Stockholm: Latin America Day

In November of last year, the New Yorker published a profile of Thomas Friedman that I only just read in January. In it, the famed author and journalist quotes economist Paul Romer:

"A crisis is a terrible thing to waste."

Romer's words could have easily served as the subtitle for Sweden's recent "Latin America Day," where the tone was one of hope and opportunity. The event, held at the Sveriges Riksdag (the Swedish parliament) in Stockholm, was a last-minute surprise during my February travels.

As part of my journey through Scandinavia, I made a five day stop in Sweden's island capital, where I was put up by His Excellency the Uruguayan Ambassador to Sweden, Norway, Finland, Denmark, Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania, and his wife. (Uruguay is a small country; apparently the Ministry of Foreign Affairs can afford to lump all the Scandinavian and Baltic nations under a sole diplomatic umbrella.) I know them as Manuel and Marta, friends of my mother's from their time in Miami at the Uruguayan Consulate. Marta, especially, developed a close friendship with my mother through their volunteer work with the Asociación de Mujeres Uruguayas de Florida (Uruguayan Women's Association of Florida). For any architects or engineers out there, Marta is also the daughter of famed Uruguayan Eladio Dieste who invented the Gaussian vault. You've gotta love the Uruguayan family tree; shake it hard enough, and you never know who might fall out.

From what I could observe, Manuel's job is as exhausting as it is stimulating. His presence (and, frequently, Marta's) is required at multiple diplomatic events on a daily basis: cocktails at the United Arab Emirates embassy, dinner with the Spanish, royal meet-and-greet at the Palace, not to mention responsibilities as mundane as riding the embassy car to the airport to pick up Uruguayan and Latin American VIPs. In his down time, Manuel removes his suit coat, kicks off his shoes, and stretches his wiry frame out on the plush couch in their living room, where he indulges in the daily cable broadcast of Cuéntame como pasó, a popular and long-running Spanish TV show that follows a family from the Franco years into the 1990s. Manuel's laptop is seldom far from his fingertips; he surfs the web in his stocking feet, alternating between BBC news and Mininova, the torrent downloading site where he downloads movies to watch when he is traveling.

Marta, with short clipped hair and a tan complexion even in the dead of Swedish winter, is still looking for more activities to occupy her time. She tells me, in that low, smoky voice characteristic of women from the River Plate region, that she misses the network of friends she left behind in Miami. And then she shows me the thick stack of diplomatic invitations, extended in ornate, stenciled writing to "His Excellency and partner," to dinners and receptions and teas and so on.

One of these invitations was to "Latin America Day," a day long conference featuring such notable Latin American specialists as Enrique Iglesias and Pierre Schori. On Manuel and Marta's enthusiastic offer (and because I miss the Latin Americanist environment), I decided to attend.

Latin America has always been of great importance to Sweden, and vice versa. When violent dictatorships ravaged much of the region's intelligentsia in the last century, many, particularly from South America, fled to the northern, amnesty-granting nation. And they remained there. Many even went on to become members of parliament

"The many Latin Americans who live in Sweden are an important asset to our society," began Gunnar Wieslander, State Secretary to the Minister of Trade, as he launched into his presentation entitled "Latin America and Sweden - a Broad Relation." He went on to note that "more students than ever study Spanish in Sweden." Latin America is "more important than our neighbor Russia, and more important, even, than the giant China." Wieslander's claim, though broad and not deeply explored in his key note address, was echoed both by his mastery of Spanish and his expert knowledge of the region (later showcased during the panel debate). He wrapped up his talk with an earnest request directed to the Latin American statesmen and businessmen in the room: "Please think of us as ready to work on equal footing."

Next up was superstar Pierre Schori, former Swedish Ambassador to the United Nations and recent author of the book "The Years of the Dragon´s Teeth - September 11, the Iraq War and the World after Bush." He was a member of the parliament back in 1982 when "Gabo" (Gabriel García Márquez) came to Stockholm to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature. Schori recalled how the Colombian Ambassador commenced ill-advised festivities by handing out bottles of rum to parliamentarians. Unfortunately, someone higher up decided it was "not appropriate" and put an end to the rum. "But I can assure you we all enjoyed it very much," Schori proclaimed, smiling at the audience.

His talk went on to address Latin American gains (a major theme throughout the conference) and the outlook for U.S.-Latin American relations. He remarked on poverty reduction in the region, signaling positive strides while noting that income gaps have widened. "La pobreza tiene color y es femenina," (Poverty has a color, and it is feminine) he added, highlighting where there is significant room for improvement.

