Christmas as usual

It’s Christmas, the traditional celebration, as always.

This year we went down south to celebrate with family. All of them live in the south of Winterland. We’re the only ones who moved away.

My father had bought a Christmas tree this year. When I was a kid, we used to steal a tree in the forest. We put on our skis, brought a saw and an axe, cut down the most beautiful little pine we could find and pulled it back home. Not anymore. Even my father is buying the Christmas tree now.

(My father is a cool guy; retired teacher and enthusiastic cross-country skier and writer. He has written his own Christmas song, both the lyrics and the melody. He plays harmonica but he can’t read sheet music. I have to tell more about him some time.)

The meal on Christmas Eve is traditional, but varying around the country. We’re alternating between the sheep rib of the west coast (most years), and the pork rib of the south east (some years), depending on who we’re with.

This Christmas Eve we had sheep rib, dried and salted and smoked, and then watered (to remove excess salt) and boiled and finally fried, served with mushed swede and boiled potatoes. Very good.

After the meal, we were ready for the commercial Christmas orgy (we open the presents on Christmas Eve). Tons of toys and games were unwrapped, a lot more than the kids were able to appreciate.

On Christmas Day, little boy and I watched the Christmas Mass in TV (on public broadcasting). I need to know the stuff I mock and criticize. Recently we got some new liturgy; more music, more show. We’re getting closer to the Catholics. Martin Luther wouldn’t like this, but who cares. People want to be entertained while getting their opium.

We watched the mass for half an hour. Then we zapped to cartoons, The Simpsons, little boy’s favorite. I must admit I enjoy it myself.

In the evening a heavy storm hit the west coast and the south east. We were in a party, and when we tried to drive back an hour after midnight, the roads were blocked by fallen trees. We talked to a police patrol who was out to close roads. He advised us to go to return to where we came from. So we did, and slept over.

Tonight we went back home (no problems with the flight). Tomorrow the real vacation starts. Six days of skiing in the mountains. Great.

It’s Christmas as usual >:)

(Christmas on the slopes, that's the way I like it. Took the picture one year ago, and hope it will be the same this time.)

Christmas - two different ones

Christmas is a big hazzle, and this year I have to worry about two of them.

Last week, the guys I’m working with in Russia proposed a work meeting in Moscow 26-28 December. There’s no way I can go on a business trip between Christmas Day and New Year. I won't even mention it. Christmas is family time.

We can meet early in January, I suggested. No, we can’t, because that’s the Orthodox Christmas in Russia. No chance before mid of January, at best. Damn. Not good.

Christmas is a pain in the ass, and has always been. I dislike both the religious and commercial part of it. The Virginborn and Santa Claus, two quite bizarre products of human fantasy.

If I could delete two days from the callendar, I would pick Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

However, it’s not much I can do about it. I just turn off my brain, watch the Disney cartoons with the kids, and wait for it to be over on the 26. December.

Then the rest is just a mid-winter skiing vacation, which is nice >:)

(I took the picture above one year ago when I was running desperately around town doing last-minute Christmas shopping. This year we don't even have snow in town. However, my wife has bought her present from me herself. Great. Then she gets what she wants, and I avoid going shopping. I'll rather buy her a book that I want to read ... that's how meaningless this Christmas thing has become >:D)

Deja Vu: The old jew from Brooklyn

Today D.L.Hammond at Cruising Altitude 2.0 is hosting the Deja Vu Blogfest. The rule: Repost some good old stuff from your archives, as simple as that.

Originally posted in May 2010, this is probably my own favorite from my blog archive:


The old jew from Brooklyn

Last night I was reading some old travel diaries, from university days, when I was a physics student.

Once we stayed in a small youth hostel in Vienna. There were six beds in each room, and separate rooms for boys and girls. In my room I met a small and skinny man, with white hair and a big beard. He was an 85 year old jew from Brooklyn, older than the rest of us together. He had sold everything he owned, and wanted to spend his money traveling around the world until he died. I thought that was a cool thing to do, while waiting for life to fade out.

He would have been close to 110 years old now, if he was still alive. I wonder how far he got on his journey. I hope he made it all the way to the end >:)

Dogs vs. ponies

Today it's 100 years since Roald Amundsen and his crew were the first men to reach the South Pole.

The race for the pole: Amundsen vs Scott. Two teams competing, using very different approaches.

Scott relied on motorsleds and ponies (and a handful of dogs). The motors failed and the ponies died (not much hay in Antarctica). His men walked on foot, and had to pull the sledges by hand.

Amundsen had learnt survival in the Arctic and dog-sledging from the navive Inuits, when he discovered the North-West Passage a few years earlier. He started out with more than 100 dogs, and going on skis. On the way to the pole, he killed the weaker dogs and used the meat to feed the living dogs, and his men.

The British didn't like Amundsen's methods. They called him a brutal maniac.

Amundsen reached the South Pole one month before Scott, and brought his team back home, alive.

Scott and his men died on the way back from the pole.

Skis and dogs rule in the snow.

(The picture above is a very famous one; it's Roald Amundsen and his crew on the South Pole in December 1911.)

Back in the snow

We got a foot of snow this week, finally. The kids were thrilled (and so was I).

The white gold, falling from the sky. Great!

This weekend, we had our first two days of real skiing.

Little boy's feet had grown larger since the summer skiing in June. So he needed a new pair of ski boots. We bought a pair of Lange Jr Racing boots, 90 flex (that's a measure of the rigidity of the outer shell), $370 with 20% ski-club discount. Very good boots. Older boy had the same type when he was 10-13 yo (his boots are worn out and thrashed long time ago).

New boots, high speed; little boy will be hard to follow on the slopes this winter. I'm lagging behind >:)

(I took the picture outside the cafe in our lunch break yesterday. Guess which skis are mine.)

Out of the sand

It’s my last night in Doha. Tomorrow morning I’m leaving the desert. Mission completed. I’m flying back home, with Qatar Airways.

According to themselves, Qatar Airways is one of the world’s leading air lines. They’re not bad. I enjoyed flying with them. They had very cute stewardesses. It’s kind of strange, the young and sweet girls working in the cabin of the airplane, with short skirts and plenty of makeup. Once they get out in the street after work, they put their niqabs and hijabs on. God is great, but don’t worry above 30.000 feet.

I had a very pleasant stay at InterContinental Hotel, right by the beach, and with a nice view to the Persian Gulf. I must admit I liked this country. Qatar is a desert country. Doha, the capital, is apparently expanding rapidly into the desert. There are cranes and construction work everywhere.


There is no fresh surface water in the entire country. I don’t know where they get the water from, possibly drilling for ground water or desalting sea water. But they have plenty of oil and gas, which has made Qatar one of the richest countries in the world, and with the largest consumption of gasoline, and emission of carbon dioxide per capita.

The population is kind of special. 1.5 million people live in Qatar, but only 300.000 are citizens. The rest is cheap labor from other Asian countries (India, Pilippines, Indonesia, …). The Qatarians don’t treat their workers very well. Salaries are low, and unions is illegal. No good; shame on you.


