Biathlon: The only time Swedes love their guns…

Every time it comes on, I giggle. I can’t help it. To me, it is a bit absurd. Skiing cross-country and shooting a gun? Jerry Seinfeld’s words ring in my ears…

“In the Winter Olympics they have that biathlon that combines cross-country skiing and shooting a gun. How many alpine snipers are into this? To me, it’s like combining swimming and… strangle a guy, why don’t we have that? That makes absolutely as much sense to me. Just put people in the pool at the end of each lane for the swimmers.”

The sport, which is actually incredibly difficult, began in 1767 and was a form of military training for the Norwegian military. And despite not being in the Olympics until 1960, it is immensely popular in Europe and in Nordic countries in particular.

I had never really seen the sport before, but after watching it several times on Swedish television this winter, I can say it’s actually pretty impressive. Though the distance they ski varies, when they cross the finish line it’s like hitting the power button; they all collapse to the ground, breathing heavily with their faces covered in slobber (no time to wipe I guess).

Swedes, in particular, love this sport. I received constant scolding from my boyfriend when I laughed, a habit I still cannot help despite understanding it a bit more now. But the only thing funnier than the sport itself, is the song that Swedes sing to root on their countrymen:

Heja Sverige friskt humör, skjortan hänger utanför!

Which translates to: Go Sweden healthy mood, his shirt is … hanging outside?

Ummm… ok.


A 10-day winter in Beijing

This man has a serious cold. He keeps hacking and coughing. He’s hocking up a big … Eww.

The array of polyphonic public spitting sounds in Beijing is just one of the many cultural idiosyncrasies that I found in China. Slurping, shoving and a general aggression also top the list.

But Beijing is not all mucus and bruised elbows. The city is charmingly old-world with its traditional Chinese architecture, a preference for two-wheeled transportation and an, albeit dwindling, maze of hutongs, or narrow alleys that zigzag around older courtyard residences. At times the likeness is so similar to what one might expect from a dynastic rendering of the city that it’s easy to forget it is 2008. But step out onto the busy eight-lane streets (try not to get hit) and see that Beijing is a modern city complete with electric buses, expansive pedestrian-only shopping streets and sophisticated restaurants. And that other moniker of industrial and urban progress … smog.

I stayed in a small hostel off a quiet hutong, close to the Forbidden City. The first two days I stayed close, exploring the area’s well-preserved remnants of imperial culture and enjoying some quiet afternoons in a cafe sipping tea (in part to avoid the shock of the cold weather my body refused to acclimatize to). I noticed that within an hour of being outside my throat would grow sore and a headache would form. I suspected pollution, but since I couldn’t see it, I had myself convinced that the government’s push to clear the air ahead of the Olympics had done the trick. Sure. A trip to Tiananmen Square on day three put to rest all idealism I had about Beijing’s efforts. Forget the scarf I had fashioned into a gas mask; I wanted a real one. Quite simply, nothing prepares you for the fog-like quality of the pollution. Not only can you taste it, but your ability to see it only serves to further gross you out.

However, the choking, foul air I experienced one day, rolled into a brilliant blue-sky day the next (though I’m told this is not common). I toured the major landmark sites, attempted to communicate with taxi drivers using my adept pantomiming skills, and tried my best to avoid confrontation with angry Chinese women _ a test I failed twice. But with all bad experiences come valuable lessons:

1) Watch out for bicyclists before opening a car door.

(This lesson is quite self-explanatory, though be extra vigilant about this in China. The woman whose finger you nicked with the door will scream, gesture wildly, draw a crowd and do everything short of making a federal case of it.)

2) Don’t eat sea snake.

A night spent perusing the exotic offerings at the Donghuamen Night Market _ a vast stretch of food stalls selling everything from scorpions to squid _ turned to sampling. A chicken skewer here. A few dumplings there. And not one to walk away without at least attempting adventure, I settled on a stick of sea snake. But when the busker charged me more than double the listed price, I balked. Then I pleaded for my money back. She yelled. I yelled. The incident ended with my money being slapped onto a pile a octopus. That and the sea snake _ whose minimal value I fought so successfully to defend _ smelled curiously of sweaty butt. Yum.

Music by Ben Harper.