Four years ago today, going by the calendar, I was living in Barcelona in a flat not far from the great unfinished Church of the Sagrada Familia. I was so skinny then, on this particular night wearing a skintight club shirt of shiny 100-percent artificial cloth of one sort or another, dancing wildly, drunkenly in a club called Arena, a bit unsure of myself, looking for love or even just some sex, and being disappointed.



Five years ago today, going by the feast days of the church, I was chanting the part of the evangelist in the passion gospel of John at the noon good Friday service at St. Thomas Episcopal Church in Washington, D.C. On one side of me was the man chanting the part of Jesus, on the other side was the man chanting the part of Pilate. The congregation likewise stood.



In the order of service, an instruction was given that all should kneel when the story first mentions Golgotha. But, several lines before then, I had to chant about a place called Gabbatheh, and my diction obviously wasn't clear enough because everyone knelt then, although they realized their mistake when, a minute later, I chanted about a place called Golgotha.



I remember how difficult it was to chant for the five or more minutes it took to finish, but also how moving it was. I was nervous when I started, but the nervousness left me after the first couple of lines.



After I finished, they turned the cloth on the alter table over to red, and there was no more music in the service, and would be none until Easter morning.



It's odd what one remembers, the sacred and the profane.



The Swedish word for the day is Långfredag. It means Good Friday.



- by Francis S.

It's amazing how many religious holidays there are in this seemingly secular country. Easter, for instance, is a four-and-a-half day affair. Sadly for me, I'm stuck coming into the office tomorrow because I can't get a hold of an interview subject to set up an interview, I still need to write a brief, and I have to make phonecalls to the U.S. And I should have had the day off especially since it's my birthday tomorrow. (I'm going to have to change my brief bio to read "41" instead of merely "40.")



Whinge, whinge, whinge.



At least the friends from London are coming into town, so we'll have dinner with them. And then Saturday morning we'll traipse off for two days in the Stockholm archipelago on Birds' Island at the country house of A. the former model and aspiring producer, and her boyfriend, C. the fashion photographer. I hope today's sunny weather holds.



The Swedish word for the day is stackan. It means poor thing. Yeah, that's me I'm talking about.



- by Francis S., in such a mood of self-pity that he can barely blog

I wonder why I never seem to retain the knowledge that a vacation involving family in some form or other is not a vacation for the husband. He is stuck hearing about ancient family history, dim family friends best forgotten, and sad little jokes as well as my parents' amiable and constant bickering with each other (which is strange to me as they never fought when I was a child, they were always such a united front).



I explained this to K., who was back again from the U.S. and staying in our apartment while we were gone before she left again on a jet plane this morning.



She told me that I shouldn't feel guilty about doing this to the husband.



"You moved to Sweden for him," she said. "I think it's a fair exchange that he puts up with your family every so often."



Which would be true if he didn't need a real vacation badly, complete with beach and sleeping until noon. Not to mention us needing a nice romantic vacation together. If only I didn't enjoy my family so much, I wouldn't be tempted by cottages on Lake Michigan and stone houses in Tuscany.



The Swedish word for the day is förlåt. It means sorry.



- by Francis S.

We got back from Tuscany late last night, back from the land of former brutal city-states now reduced to an idyllic gold and green and romantic adult Disneyland of leaning towers, Uffizi galleries and Pitti palaces, tree-covered walled cities and charming many-towered villages. My mother was obsessed with the blooming of the wisteria growing outside the little stone house where we stayed in a little stone village tucked away in a valley that looked out toward Lucca on one side. My father drove like an Italian maniac, making my mother gasp. The husband and I fought over bringing home an obscenely large salami that I know we'll never eat.



We're home.



I only received two calls from work while I was there. Everything's a mess at the office. Our company was bought by another, my favorite employee is moving back to Finland and taking his girlfriend and highly competent co-worker with him, and the new magazine that we're starting in record time has gone to hell and I'm going to have to pull it back up to the land of the living.



I sometimes wonder if vacation is worth it.



The Swedish word for the day is tillbacka. It means back again, more or less.



- by Francis S.

I so want to find a picture of the latest advertising campaign for - er, I don't know what it's for. All I know is that it asks the question "Jobbar du naken?" - do you work naked - and the ad, at every bus shelter in Stockholm, features a blond lad big as life with perfect milky skin and a perfect untoned but fit body with perfect rose-pink nipples and a perfect Mona Lisa half-smile playing on his lips, a chef's hat on his head, standing naked in a kitchen surrounded by other clothed cooks, a pot strategically placed in front of his wee jimmy, or as I like to think, his not-so-wee jimmy (what is it about a large penis that is so aesthetically pleasing?).



I wanted to find this picture so this post could be the seventh in-depth lesson on Swedish culture, which would say something along the lines of the fact that, although there are no naked Swedish chicks, or naked chefs for that matter, lounging around on street corners (contrary to popular belief), Swedes do have an interesting open attitude about sex being a natural thing, and nakedness not being dirty or necessarily connected to sex.



But alas, I guess this isn't to be.



Instead, I'm going to write about how awful my day was (why ever did I allow myself to become good at solving problems with staff, customers and impossible deadlines?) and how happy I am to be traipsing off with the husband to Tuscany in a mere 36 hours or so. Of course, the whole present-for-the-husband thing still needs to be solved. I have yet to figure out what to get him, and I had no time today to even think about it let alone do any shopping, on account of spending an inordinate amount of time solving endless irksome problems at work.



So, I'll be back the Monday after next. If you're looking for something to read, I recommend you go check out Tinka's defense of impenetrable yet meaningful language (no, that's not really an oxymoron although it pretends to be).



In the meantime, you can meditate on the Swedish word of the day, which is åtminstone. It means at least.



- by Francis S.

Damn. The husband's birthday is Friday - the Ides of March - and as usual I don't know what to get him. He almost always gets me lovely expensive presents - Prada backpacks or 40 red roses from Holland that have all the women in the office sneaking down to my desk to have a look and then bemoan that their husbands and boyfriends would never be so romantic.

The problem is that I don't trust my own taste anymore because he has so much more than I do. Taste, I mean.

The Swedish phrase for the day is ingen aning. It means no idea, haven't a clue.

- by Francis S.

The Swedish government (link in Swedish only, sorry) has recommended to parliament that homosexual persons, such as myself, be allowed to adopt children. Parliament has until June 4 to respond to the government's proposal.

The biggest hitch is that the vast majority of adopted children are from outside Sweden and none of the countries Sweden has agreements with allow gay men or lesbians to adopt children (Liberal attitudes toward abortion are apparently one of the main reasons so few children are in need of adoption within Sweden.)

But what's great about it is that once Sweden decides this, homosexual persons who decide to adopt children, such as myself or Aaron, will get all the same fantastic rights and privileges that other parents get here in Sweden - mainly a year and a half off of work at 80-90 percent pay, and universal daycare.

And now, it looks like the United Kingdom is likely to approve gay adoptions as well.

The Swedish verb for the day is att orka. It's one of my favorites. It isn't directly translateable, but more less means to have the will to, and is more often used in the negative - jag orkar inte - which would mean I can't get up the energy to... or something like that. My friend D., the editor who moved back to America this past summer, used to say "I don't have the ork for it."

- by Francis S.