Creatures of the Other Kind

We've just moved our program - a computer science program - to a new campus. The only part of the school that was at this new part of the university before was the design school. The design school consists of about 75% women amongst the students (the other way around with the teachers, of course), and since one if the programs is clothing design, there are quite a number of fashionistas running around.

Our program is about 75% guys. And the guys wear T-Shirts and jeans. Usually scruffy ones.

Today was the first full day of classes in the new location, and we were having lunch in the tiny cafeteria. I sat with a crowd of the guys and was very amused to watch what was going on.

The fashionistas strutted into the room, looking for a coffee and an apple, maybe, for breakfast. They did a double-take when they saw all these men (although I am not sure if it was the T-Shirts or the fact that they were men). They kept looking out of the corner of their eyes at the table, not sure what to make of this sight.

The guys were moaning about the quantity and the quality of the food. ("Bah. The noodles are so overcooked, I need a straw to eat them.") And their eyes were popping out, getting an eyeful of the women. And having a second look. And a third. And then punching each other in the shoulder.

I think they will all be eating in the cafeteria this semester, despite the quality :)

The Swedish Ambassador

It is a few days before the most important Swedish holiday, Midsommer. Or, if you prefer, one of the major drinking occasions.

The new Swedish ambassador to Germany is an economist by trade - and another one of those Alpha Women. She invited WiseMan to the party she was throwing, and he took me along for company. Nothing like standing around with a bunch of strangers waiting for the food.

The new ambassador is very charming, bubbles over with enthusiasm, enjoys a good laugh - and is quite a networking person. It was a pleasure to watch her work the crowd, dragging men in ties across the lawn to be introduced to other men in ties, or calling them to come over. She herself, replete in a summer dress and a flower in her black hair, was actually barefoot most of the evening, having discarded her shoes for dancing around the Midsommar pole.

I joined right in that, I love folk dancing like this. In Sweden this involves dancing in a circle, singing children's songs that include doing gestures like playing the violin or being a rabbit. Rabbits play an important part in many drinking songs as well.

The food was traditional: Swedish flat bread, new potatoes, sour cream and chives, smoked salmon, and four different kinds of herring. The ambassador announced that her cook - a fascinating guy in a white cook's uniform but with his wild black hair bound up in a black and white pirate's headband and wearing scruffy sneakers - had flown up to Sweden the other day to get the ingredients. And to get the snaps.

Swedes are soooo chauvinistic about their potatoes. They think that only real, Swedish, potatoes taste any good. These were great, where ever they came from! The herring was so good, I liked the mustard herring best, washed down with some Skåne Aquavit.

I met some interesting people: folks at the embassy, journalists, diverse VIPs, and the Alpha-Woman-Husband, who is a professor for literature. One of the VIPs is also an Alpha-Woman-Husband, I joked that they should round up Angela Merkel's husband (a professor in Berlin) and start their own club. Actually, I was only half joking, as they need to be defining their role. Do they fade into the woodwork, like Merkel's? He should have been in Heiligendamm, entertaining Cherie Blair and Laura Bush. Do they run around worrying about the food and the help? Do they do their own thing? They need a support group, I think!

The mosquitoes were as bad as any Swedish summer, this they could have left out of an otherwise wonderful evening.

The Wandering Eyes

It was pouring rain yesterday, and as I entered the subway station near the school I saw Important Engineering Dean sitting on a bench. I had been to the administrative board earlier in the afternoon, fighting against some petty thievery going on in the administration - I applied for money from an external source in 2003, I got the money, it gets paid into the university, big chunks of it disappear. And the bit of money we have can't be spent, because we have no rooms to put the toys important computer equipment in, yadda yadda yadda.

Anyway. IED is, of course, a member of the board. So I sat down with him, and we got on the subway together. I was lobbying for support in this matter - I need all the voices possible to say that this is unfair.

In the subway we sat across from each other. IED is well-known for being unable to look women in the eyes (or rather, he is one of those guys who think that women have their eyes between their chins and navels). Here we are, discussing university politics, I am sitting in my lumpy, wet raincoat, and he is ogling me. I mean, come on, if I at least was showing some cleavage - but in this situation?

IED had been doing this during a gender sensitivity class required of all deans and program leaders, I had joined the engineers for fun (much to the relief of my computing colleagues). I had hoped that the leader, a former equal opportunity officer at a major university, would call him on this behavior, but she was so timid in the room full of IEDs, she didn't squeak. At that time I had resolved that the next time I met him alone I would speak to him about it. And then I successfully avoided him for about 3 years.

And now there I was, and because I wanted his help, I found myself unable to speak to him about his wandering eyes. And I am not known for being a shrinking violet. So how do I get this put to him? Stop dead in mid-sentence and look down to see if I have spilled coffee on my shirt? Wait for the biological solution (retirement should happen in another 5 years or so)? I am open to suggestions!