Qatar is a liberal country, by Islamic standards at least. Women are allowed to drive, and foreigners can practice their own religion (or lack of religion). In Doha, there’s even a Catholic Church. Also, Doha is the hometown of Al Jazeera, the “Arabian CNN”.

In 2022, Qatar is hosting the Soccer World Cup. Nobody understands how this came about, but everything is possible for the gang that rules international football (I still mean soccer).

Maybe I’m coming back to the desert sand in 2022, but tomorrow I’m going home to the snow.

(I took the picture at the top last night. The low building, a little bit to the left, is my hotel. The other pictures were shot during my stay. I was amazed by the falconer and his bird. It was so calm and quiet as long as the cap covered it’s eyes.)

Swallowing a camel

This week I’m at this big conference in Doha. It was even bigger than expected, more than 5000 people from all over the world. It’s very different to the conferences I usually attend; less science and more politics.

Yesterday was the opening ceremony; speeches by highnesses and excellences, music by the Qatar Philharmonic Orchestra, and then a nice dinner. I was impressed by the kitchen crew. It’s not easy to cook for 5000 people (unless you know how to do the 5-bread-and-2-fish trick, which has been demonstrated only once, as far as I know).

Lots of hot shots are here; secretaries of state, CEOs of major oil companies, highnesses and excellences. Today I was listening to a talk with the Energy commissioner of the European Union; lots of political bla bla bla. I didn’t get anything out of it that I didn’t know already.

This is not the pond I’m used to swim in. Here, I’m a very small fish in a big pond.

My talk was today, this afternoon, in one of the technical sessions. I had a slow and easy morning, and arrived at the conference center right before noon. First, I went to my company’s stand, and begged them to give me a tie (and I got one). Luckily, the color goes quite well with my black shirt.

I started to look for the speaker’s room, to upload my presentation to the computer system, and to prepare for my talk.

The conference center is HUGE, and I couldn’t find my way, so I asked one of the 800 students who work as volunteers at this conference. She was a female student from the university in Doha, dressed in a niqab, covering everything but her eyes.

She was helpful and polite, but I must admit it felt kind of strange to talk to a person showing nothing but her eyes. It’s the first time I’ve been talking to a muslim woman dressed like this. I have no idea if she was smiling or grumpy or annoyed.

I gave my talk in the main theatre. Even with 100 in the audience, it looks almost empty. I wasn’t quite sure how to start. Normally, I start with “Ladies and Gentlemen. Good afternoon”. But what if there were highnesses or excellences in the audience? I didn’t want an insulted and pissed excellency running after me. So, I started with the class-neutral “Good afternoon to all of you”. The rest was straight forward; I’ve done it many times before.

Tonight there was an “Arabian Nights” party, down on the beach of Doha. There were lots interesting dishes to taste (but no beer), and of course I had to swallow a camel. Well, I didn’t eat the whole camel, just a small piece of it, fried on the grill.

The camel tasted very much like pork, but don’t tell the muslims because then they don’t want to eat it anymore.

(I took the picture above in the conference center today. The huge spider is a very nice piece of art, made from bronze. The young lady in the lower right corner happened to pass by when I shot the picture. I can tell you that she had very pretty eyes. That’s all I know about her.)

Propaganda

I have a flight tomorrow morning at 6am. Terrible; I have to get up at 4.

I'm going to Qatar. Very interesting; it's my first visit to the Arab world (except a day on the beach in Tunis, which doesn't really count).

I'm going to a pretty big conference. It's not the first time. I've been to many conferences before, in Europe and America.

However, this time is special. BigOil (that's my company) has a stand in the exhibition hall, and then the propaganda department gets involved. They want BigOil to appear better and prettier than HugeOil and MonsterOil and DirtyOil and HorrorOil.

Some days ago I got a mail with various information, including this: Dresscode is black suit, white shirt and tie.

What the Hell; I never wear a tie, and I only have black shirts.

It's only the guys who work in finance and law who wear suit and tie at work. I'm working with technical stuff and science. We always dress like vagabonds.

So what should I do? I need to run to some store to buy a couple of white shirt. If they want me to wear a tie, they should give me one.

My presentation is next Tuesday. I have plenty of time to get properly dressed >:)

(I downloaded the picture above from the Internet. It's the famous national-romantic painting by Tiedemann and Gude. That's the way they want us to appear, I guess)

We want snow

This fall has been kind of special. Mild weather, no snow yet. At this time last year, the skiing resorts had been open for two weeks already.

Now the slopes are still green and yellow, with a pile of artificial snow here and there. The snowmaking systems start automatically when the temperature drops below freezing point.

In the meantime, the kids are going crazy, waiting for the white gold.

This weekend, we went to our cabin in the mountains. Little boy brought his skis. We made a small jump on a pile of snow under a snow cannon. Not much to speak about, but better than nothing.

Older boy was at home, in town. In the fall he has an after-school part-time job selling skis in an adventure-sports-store. He was working Friday and Saturday.

Sunday morning, we got a few inches of snow, even in town.

Older boy and his buddies went out for so-called urban railing right away. They shuffled up the snow around a long handrail of a stairway somewhere in town, and made a kicker at the top and a small landing at the base (Here are some previous urban-rail shots).

And he crashed. Face plant in the asfalt, and another concussion. It happens every winter; concussions, broken fingers, X-ray, his record of injuries is endless. This time he didn't bother to see the doctor. He says he feels the difference between a light and a serious concussion.

So far nothing has been really serious. He's always using helmet and back protection, but still it sometimes makes me a little bit nervous.

Snow is softer than asfalt, fortunately. We want snow, and we want it now >:)

(I took the pictures above this weekend. It's a snow cannon in the background, and little boy testing his skis on the pile of snow it has made so far. The snowmaking is very important to extend the skiing season, in both ends. It allows the resorts to open earlier in the fall, and to stay open longer in the spring. The artificial snow makes a strong and icy base underneath the natural snow.)

Satan's numbers

In my bookshelf I have a cool book titled Number Theory and It's History by Øystein Ore (Dover Classics series). I bought it many years ago, when I was a student.

Number theory is a subject for people with kind of weird interests. It's a branch of pure mathematics, dealing with fundamental properties of numbers; integers, prime numbers and fractions of integers (I prefer applied math).

Most interesting is the first part of the book, about the history of numbers.

People of ancient times have been dealing with number systems of different kinds. They seam to be linked to human anatomy. The common modern number system is base 10, which is the number of fingers on two hands (unless you happen to work in a sawmill).

The Mayas used a base 20 number system. That's the total count of fingers and toes (unless you're an Arctic explorer). Some African tribes have used base 5, the number of fingers on one hand.

The Babylonians used a base 60 system. I'm not sure why, but 60 is kind of a magic number, since it can be divided into all integers from 1 to 6. Still we have remnants from the Babylonians in our time keeping; 60 seconds per minute and 60 minutes per hour. Moreover, a full rotation around the clock is 6*60=360 degrees.

When we agree on a base 10 system, we know that, for instance, 123 means 1*100+2*10 +3. With a different base, the interpretation of the number becomes different.

In computer science, they sometimes use base 8 (octal) numbers, because 8=2*2*2 is closely related to the binary numbers (base 2) that computers use internally. In base 8, the number 123 means 1*64+2*8+1 (since 64=8*8).