Another trend, and one that has been concretized by the economic crisis, is that Latin America "speaks with its own voice," Schori said, borrowing Brazilian President Lula's recent words in Madrid after receiving the Cervantes Prize. This is in marked difference to the region's position in past crises. Now, Schori explained quoting OAS Secretary General José Miguel Insulza, there has been shift to "create policies with countries, not for them." On the subject of the U.S. and what Obama can do for Latin America, Schori was more cynical, citing Obama's already full plate (the state of the American economy, health care, and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan). Though he recognized the closing of Guantanamo, Schori cautioned against being overly optimistic: "A good signal would be for the U.S. not only to close Guantanamo but to hand it back to its rightful owners."

Enrique Iglesias followed Schori's talk by delving straight into the current global crisis, which he called the "perfect crisis." Why? "Consumers don't consume, investors don't invest, banks don't lend, and governments don't collect taxes." It is, Iglesias asserted, a "dramatic crisis of confidence...and the capitalist system depends on confidence."

In the last decade, Latin America has reaped the fruits of a "bonanza:" it "learned how to manage the economy" and joined the new world geography, exporting food, energy and metals. Consequently, the region saw an overall reduction of poverty from 45% to 35%, saved $450 billion in reserves, and currently boasts inflation and unemployment figures in the single digits, as well as stability. The crisis has brought with it a regrettable series of effects that threaten these tremendous strides. Tourism is down, as are remittances and commodities prices, and the region is feeling credit crunch.

"But Latin America is better prepared than ever to deal," Iglesias stated in an unequivocally positive tone. For the first time, "emerging markets are not part of the problem: they are part of the solution." What's more, Latin America posseses a great and unique asset: "Now is the time to activate integration," he urged. "A new world will emerge;" one in which "maybe we can tackle other problems." (A crisis is, indeed, a terrible thing to waste.) Amidst all these potential opportunities, Iglesias underscored the importance of keeping alive poverty reduction policies: "Ten points is a conquest, and it would be very dramatic if we lose that. If we return people to poverty." He concluded by impressing on us the singular chance offered by the crisis to not only put order in house economically but ethically. (To my knowledge, it is a rare thing to hear a key note speaker at a trade conference appeal to our sense of right and wrong while discussing economic policy.)

After Iglesias, Johan Schaar spoke on managing climate change as part of the new development agenda. Schaar, Director of the Commission on Climate Change and Development, also pointed to the interlinked nature of current crises (finance, climate, food, and energy) which offers us the opportunity to deal with them simultaneously. Stefan de Vylder, an Associate Professor of Development Economics, then stepped up to the podium and bemoaned "THE IRONY" of the current situation. How "the recipe today is the opposite of what it was" when Latin American countries were in economic turmoil. (For those of you unfamiliar with recent Latin American economic history, nations in financial crisis were sternly instructed to restrict their spending and follow an extremely austere fiscal regimen, as dictated by the IMF; of course now that developed countries are in crisis, these recommendations have been completely reversed. Spend, spend, spend and "stimulate" the economy, say the fiscal experts. What magnificent hypocrisy. Tsk tsk.)

De Vylder's somewhat tongue-in-cheek address, entitled "It Is Not Our Fault This Time! Latin America Coping With Past and Present Financial Crises," reiterated Latin America's relatively good position today: just last year, 70% of all reserves were in emerging and developing markets. Latin American banks, specifically, don't have toxic assets.

Whatever the post-crisis future brings, developing countries and markets will need to play a markedly stronger role. And there is reason to believe that this is a very good thing.

Tromsø: Aurora Borealis

Auroras, sometimes called the northern and southern (polar) lights or aurorae (singular: aurora), are natural light displays in the sky, usually observed at night, particularly in the polar regions. They typically occur in the ionosphere. They are also referred to as polar auroras. In northern latitudes, the effect is known as the aurora borealis, named after the Roman goddess of dawn, Aurora, and the Greek name for north wind, Boreas by Pierre Gassendi in 1621.^[1] The aurora borealis is also called the northern polar lights, as it is only visible in the sky from the Northern Hemisphere, the chance of visibility increasing with proximity to the north magnetic pole, which is currently in the arctic islands of northern Canada. Aurorae seen near the magnetic pole may be high overhead, but from further away, they illuminate the northern horizon as a greenish glow or sometimes a faint red, as if the sun was rising from an unusual direction. The aurora borealis most often occurs from September to October and from March to April. The northern lights have had a number of names throughout history. The Cree people call this phenomenon the "Dance of the Spirits."

(Thank you, Wikipedia.)

I came to Tromsø in search of the northern lights.

Wait, let me clarify. This entire trip, through Norway, first, and then on to Sweden and Denmark, was a direct result of my seeking them out. That, and, the 2003 Danish film by Cristoffer Boe, Reconstruction, which left me with little doubt that Copenhagen must be one of the most heartbreaking cities in the world (meaning, of course, that I had to visit).

