and breakfast" is the horisontal resting facility. We are usually given between four and six (sometimes even eight) hours for our exams. I am in my third year here and still can not comprehend the meaning of this. For God's sake, why? I have never needed more than 80 minutes to hand in my papers. Ok, so I write a bit fast and am always sure in my answers. Even if the others need twice that time, 160 minutes are about 2.5 hours. What are the rest used for? I'll tell you what. For rest. Yep, in the middle of the exam you can take out one of the many snacks you brought with yourself, drink some cold coke or a warm beverage from one of the myriad of thermos bottles, strech up, probably take half an hour nap... you name it. I wonder why we can't just bring along an HD-TV and a PS2 and have some fun. Screw the exam! The authorities explain that this is done to reduce stress in the students. The downside is that it also reduces concentration and motivation. Imagine the following: You are writing an essay and are just about to come to a personal revelation. Suddenly someone behind you starts wrestling with the candy paper bag or pouring tea in their cup from about half a metre height, the resulting splash booming in your ears and swiftly eradicating all rational thought. Huzzah for the bed-and-breakfast exam system!

I guess I couldn't finish without complaining of something. But don't be disappointed, there will be plenty of complaints in the next ramblings. And in the light that I've recently discovered what my tax money are being used for, one of them is going to be pretty extensive. See you next time.