From anatomy consideration, base 8 should also be the prefered number system of Disneyland. You have noticed the hands of Donald Duck and his friends?

In ancient Rome, they used the Roman numerals. They are still used in Hollywood to give the production year of a movie in an unreadable way. The Roman numerals were useful for counting, but hard to apply in calculations. About 1000 years ago, the Arabic numerals (which is what we still use) were introduced in Europe. They become popular because calculations with large numbers got much easier.

The Catholics didn't like the new number system (they have always been against anything new). The Pope stated that the Arabic numerals were the work of Satan.

It's fun that today even Catholics use Arabic numerals. It's one of the great victories of Satan >:D

(Watch out! Satan is everywhere, and he might be near you. I took the picture above on the motorway in Moscow this summer. Satan caught my eye, even if he was driving upside down.)

Moscow stories

The plane was an hour delayed. It was dark and cold when we arrived. But what can you expect? Moscow is cold in the winter. The Russian winter stopped both Napoleon and Hitler before they got into the city, but they were pretty close.

A driver from our company took us to the hotel. The traffic wasn't to bad, it took just about an hour. We checked in at the Swisshotel, and went straight to our office, We had things to prepare for the next day. Russian law is strict. We're not allowed to take geophysical data out of the country. All the work need to be done inside Russia.

Getting through the door to our office on the 14th floor is easy. The main challenge is to get passed the desk at the main entrance at street level when arriving off regular office hours. The security guys on night watch can be quite grumpy. They look at our passports and our company ID card. Sometimes they let us in without questions, sometimes they say "Njet!", and nothing more. No arguments can make them change their minds. Fortunately this was one of the lucky nights.

We worked for 3-4 hours, then passed by a restaurant on the way back to the hotel, and got some Uzbek food (plov of lamb) and some dark beer (Kozel). Very good.

The next day we worked in our office before lunch. Then we went to the Russian service company we co-operate with. A driver from our company took us to the office location, in the outer part of the city, close to some forests and a big power plant (I presume).

I was a little bit nervous. This summer, the boss of our Russian subsidiary ordered me to go to Moscow to inspect the processing center of Russian service company:

"You need to go there to check", he said. "Check that the processing center really exists, check that they have real computers, check that the computers are taken out of the boxes, check that they have software on the computers and people who know how to use it."

"Is this really necessary?" I said.

"I've been in this country for many years", he replied.

And since then, the service company has moved to a new office location. What should we expect now? Were we too naiiv? Fortunately, it was all fine.

Today we continued our meeting, working till 6pm, to complete our objectives. Then we went to an Azerbajdjanian restaurant and got some great food and beer, and vodka of course. I'm not used to drinking vodka in large amounts, and I don't like it. So, I'm always very careful in the vodka relays. I'll tell more about that some time later.

By the way, the title of this post was inspired by the book Sebastopol Stories by Leo Tolstoy. It's a collection of stories from his time as an officer in the Russian army during the Crimean war. Very good book >:)

(No time for sightseeing in Moscow this time, just work all day, tired when returning to the hotel at night. I took the picture above from the window in my hotel room. Moscow by night.)

Not a virgin anymore

Recently, we've got a new translation of The Bible. This happens every 20-30 year or so. The purpose is to bring the old book closer to contemporary language, and make it easier to read.

Most important, in this respect, was probably the German translation by Martin Luther, and subsequent translations to all other languages. In 1517, Martin Luther nailed up his 95 theses on the church-wall in Wittenberg. He argued that for most people, it would be more useful to read the Bible in their own language, rather than in Latin, which they didn't understand.

This sounds like a reasonable argument, but the Pope got pissed and didn't agree. That's hardly a surprise. The Pope is always against any kind of change.

Back to our new translation of The Bible: One of the most remarkable changes is that Mary, the mother of Jesus, is not a virgin anymore. In the new translation, "virgin" has been replaced by "young woman".

(I don't speak Hebrew, but I suspect that "virgin" and "young woman" translate to the same word in Hebrew, more or less.)

This is good news. I never believed in the virgin-story, and I've been arguing against it ever since elementary school.

When I was a kid, we had a Christian school system, and Christianity class had a preaching purpose. Most teachers were pragmatic about this, but in 3rd grade, we had a teacher who was very serious about the preaching. Our first conflict came up when I refused to believe in the Original Sin. I refused to believe my little baby brother was a sinner.

She got angry and yelled at me. Actually, she said that she wasn't angry, but God was:

"GOD IS ANGRY WITH YOU ... MWUUHAAHAAH ... YOU LITTLE HEATHEN."

This was kind of scary, of course, for a nine year old boy. After a couple of days, however, I realized that nothing happened, and nothing was going to happen. God was probably too busy to punish me, or maybe he just forgot. He's known to be a revengeful God.

Anyway, I never worried about God's anger ever since.

Later, when we learnt about the Virginborn, I immediately rejected it as a rediculous idea. The older kids in the street had explained to me how babies are made. They even showed examples, in some magazines they had hidden in a buried metal case.

I supposed that Jesus had been made in the same way.

Now it's nice to see that even the bible translators rewrite the virgin story. Maybe God is angry with them? At least the Pope is >:)

By the way, here's a great song: The Virginborn by Gorgoroth. If you like slow and doomy old-school black metal, you should click on the link. If not, don't do it; God may get angry with you >:D

(That's little-boy Jesus and his mother, the young woman Mary in the picture. I took it in Kotor, Montenegro last summer, when she was still assumed to be a virgin.)

Women who struggle with Pi

I have these two novels that I'm working on; the first is a crime novel, and the second is a road novel that I write longhand, when I'm out traveling. The progress is somewhat slow. It feels like I'll never get my writing up to speed.

I have some reports and a science paper I need write before Christmas. But that's my job, and it doesn't really count. I enjoy writing the science stuff too, and my amateur fiction writing is improving my science writing, which is fine.

So, I thought that maybe it would be wise to do some smaller writing projects, just to practise, before I return to my novels. Recently I got some ideas for a series of three or four short stories, with a common vague theme: Women who struggle with Pi, you know, this math constant 3.14159265 ... and so on.

The protagonist in all the short stories is a nerdy math teacher. He is very clumsy when it comes to women, and he has realized that he will never reach to the level of his heroes, the great matematicians like Gauss, Cauchy, Leibniz and Emmy Noether.

Does that sound like a good idea for some short stories? I don't know. We'll see >:)

(I found the picture of Carl Friedrich Gauss (1777-1855) on the Internet. He's well known for the statistical distribution that carries his name (the Gauss curve). He also discovered the Gauss theorem in Calculus (the Russians call it the Gauss-Ostrogradsky theorem), and the method of Gauss elimination in linear algebra. Gauss is considered the last complete matematician, who mastered all the mathematical sub-diciplines of his time.)

Heaven and Hell

Heaven is a place where
the French are the chefs,
the Italians are the lovers,
the Swiss are the bankers,
the Germans are the engineers,
the English are the police.

Hell is a place where
the English are the chefs,
the Swiss are the lovers,
the Italians are the bankers,
the French are the engineers,
the Germans are the police.