The thing about the northern lights is that there are a number of preconditions that need to be met in order to see them: clear skies, distance from any sources of artificial light, the right moon phase (new moon), and the right 11-year sunspot cycle phase (next up in 2013). And even then, there's no guarantee.

"I never look at the forecast," my guide told me. Jan, a forty-something outdoorsman, leads tours around Tromsø, ranging from cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, and dog sledding, to northern lights tours. The forecast he was referring to is the University of Alaska's Geophysical Institute Auroral Forecast. Jan is more concerned with clear skies than high tech measurements. His approach, though not rigidly scientific, is based on a lifetime of observation. I chose his tour exactly for this reason: he pursues the lights based on empirical knowledge and is known to change locations more than once in the course of a night to chase better atmospheric conditions. (I was instructed to bring my passport, as he sometimes ends up as far as Finland.)

Nonetheless, I was somewhat disheartened when, on arriving in Tromsø, I discovered that the forecast was a zero for pretty much every day I would be in town (that's zero as in zero activity; the forecast is done on a 9-point scale). And that the weather forecast was equally unfavorable: cloudy and snowy. My best (and only) shot was heading out on Saturday when the activity level was forecasted as a whopping number one. The next day, I would leave Tromsø.

When Jan picked me up in his van at around 7 pm, I had pretty much accepted the prospect of seeing a less-than-spectacular show of lights. The tour out to Ramfjord had other attractive elements to it. Like a roaring fire inside a traditional Sami lavvu (tent). And sitting out on reindeer skins, looking up at the stars. And eating spiced bread and drinking hot chocolate. And meeting travelers from all over the world.

But I was still hoping to see something. Anything, really. Which is why, when we arrived to Ramfjord, and after I geared up in heavy duty arctic gear (a giant, blue, padded onesie; a fur hat with ear flaps, snow boots, and mittens), I felt (and saw) a glimmer of hope: a faint but distinct green streak pulsating gently in the night sky.

Everyone dove for their cameras and snapped photos indiscriminately (lots with flash; later you could hear them cuss in various foreign languages upon discovering they had captured nothing but pitch black). I took one or two shots without flash, ISO at 1600, 15-second shutter speed (the slowest my camera could manage), and was pretty happy with the result: an equally faint but equally distinct green streak across my LCD screen.

Then the lights disappeared. There was nothing. From about 8:30 pm onwards, the sky was black, and the only visible light sources were the stars and the city of Tromsø.

So I trudged back and forth between the warmth of the lavvu and my reindeer skin outside. For ages, it seemed. A shroud of resignation fell over us all. Slowly but surely, more and more people retired to the lavvu until just me and a handful of others were left outside, straining our necks and eyes, trying to will the lights to appear.

It worked. Like freaking magic! The lights came back, faint at first.

And then the entire sky caught fire.

The effect is sometimes described as curtains of color opening and closing. Maybe it's because I tend to channel so many of my emotions into music, but to me, it looked like what the second movement of Beethoven's 7th sounds like. Starts out soft, with just the violas and the cellos carrying the first theme. Then the violins take over the first theme, and the violas and cellos open up a new theme. Then the winds come in and add another layer. And then whole thing just opens up and explodes with rich sound and harmonic texture.

That was my experience of it anyway.

"Very good. Very good." That is all I heard from Jan as we all stood there, mesmerized. Jan hadn't seen a show this good since Christmas time.

We rode back to Tromsø soon after, in reverrential silence. But the skies had more in store.

"Look out the window now," Jan sputtered, and we scrambled to scrape off the ice that had accumulated on the windows inside the van (by about 11 pm, the temperature had dropped to -12 degrees Celsius). He pulled over abruptly when it became clear that we would make little progress on the windows.

We all jumped out and looked up.

The sky was pink. Pink and green. And pulsating. Swirling and twirling around. Where each swirl ended, another began.

"It is one of the best I have ever seen," Jan informed us matter-of-factly. "It's not often you see the other colors." He turned to a Japanese couple on our tour and smiled. "It is a good thing for a couple to see the lights. You will have pretty babies."

According to Wikipedia, "the Sami people believed that one should be particularly careful and quiet when observed by the northern lights (called guovssahasat in Northern Sami). Mocking the northern lights or singing about them was believed to be particularly dangerous and could cause the lights to descend on the mocker and kill him/her."

We certainly weren't quiet. We laughed and cried out with glee, as the colors chased each other across the sky. At one point, Jan turned to me and told me that some mythologies considered the lights to be the energy of dead souls. He also told me that if you high enough in the mountains, you can actually hear them.

Me (like a breathless schoolgirl): What do they sound like?
Jan: Like this...(grabbing me by my sides and howling) OoooooooOOOoooo!

I laughed, and cast my eyes back up.