Some funny European stereotypes. I don't know who invented this joke. It wasn't me. I learnt it from a Californian.

If you're a Satanist, you may want to swap Heaven and Hell. That's fine with me >:)

(I took the picture above when we visited Paris three years ago. The big walk-in map of Europe was in the park by the Eiffel Tower. The lines for the lift were endless, so we walked the stairs up the tower. I don't like climbing high, so little boy and I stopped at the first level. Older boy climbed up to the second level. That's the highest you can get by the stairs.)

Metropol

I'm back in Russia, in Moscow this time, fortunately. The city is alot more interesting than Murmansk. Moscow has become a metropol, like London and Paris.

This time I travel with some colleagues, which is more fun than going alone. We even got time for an evening with great food at the Pushkin Restaurant.

We stayed in Hotel Metropol, right across the street from the Bolshoy Theatre, and two minutes walk from Red Square. It's only two stops from our Moacow office with the Metro, so getting to work is quite easy too.

Hotel Metropol is a historical hotel. It was built in 1901, before the Revolution. In 1917, when the Communists government moved from St.Petersburg to Moscow, Metropol became the residence of the Central Executive Committee.

In the 1930s it once again became a hotel. It was the place where the leaders of the Soviet Republics stayed when they came to Moscow for meetings.

On the 4th floor, where I stay, there is a photo gallery of famous people who have stayed in the hotel. I recognized Mao, Stalin, Lenin, Berthold Brecht, George Bernard Shaw, Elton John, Michael Jackson and Sharon Stone. Quite a varied lot.

It's time to go to bed. Tomorrow morning is my last breakfast at Metropol, for this time. Great food, and a harpist playing live music while we're eating. That's kind of cool, isn't it?

(Above is a picture of the harpist in Hotel Metropol. She entertained us with soft music while we were eating eggs and bacon; a nice way to start the day.)

Out of the silence

This year has been very bad when it comes to metal concerts around here. The outdoor festival on town square in May was cancelled, and there has been nothing else worth mentioning.

Also, I have hardly used my iPod at all last months. I've rather enjoyed the sound of silence, which is quite nice, actually.

But yesterday Mayhem came to town, to play at the our rock museum. The concert was very good. It was like a reverse tour of their career, starting with recent songs, and ending with some good old stuff from the Mysteriies Dom Sathanas album, iincluding the magnificent Freezing Moon of course.

Here is an early recording of Freezing Moon, with vocals by Dead (who comitted suicide in 1991) and lead guitar by Euronymus (who was murdered in 1993).

Enjoy the dark side >:)

(That's a picture I took at the concert yesterday. This time I remembered to bring my camera)

October sun

Winter is getting closer, but it's not very close yet. Only the highest mountains are capped in white snow. The trees have dropped the leaves, but down in the valley, the grass is still green.

This weekend we had some great October days in the mountains. The nights were cold, but days were warm. The sun slowly melted the frozen gound from last night.

The ponds were covered by just a thin crust of ice. We could easily break it by throwing a small rock on it.

Yesterday we had a nice hike. We reached to the top, after an hour and a half. When we opened our backpack, we found that we had forgotten our water bottles and lunch packets in the cabin.

The kids were very thisty. Fortunately, we found some patches of fresh snow.

"Make a snow ball and eat it like an apple," I said.

They did, and it killed their thirst. There's always a solution.

"Don't eat it to fast, or you will get very cold in your stomachs," I added.

They didn't listen to my advice. No problem; not for me :)

The most polluted place on the planet

The initial visits of polite negotiations are completed, the contracts are signed. Now it's about technical work, getting the job done. That's the fun part, at least for me.

I've had two full working days with our Russians partner in Murmansk, working hands on, by the computer, processing and analyzing geophysical data. Most of the time things flow nice and easy. But sometimes we get stuck in language problems. The guy I work with most of the time is technically very skilled, but he has a limited English vocabulary.

Sometimes he needs to call for another guy (or two) to help with the translation. And sometimes I get caught in a verbal crossfire, between two (or more) guys yelling at each other in Russian. It's kind of funny, and I'm just sitting there in the middle, smiling, and waiting for things to be sorted out.

Yesterday even the General Director came by. We shook hands and said hello, and nice to see you again. It's fun to meet him, because he looks just like Breczhnev, a living flashback from Soviet times.

Today I'm going back home. I checked out of the hotel this morning. I stayed in the Pi-room, room 3.14 (I'm a math fan, so I couldn't avoid noticing). The driver took me to the airport; the same route back, through the wilderness.

ABout 50 km (30 miles) before the border, we passed through the town of Nikel, first founded as a slave labor camp by Stalin.

It's probably the most polluted place on the planet.

The Kola Peninsula is very rich in minerals. There are mining settlements all over the place. In the 1930s, the worlds largest reserves of nickel were discovered, and the settlement was simply called Nikel. Today the population is about 15.000, and they all make a living form the nickel plant and the nearby mines.

The nickel plant releases huge amounts of nickel oxides and sulphur dioxide into the air. The population has big health problems, in particular respiratory deceases, and reduced life expectancy. The woods and the mountains are completely black and dead around the town. In the winter, the snow is black (the driver told me).

I can tell you, it looks really bad, like the backyard of Hell. The owner of the plant, Russian mining giant Norilsk, isn't doing much about it. Nikel is in the middle of nowhere and at the end of the world, so who cares?

I took this picture from the car when we passed by Nikel. We didn't stop, the driver didn't want to. The town is to the left and the nickel plant to the right in the picture.

On the bumpy road

Can you write a novel while riding in a car through the wilderness of northern Russia? I can't, and I didn't even bother to try, because it would just make me sick.

I have two so-called novels in progress, sometimes in progress at least. The first one is a crime novel. I ran into some problems with it, some issues with the plot, and I'm kind of loosing the overview and control of things. I'm not quite sure what to do about it, so I started on a 2nd novel, which is more like a road novel. There's no plot, I just write, and I write longhand, in a notebook that I can always bring with me when I'm travelling.

Yesterday I wen't on a business trip to Murmansk, again.

I'm a little bit reluctant to domestic flights in Russia right now. They've had too many accidents this year. In the last plane crash, a couple of weeks ago, an entire pro-hockey team from the KHL (the Russian equivalent of NHL) was wiped out. Right now Russia is even ranked behind Congo on air-line safety.

So I chose a different route this time. I took a plane as far to the north and east as I could get, close to the Russian border. It's a two-hour flight, and I spent the time working on my (2nd) novel. Great!

The novel is about two old men escaping from the nursery home. Just like me, they're going up north, but by train and ship, rather than plane and car. Since I'm just a hobby writer, I don't have much time to do research. So I have to write about things I know and places I've been.

My Russian driver picked me up at the airport, and 15 minutes later, we crossed the border to Russia, which takes some time. There are two check points, one on each side of the border. About 100 km of the road goes through a Russian military zone. So there were more check points, in and out of the military zone.

It's difficult to build good roads on the tundra. The roads get very bumpy, because of the seasonal freezing and melting of the surface layer. Sometimes it feels like riding a roller coaster. Reading and writing in the car is out of question. The only thing I could do was to talk with the driver, about fishing and hunting and cars and Soviet history. He told me interesting things about every town we passed through. That's the way I like it, when the driver acts like a tourist guide as we go along.

After a four-hour drive through the wilderness, I arrived in my hotel in Murmansk. Then I could return to my novel, finally. I wrote a few pages before I went down to the restaurant, to get some food and a dark beer (Krusovice, Czeck beer; quite good). Then I returned to my room to write some more.

It's a bad novel, I admit, but I have lots of fun writing it. I don't know where it will end yet, maybe in Murmansk. We will see.

And the title of this post is inspired by Jack Kerouac of course. His novel is a lot better than mine >:)

(Half way between the Russian border and Murmansk, we stopped in a cafe in the middle of nowhere, to get a cup of coffee and a salomon sandwich. The cafe is that little yellow building to the right in the picture. I think it's an old freight car from the rail road company.)

Tipping the maid

Last week, in San Antonio, I was sitting in a restaurant by the River Walk with some friends. We were about to pay our bill, and discussed the tips. We're not used to tipping where I come from. For most types of services, it's all included.

I learnt about tipping when we lived in Colorado. You should tip about anyone who provides you a service; waiters, taxi drivers, hair dressers, and room maids (but not room mates). I reminded my friends that they should tip the maid before checking out of the hotel (some of them where leaving the next day).

(In a fair world people like me would be paid less, and the maids would be paid more. I know this sounds like a socialist thing to say, and I guess I'm kind of socialist at heart, at least in theory, and sometimes I even try to practice.)

The maids are doing a nasty job cleaning our rooms, and they don't get much paid for it. I know, because one of them once told me. This happened many years ago in New Orleans, before Katarina destroyed the city.

I stayed in Hotel Monteleone, an old hotel with a historic atmosphere in the French Quarter. One day I returned to my room to pick up some stuff I had forgotten, and I came in while the maid was cleaning my room. She asked where I came from (I'm speaking English with an accent), and then we had the conversation going. She was a cute Afro-American girl, grown up in New Orleans. She had two little kids, and was totally relying on tips to make enough money to keep it going. Her salary was less than $5 per hour (she said).

In the morning the day before I left, I met her in the corridor outside my room. She told me that she had her day off the next day, which was my checkout day (she probably new from her room list). It was a discrete hint that I should leave her the tips one day early. Otherwise it would end up with a different maid.

So, this is what I did: I put $50 on the desk in my room, $10 for each day she had cleaned my room, and wrote on a note that it was her tips (she was a very cute girl). When I came back to my room that night, there was a box wrapped in gift paper on my bed, and a card signed "Best Wishes, Your Maid".

I unwrapped the parcel. In the box there was a small ceramic bathtub with the hotel's logo. She had stolen it in the hotel's stock of bathroom accessories. I brought the bathtub back home, and had it for many years in my office, with pens and pencils in it.

Now the bathtub is lost and gone. I don't know where, but I'm sure I'll book in at Hotel Monteleone the next time I make it to New Orleans >:)

(The picture above has nothing to do with the story above, which took place before the advent of digital cameras. However, New Orleans and Austin both reminds me of great live music, jazz and blues, respectively. The picture was taken by a friend of mine, some years ago, when we happened to spend a night on 6th Street in Austin, Texas.)

Lone Star

I've been in the Lone Star State for almost a week now, for a geophysics conference in San Antonio. I have talked to some smart people, and attended many interesting presentations. My talk was on Wednesday, and it went quite well.

San Antonio is one of the American cities that I really like. Every night I've been enjoying the bars and restaurants on the Riverwalk together with friends. The Mexican food is great, and the beers too. Negra Modelo became my favorite.

It's been nice and sunny weather, maybe a little bit hot, but that's fine. I'll get plenty of cold and snowy days in the next few months.

It's six years since my last trip to America, and exactly ten years and one week since my last visit to San Antonio, in September 2001. I was kind of a strange feeling to be back in the same conference center where we watched the acts of terror in New York, Washington and Pennsylvania live on CNN, and no one cared about the conference.

Now I'm ready to go home. I've just checked out of the hotel, and wait for the airport shuttle.

My throat is a little bit sore. I got infected by something on the flight from Europe to America. It's hard to avoid on these intercontinental flights. The air conditioning system on the plane effectively circulates the world's complete collection of nasty bacteria and viruses.

Don't worry, it doesn't bother me much. I've had a great time in Texas >:)

(The picture above is from the Riverwalk. It's about the only picture I got to take in San Antonio. It's a shame, I know, but I was busy at the conference all day, and it was dark when I was out to enjoy San Antonio)

See you later, Moscow

Today we got the first data delivery from the company we're dealing with in Murmansk. A guy came to our Moscow office with the data on a USB disk this morning. I had to sign 4 copies of receipt papers. Two of them I couldn't even read, but our Russian lawyer was by my side, and said it was OK.

But my signature wasn't enough, bacause in Russia they want stamps too. So they searched around our office to find some kind of stamp, and then everything was fine. I could probably carved a stamp out of a half potato (like we did as kids), and they would be happy with it. The only important thing was to get the damned paperwork stamped.

Then my business in Moscow was completed, for this time. One of our drivers took me to the airport. The first part of the trip was nice, through central Moscow. The driver told me, in his very limited English, about the history and current use of every building along the streets; The Kremlin, the Ministry of This and That, the Bolshoy Theatre, the Pushkin monument (Lady of Spades is a good book; recommended), and Stalin's Seven Sisters.

The Seven Sisters, also known as Stalin's Cakes, are seven monumental buildings, built for the 800-year aniversary of the City of Moscow. Eight buildings were planned, but only seven were finished before the aniversary ... and the eighth was never built (drawings exist). The Seven Sisters are used for various institutions; Moscow State University, The Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Hotel Ukraina, Hotel Leningradskaya, and a couple of apartment buildings for the rich and powerful. You can spot one of the Seven Sisters in the photo in my previous post.

The traffic was slow but steady on the first part of Leningradsky Prospekt. It's part of a federal highway that goes all the way to St Petersburg (the driver told me). At the point were 5 lanes are reduced to 3, we got stuck. Our drivers, however, are good guys, with very creative solutions. So we left the higway, and took the small side-roads, through apartment areas, sports stadiums, construction sites, junk yards and green parks ... and then back on the highway. So I made it to the airport in time, again.

Da svidaniya, Moskva.

I'll be back in about three weeks.

(I took the picture above from the highway on a previous trip to Moscow in July. It shows the Red Gates Square Building, one of Statlin's Seven Sisters)

Notes from Moscow

I have a crazy travelling schedule these days. Last week, I was on a domestic trip up north. This week, I'm in Moscow. Next week,I'm going to San Antonio. In between the trips,I need to catch up with thing in the office. But most busy was the preparation for everything upfront. My writing has been suffering from this. No time to post on my blog, and no time to work on my so-called novels (yes, plural, I'm working on two novels now, in rare progress). Fortunately, days away traveling also means nights free for writing, and other sorts of fun.