Tromsø: The Northernmost Brewery in the World

The Mack Bryggeri is located on the Storgata in Tromsø. It is 130 years old and, coincidentally enough, employs 130 workers. Ernie, a Tromsø native in her late thirties, proudly counts her place among the Mack workforce.

"I've been doing the tour for seven years," she boasted, as we all gathered around her at the Ølhallen, the "brew hall" or brew pub across from the brewery where Tromsø natives indulge in freshly pumped Mack beer (Mack pumps its beer through pipes into the Ølhallen storeroom) and lapskaus, a traditional Norwegian stew of beef and potatoes. Clad in knee-high black boots, she led us up a series of steps to the brewery's pub-side entrance.

Ernie looked like what you would expect someone from this part of the world to look like: she had blue eyes like a glaciar, and her permed blond hair spilled out from under a black Ølhallen pub cap. Before letting us into the brewery, she briefed us on Mack brews and the Norwegian people's drinking preferences.

"Norwegian people don't drink bitter beer," she told us quite matter-of-factly. As a result, Mack brews mostly Pilsners and Lagers, tempered to Norwegian tastes (there is no market for wheat beer or ales, apparently). They brew German beers and follow the German purity law: their beers are restricted to malt, hops, and water (nearby arctic water is exceptionally pure). You won't find any cloudberry beers at Mack; no crazy Lambics or Krieks or Belgian-inspired beers either. Mack's brews can be divided into three categories: alcohol-free, normal (3.5-4.5 % alcohol), and strong (6.5 %). Surprise of surprises: the alcohol-free beer is one of Mack's biggest sellers!

Mack also makes an Aquavit, an 80-proof Norwegian liquor that typically accompanies fish during meals (it helps break down the fat). One of the Norwegian's on our tour, an older, white-bearded man with no mustache (lending him an Amish look), had served on the Mack's Aquavit taste-testing team and brought it up. (Lucky him, what a dream job! Here's hoping, Dogfish Head, or Allagash, or Brooklyn brewery.) Ernie bobbed her head in agreement and added, "in Norway, we have this ridiculous alcohol law."

Ridiculous how?

You're not allowed to advertise alcohol in Norway. At all. You won't ever see an alcoholic beverage sponsoir a sports team in Norway. Nor will you be assaulted by Mack or Hansa or even Heineken (a.k.a. international Pilsner king) commercials on Norwegian television (man, I would miss the dancing techno robot).

Even on Mack's website, Ernie explained, they can show pictures of their beers, but they can't discuss them directly; which is to say they can't describe each different beer, how it's made, what dish it's meant to accompany, etc.

"People don't know we have over thirty flavors!" Ernie was livid. "It is a way of cheating us of our culture!" As a mother, she accepted that it was a law meant to "protect the children," but "we have to behave ourselves." Ernie also bartends at the Ølhallen and has seen her fair share of drinking.

"Of course people get drunk. But we can't be blamed for that. People must be responsible."

I wholeheartedly agreed, as, I think, did the entire group; we all grunted and snorted in outrage throughout her diatribe.

Ernie was quick to point out another risk to drinking, besides winding up drunk:

"You know if you don't exercise and you drink too much beer, you get this thing that is called 'love handles.'"

Mack considers itself a very traditional brewery and doesn't export outside of Norway. It is a local operation; they mostly serve the northern regions of the country. In addition to brewing beer, and, you know, for more moneys, their factory also recycles glass and plastic bottles. No cans.

They collect the bottles, send them through a gauntlet of cleaning stages, and then, off to the ultimate test: the "sniffers." These machines "sniff" whether the bottles have anything toxic in them. The "sniffers" can handle anything but diesel: if they catch a whiff of diesel, they shut down, as does production (sometimes for a whole day). My question is, how does diesel end up in a coke bottle in the first place?

We donned smurf-esque blue slippers over our shoes before entering the filtering area, where filtering sleeves and rods with tightly packed metal washers work in conjunction to remove impurities from the beer. Ernie emphasized the importance of removing our protective gear before venturing outside again, as our new smurf feet would likely make us slip and fall:

"You forget, and you go out, and you do the split on the ice. I don't like to do the split."

The filtering room also doubles as the pasteurization room: after the filtering process, Mack pasteurizes its beer at 72 degrees Celsius. As if they didn't do enough before all this! The vats of beer are actually brought down to near freezing level right after fermentation. Ernie explained it's on account of "some soldiers" that just don't want to quit fermenting! (Now every time I drink a particularly fermented beer, I'll envision yeasty soldiers making their way to my tummy.)

Nobody suffered any splits, thankfully, and we all headed back to the Ølhallen for the tasting portion of the tour. We were invited to two different pints of beer on the house: on Ernie's recommendation, I tried the Afterski and the Christmas beer. I can't say I tasted much through my cold; pity, I can't relate the flavors. But both beers went down cold and smooth. And I had a pretty damn good time.