I flew into Moscow today. A driver picked me up in the airport. The traffic jam was terrible. It took almost two hours to get to the hotel. The Moscovians have found various tricks to get around the problem. The rich and powerful have blue lights and sirenes on their Audis and BMWs, to get through the traffic. Along the higway to the city centre, there's an unofficial dirt lane for the impatiant, through gardens and across lawns, wherever it's physically feasible to get trhough.

Actually, I enjoy going to Moscow. It has become a metropol comparable to London and Paris. The Russians are a proud people. Their hospitality is great, and they always want to show you the best of their country (there are plenty of not so great things as well). They always want give you the best borsch (the famous beetroot soup), and the best salty fish (as a starter), and they always book five-star hotels for me.

Moscow has never been invaded or occupied by foreign powers. They stopped Napoleon in the battle of Borodino in 1812. You can read the artistic exposition of it in Tolstoy's War and Peace. The Germans didn't get further than to IKEA. At that time there was hardly any IKEA, of course, but there's a memorialright outside the warehouse, to mark the place where Hitler's army was forced to retreat.

But also, in a sense, the Russians show a lack self confidence. Anything made in Russia is inferior, importeted stuff is superior; cars, clothes and even soccer players (recently Cameroon superstar Samuel Eto'o was signed by Anzhi from Dagestan for a $28 million per year salery). In bars and restaurants, they always want to serve the tasteless imported beers, like Heineken, Budweisser and Carlsberg, even though the Russian beers are much better.

I checked into the Swissotel by the river a couple of hours ago. It's a convenient place to stay, just a ten-minute walk from our Moscow office. They gave me a great room this time, on the 26th floor, with a magnificent view of central Moscow. I didn't bother to go out tonight, so I chose the lazy option, eating in the hotel. Right now, I'm sitting in the restaurant on the 34th floor, to get something to eat. It's dark outside, and I'm looking down on the Moscow River. The barges gliding slowly down the river make a big contrast to the busy highway on the river banks.

I'm eating alone tonight, and taking a couple of beers; first a Baltika #7 with my food, and then Belgian abbey beer, Leffe Brune. Boring? No, not at all. I'm never bored. I'm entertaining my self with some writing. I'm lonely tonight, but doesn't feel lonesome. My own company is good company, sometimes at least.

(Above is a picture I took from my hotel room right before dawn today. Very nice view of central Moscow.)

Dorian and I

Before we moved to our present house, we lived in a condo a couple of miles away. It was a nice neighborhood, and a great place for kids to grow up. We still have many friends from that era.

Yesterday, it was the annual garden party in our old street, with lots of former neighbors. Some of them still live in the same street. Some have moved to other parts of town, like us. It was a great party, with barbecue and volleyball (an important part of the tradition), and it was fun to see all the little kids who have grown up to become teenagers.

We see some of our former neighbors occasionally, but some we hardly ever meet. Yesterday, I talked to a woman that I haven't seen for more than 10 years. She said that I looked exactly the same as 15 years ago, not a day older.

I thought this was a nice compliment, and I thanked her (she looked a lot older, so I didn't return it). But later, I got kind of worried, because Dorian Gray came to my mind.

Today, I've been looking at old family pictures. The wedding picture, looked as it always did, fortunately. Then I started to browse old photo albums, looking for those frightening signs ... because, you know, Dorian and I gave our souls to the Devil.

Mohahaha ... scary isn't it >:)))

It's a great book, btw.

(That's Dorian in the picture, not me. I found the picture on the Internet. It's a cover picture from the Penguin Classics series. That's the edition of Dorian Gray that I have. I bought it in a 2nd-hand bookstore on Pearl Street in Boulder long time ago, when we lived in Colorado)

The gambler

There's a book that I read almost every summer on the beach. I've read it more than 10 times now. The twists and turns of the story are hardly surprising me anymore. Now I read the book mostly to admire the writing.

My copy is a nice hardbound and leather-back book. It was printed in 1946, and I bought it 2nd hand from an antiquarian many years ago.

The book I'm talking about is The Gambler by Dostoyevsky. It's a relatively short narrative novel, just a little bit more than 200 pages. It's an easy and entertaining read, and a very suitable beach book, I think.

The story takes place in a German gambling town with the brilliant name Roulettenburg. The protagonist and narrator is a tutor employed by a poor Russian General who has lost his past fortune. The General wants to marry a beatuiful woman, but to be able to do this, he needs money. Back in Russia is the old and very rich Grandmother who is expected to die very soon. Every day the General telegraphs to Russia, asking about her health. He is impatiently waiting for her death, and to inherit her fortune.

One day, the old Grandmother unexpectedly arrives in Roulettenburg. She goes straight to the casino, to put her fortune (and the General's heritage) at stake by the roulette table ... and this is were the real fun begins. I say no more.

Dostoyevsky was addicted to gambling himself. In this novel he gives a brilliant and in-depth exposition of gambling psychology, built on his personal experience (and if you're cusious about Dostoyevsky, I recommend the biography by Geir Kjetsaa)

(That's my footsteps in the picture above. I had been out swimming in the chill and refreshing fjord, and walked accross that rock, on the way back to my towel and my Dostoyevsky book on the beach)

Down by the seaside

It was the last week of the summer vacation, and we went to the coast down south. Actually, it's not very far south, just an hour driving south of Winterland.

Blackberries are growing wild by the roads, very nice to eat right off the bush. Blackberries don't grow in Winterland.

(I might use this as a definition; Winterland is the land north of the northermost blackberry bush.)

We had some nice and lazy days by the sea, swimming, jumping from cliffs (the kids, not me), fishing, or just racing around on the fjord in a small boat, just for fun.

Little boy caught a grasshopper and put it in a jar. He named it Roy and tried to teach it tricks. It turned out that Roy wasn't very willing to learn.

I've read some good books, of course. First, I read my every-summer-on-the-beach book; The Gambler by Dostoyevsky. It's about the 10th time I read it. Second, I read Boomerang by Tatiana de Rosnay. Good book, recommended.

Then I found this old book in a shelf; The Barble Bush by Charles Mergendahl. I had never heard of it before, but the text on the back cover made me curious; "2.5 million copies sold" (not necessarily a good sign), "mercy killing, adultry, seduction, insanity ... sordid ingredients". And the book wasn't bad, I think.

From time to time, I got tired of reading; I wanted to write. So, I got a notebook, and started to write a new novel. The notebook has pages labeled from A to Z (plus a couple of strange letters we're using here). Just for fun, I started a new chapter for every new heading-letter, and each chapter beginning with the same letter. I'm writing longhand, so I have to rewrite (and edit) everything later.

My new (so-called) novel is a story about two old men escaping from the nursery home, and their adventures as they travel northward. It's is kind of a road movie, except that it's a novel, and that they travel by train and ship rather than car. On their way, they summarize their different, but equally miserable lives and hope that their last journey will bring something exciting. I have no plot and no plan; we'll see where it ends.

Led Zeppelin? Yes, that's right. I borrowed the title of this post from a Led Zeppelin song on the Physical Graffiti album.

(I took the picture above on a nice and sunny day at the beach. The area along the coast is of great geological interest. The rocks were created by volcanic erruptions some 150 million years ago, and later carved and shaped by glaciers. It's nature's own art.)

Gone fishing

It was still sunny and warm when little boy and I left the city behind, and drove up to the mountains. We were just the two of us in the car. We had a nice trip, playing AC/DC, Iron Maiden and Led Zeppelin, load, all the way. It was dark when we arrived in our family cabin.

The next morning it was raining. We only went for a short hike. I slid on a slippery rock and fell into the river.
"Are you OK", little boy shouted. He looked a little bit anxious.
"No problem", I just got wet.
"Do you wanna go back to the cabin?"
"No, We can stay if you want to, I’m not cold."

I took off all my clothes, and stood naked on a rock. The rain had stopped for a while, and the wind gusts coming down the mountain sides felt warm. I emptied my boots, twisted my clothes, to squeeze out as much water as possible. Then I put the clothes back on. The digi-cam in my pocket was wet, and didn't work anymore.

Later, when we returned to the cabin, our fish bag was still empty.

On the 2nd day, the rain had stopped. My clothes were dry, and my camera came back to life (beating Jesus by one day). We went up to a pond where we always catch fish, without exception. It's a one-hour hike along a white-water river, to a deep canyon, above the timber line. Little boy's cousin and uncle joined us too.

We stopped at the top of the gorge to eat some sandwiches. Then we climbed down to the river.
"Be careful," I told little boy, "check the rocks before you step on them, to make sure they don't slide."
"Yes, I know, I've been here before."
"And remember that climbing down is more difficult than climbing up," I added.

Down in the canyon, we put bite on the hook and threw it into the river. Little boy threw the line towards the mountain wall on the other side of the canyon, and let the bite drift towards the white-water fall. He hooked a trout on the first throw. We always do in that pond.
"I wanna kill it myself," said little boy.
"OK, just knock the fish head against a rock a few times," I said.
We put the trout on a big flat rock, and a smaller rock on top of it, to make sure it didn't escape between the boulders. The trouts move for half an hour after they're dead.

In two hours, we caught ten fish all together. The trouts were quite solidaric and fair; they went evenly on little boy's and little cousin's hooks. (The Tea Party guys have something to learn from the fish.)
"We got twice as many last year," said little boy.
"That's not important. Ten is good enough, and then we leave some fish for the guys who come here next time."

On the 3rd day, the weather changed. Northern winds brought cold air down from the Arctic, and temperatures dropped to less than 10 degrees (50 Fahrenheit). We had to find our gloves in the suitcase before we went out.

We caught 3 trouts and lost even more.

On the 4th day we didn't fish at all. We sat in the forest with our knives, carving stuff out of birch branches, and we picked 3kg (6 pounds) of cloud berries on the moors.

Then we returned to the civilization; to newspapers, TV, cell-phone coverage and Internet. I must admit I didn't miss is >:)

(The picture above is from the 2nd day. It's our best pond in the lower part of the picture. We always catch fish on the first throw, and usually on the 2nd and 3rd throws as well. There are two similar ponds above, but they are not accessible. Actually, when I was a kid, my father climbed down to the uppermost pond, making a rope with T-shirts tied together. My brother and I sat on the top watching (without T-shirts). My mother got furious when she heard of it: "Such a lack of responsibility, setting his life at stake to catch fish, with his little kids watching". I have never tried to copy his stunt, and I never will.)

A scary good book

Have you ever been to Colorado Springs? I can tell you it's a nice area. You can visit the Cave of the Winds, take the cog railway to the majestic Pikes Peak, study the cliff dwellings in Manitou Springs, or go for a walk in the Garden of the Gods.

Probably you won't see God there, but if you're lucky, you might meet Anita, hiking between the sandstone formations, unless she's busy running from bears, or showing us how to make homemade tortillas.

Anita doesn't scare anyone, but 8th August she will release A Scary Good Book, her new kids' ebook. And it's so cheap that I might even buy it myself.

Anita also writes a book column in the Colorado Springs Gazette. I didn't know that when we lived in Colorado some 10 years ago, so we subscribed to The Denver Post instead. Sorry about that, Anita >:)

Catholic flashback

It's kind of strange around here. We're Protestants most of the time, but for one week every year, we're Catholics. (This doesn't include myself, though. I'm Atheist all the time.)

500 years ago, the Catholics were kicked out of the country, and the last arch bishop had to flee our town. We have been Protestants ever since. But every summer, we have a Catholic flashback. It's the full package; vesper and midnight mass, pilgrim walks with munks and nuns, fighting the lust of the flesh, in sneakers and Gore-Tex jackets (depending on weather). And there's a lot of regular tourists of course.

In the last week of July and first week of August, we have a festival to celebrate the holy king who brought Christianity to our country, 1000 years ago. We can discuss if this was an advantage or not. Anyway, it's a historical fact that it happened.

The kings mission was simple and efficient: Get christened or get killed. No wonder Christianity was such a great success.

The king was killed in a battle 1000 years ago, when he met resistance from an army of peasants. Every summer there is a historical play, an hour drive (with car, not horse) north of town. The play is performed outdoor at the battle field, and recreates the political situation and conflicts leading up to the battle. (The battle itself, though, takes place backstage).

I've seen the play 3 or 4 times. It's quite interesting and entertaining, for the kids too.

The king caused miracles for those who were in contact with his dead body, sick and blind people were healed, and the king's hair continued to grow after his death (according to the saga). He was canonized by the local arch bishop; later confirmed by Pope Alexander III in 1160.

The medieval cahtedral in our town is built on the grave of the holy king, who is known as Saint Olav.

(The summer festival is not only about gods and saints. There are various types of entertainment too. Last night I attended a concert with Jan Garbarek Group outside of the cathedral. I took a couple of pictures, even though it was not allowed. The drummer was very good, and he played the same brand of cymbals that I have; Zildjian. Good stuff.)

Our weapon

When our country was hit by terror, I was happy to hear the wise responses, from our Prime Minister, and not the least, from the young politicians who were the victims of the shooting:

"Our response will be be more democracy and more openness."

The purpose of terror is to scare people. Statistically, the probability of getting killed in a terror attack is much smaller than being killed in a car crash, or some other accident (at least if we exclude extreme countries like Iraq and Afghanistan from the statistics).

We have been lucky to live in a country with little violence. Not even the police carry handguns. I hope this remains in the future.

I hope and believe we will not become a country where people are afraid of each other, and protecting ourselves from each other. If we do, the terrorists have won.

We must stick to the ideas and values of the social democracy, where conflict is handled by means of dialogue and debate. Hate and revenge don't bring us forward.

In the spirit of Nordahl Grieg, the Prime Minister said:

"Freedom of speech is our weapon."

I will use that weapon, and it's the only weapon I will use.

(After the terrorist attacks, people have covered towns and cities in flowers. I took the picture above a couple of days ago when I passed by town square. The statue of the king who founded our city in the year 997 (an official random number) was surrounded by flowers and candle lights.)

Flying on an Antonov An-24

I had a relaxing Saturday morning; my mission is completed, just waiting for the plane back home.

I’m flying out of Murmansk on an Antonov An-24.This classical Soviet propeller aircraft was constructed by the famous engineer Oleg Antonov in the 1950s. From 1960 to 1978, more than thousand AN-24s have been assembled in the factory in Ukraine, for both public transport and military purposes.

I was left alone in Murmansk last night, when my Russian colleague went back to Moscow. This morning, I put my suitcase in the storage room, and took for a walk outside. The streets were quiet and empty, just a few old Russian cars and buses passing by. It's very different from Moscow, with it's modern buildings and abundance of German luxury cars. Murmansk still gives a Soviet feel, except that the Marx and Lenin posters are replaced by commercials. It was a nice and sunny morning, and it's the middle of July. It's supposed to be summer, but still it was pretty chill outside. No more than 10-15 degrees (50-60 Fahrenheit), too cold with just a T-shirt and a thin jacket.

Coming back from my short walk, I found a coach in the lobby, and sat down to read and write, and to do some people watching, interesting as always. Two German women went up to the reception and asked for a map with the sights of the city. The receptionist was apparently surprised, and had nothing to offer. I was surprised too. There's not much of interest to see. It's the huge Alyosha statue, the cranes on the harbor, the former Soviet navy base in Severomorsk, and the midnight sun. People go fishing and hunting on the Kola Peninsula, but nobody go to Murmansk for vacation.

The driver picked me up outside the hotel at noon, to take me to the airport. I'm trying a different route this time, going straight west, across the border, and then continuing on a domestic flights. It's the shortest distance, but not necessarily the shortest time. It's not easy to find effective transportation between the remote places in the north, and Saturday is not a good day for traveling. There are not many flights to choose from.


The international departure on the Murmansk airport was like a small cupboard. They don't have many international flights, possibly only this one. Security, check-in and passport control was smooth and easy. There were no more than 10-15 passengers on the flight. I like the lazy atmosphere of the small airports in the north.

An old yellow truck was tanking the plane when we boarded, climbing a short and narrow ladder. The engines started to bark, propellers gaining speed, and we were ready for take of. The plane was as noisy as a punk band, and shaking like a hard-rock drill. But, what the Hell, it was cool to fly on an Antonov.


It was a two-hour flight, above endless forests and lakes in the east, and fjords between rugged snow-capped mountains in the west. Half-way the cute stewardess served a decent lunch, a salami sandwich with vodka and wine, but I stayed with tea and orange juice today.

Yesterday, when we had completed our business tasks, there was a celebration. We had some snacks and drinks in the general director’s office, whiskey with ice, Oran single malt. I don't like that stuff very much (prefer beer). Anyway, there were a lot of toasts, as usual, and they proposed a toast to my great braveness, because I was flying on the Antonov to get back home >:D

(That's our Antonov, ready for bording. Beautiful plane, isn't it? I took the picture at the top on the short walk across the runway. I shot a few pictures through the window of the plane as well. That tank-like thing in the upper part of the pitures is the engine.)

Dostoyevsky City

I'm on the way to Murmansk again. I'm taking a different and shorter route this time. No need to fly via Moscow when I have nothing there to do. Today I'm traveling alone all the way, without my Russian colleague. It's somewhat more difficult, I'll admit, to get from the international terminal to the domestic terminal,by bus, finding the right check-in desk, getting through the security. Some language problems, but I made it, by a mix of English and body language, and the five Russian phrases I know.

Right now I'm in transit in this fabulous city, built by Peter the Great in the 18th century, on the swamps by the Finnish Bay. It was the capital of Russia for 200 years, untill the last Tsar, and his family, were killed by the communists in 1917. The city has been known by several names, Petrograd,Leningrad, and now, St Petersburg. I call it Dostoyevsky City.

The first time I was here was in 1990, at the dawn of the Soviet Empire. I got to see all the major sights; the Winter Palace, St Isaac's Cathedral, the Russian Museum, with the famous paintings by Ilya Repin (Ivan the Terrible Kills his Son, Barge Haulers on the Volga), the Dostoyevsky Museum, and Nevsky Prospect. The latter is the main street, where Raskolnikov was walking in his anguish and pain after killing the money lender (Crime and Punishment).

The Dostoyevsky Museum is in Kuznechny Street. It's in his apartment where he lived, a major part of his life, except when he was in prison in Siberia, or forced to serve as a soldier in the Army. It's the place where he wrote many of his great works. Very interesting to see, for a Dostoyevksy fans, and worth a visit if you come to St Petersburg.

Today I'm only in transit for a couple of hours. My plane to Murmansk is departing in 45 minutes. I hope I get the chance to visit this city again soon. Like Moscow, St Petersburg has changed alot in the last 20 years.

The only remnant of the Soviet era is the airport code, which is still LED, for Leningrad >:)

(It's St Petersburg in the background. I took the picture right before landing at the Pulkova Airport, after fasten seat belt signs were on. Not allowed, but I just switched my camera on for a couple of seconds.)

How to eat caviar

Murmansk has one of the worlds richest food sources at the door step. The arctic waters are cold and sometimes hostile, but full of fish, shrimps and crabs. And then there is the salomon and the sea trout, commuting between the sea and the great rivers of the Kola Peninsula.

No wonder; the food in Murmansk is excellent, if you choose from the sea-food side of the menu. A good Russian beer makes the meal complete, for instance Sibirskaya Korona or Baltika No 8.

When I was in Murmansk last week, my Russian colleague gave me a big jar of Russian caviar

"Gift for you; local caviar."

Great. I appreciated this very much. A big jar of fresh Russian caviar; coarse orange fish eggs, each one is the size of a decent pearl.

But now I have this challenge; I have to eat all the caviar before it gets contaminated. I've tried a few varieties, all of them tasting very good:

o Bread with butter and a thick layer of caviar, and a touch of mayonnaise (for breakfast).
o Boiled egg with caviar (for lunch).
o Gratinated salomon with potatoes and caviar topping (for dinner).

What else? Does anyone out there have some good recipes involving caviar?

(That's my jar of caviar, and my breakfast, shot with the cell phone camera; bread with butter, caviar and mayonnaise.)

Biscuit poker

It’s school’s summer vacation, but parents are still at work, at least we are.

Therefore, little boy spent a week in our family cabin in the mountains, with his grand parents. This weekend we drove up to the mountains, to pick him up and bring him back to town.

When I met him, I asked if he had a good time.

"Yes, we've been on long hikes in the mountains. I found a reindeer antler, and carried it myself, for two hours, back to the cabin."
"Good. We can keep it here, right? We don't need to bring it home?"

And then it was all the regular stuff about fishing, bow shooting, rowing on the lake, rock climbing, tree climbing, making a slingshot from a birch branch, and so on.

Finally, he said:

"Grandpa taught me how to play poker."
"Great. You’re 10 yo, so it’s about time you learn it."
"We only played with biscuits."
"Did you win?"
"I got all the biscuits in the end."

Grandpa’s summer camp is always a cool place to be >:)

(In the picture is little boy climbing an old pine tree outside the cabin. The pines are 2-300 years old and grow very slowly in the mountain climate. I climbed the same trees many years ago, and still do, sometimes.)