Lipstick

I was giving a talk today, so I was trying to dress the part of "lady professor" by wearing a dress and stockings and a nice flowing scarf. But looking at myself in the mirror I decided that I looked very pale. Since it wasn't the bad lighting, it was probably lack of sleep.

Now I don't wear makeup normally except when making a video (lipstick and eyeliner do wonders for a crisp presence when you are on video, as I demonstrated on some test videos a while back). But I do have a case for this purpose, so I got it out.

There was lipstick in just the plum color of my scarf, so I put it on. Now my face looked unbalanced, so I ended up putting on eyeshadow and eyeliner. I had this saying in my mind that is attributed to Andy Rooney, but is actually from Frank Kaiser: "A woman over 40 looks good wearing bright red lipstick."

It was time to dash for the bus, so no time for second thoughts. It was kind of fun at the conference, going up to people I knew and smiling. They tended to cock their heads a bit and look puzzled - they couldn't decide what was different with me. I kidded one colleague (who never wears a tie) about his mini string tie, he tried to kid back about my appearance, but couldn't name it. Not even WiseMan said anything when he came by to join me for the conference dinner.

Am I different when I am dressed up like this? Well, it is difficult to crawl along the floor searching for electrical outlets in a dress. And I have to be constantly on my guard not to rub my eyes or mouth, or else I will look like a grubby schoolgirl who got into Mom's lipstick.

I was very glad, however, to scrub it all off and get out of the costume.

Squish my Butt

Rode the train to work again today. Seems one can observe more human interactions than when tooling down the highway in my car....

At the station Hermannstr. I saw a young couple leaning against a wall, each with a heavy-looking suitcase. He was Turkish-looking, smoking (which is forbidden, but who respects that); she was German-looking, not smoking.

He finished his cig, flicked the butt away. He got her attention, pointed to the butt. She obediently stepped on the butt, squishing out the fire.

It would have been trivial for him to do this himself. As the train pulled out of the station I wondered why she would do something like this for him and why he would expect it.

Speaking Quietly

I'm in Växjö, Sweden on a teaching exchange program and had been given an nice desk in a warm room with a broadband internet connection in order to work. Since it was dark, cold, and wet outside, I just kept slogging on, correcting exercises and answering emails. But eventually my stomach started growling so loud that I decided that I should perhaps get something to eat, so I left to go downtown and eat. Well, let's say "middle of town", downtown is a bit too pretentious for this little place.

There had been this nice-looking Sushi place the last time I was here, but when I got there, they were closed for renovations. The next place was closing early on account of lack of customers. The next one was already closed. There was a fancy-schmancy place with candles on the small, round tables, just the place for a romantic evening with a significant other but not exactly what I fancied for tonight. The next one had free tables, and appetizers started at 155 SEK, 15$. No, not tonight.

I was almost at the church, meaning this was the end of town, so I ended up at the English pub, The Bishop's Arms. The place is always crowded, and tonight was no exception. I walked through, anyway, but all the seats at the tables and the bar were taken - except for a nice table where there were only two women seated.

The women were holding hands and talking intensively - I suppose the guys were assuming they were lesbians and that this was catching, so they were staying away. I could see at a glance that they were having a heart-to-heart talk and assumed that it was the calmer, already-divorced women listening to the soon-to-be-divorced woman doing most of the talking. (Yup. I eavesdropped. He's a bastard.)

I asked in my best Swedish if there was a place free. The calmer woman nodded, then asked "Kan du prata tyst?", can you speak quietly? I was confused, it did not make sense. I thought she was asking if I spoke German, which is just one letter off, tysk. I mean, here I am in this loud, crowded pub, a not-so-young woman in a long woolen winter coat with a backpack, alone, looking for a place to have some food.

We switch to English, yes indeed, she wanted to know if I could please speak quietly. I answered that I was only planning on reading from my book. "Oh, I thought you had a companion". Women don't go out alone, even in Sweden, it appears.

I dumped my stuff and headed for the bar to order. I have always been irritated by my invisibleness as a woman alone in Sweden, and tonight was no exception. I tried to get the attention of one of the two very stressed-out barmaids behind the bar. But for some reason, neither of the two saw me. There was always a guy elbowing in, getting their attention. I once started to catch the corner of the eye of one of the women when a man seated at the counter picked up his glass and waved it in her face - of course, he got his refill and I started again. On orders of my stomach I gave up being a lady, elbowed my way to the bar and placed my order. There is indeed something to be said for the usual Swedish method of taking a queue number for service.

I sat down at the table, got out my book, and enjoyed my food when it came. Quietly.

The place got more and more crowded, and finally, a brave group of three men came over and sat down. They did not get asked to speak quietly, perhaps because it is useless to ask men with beer glasses in their hands to speak quietly. I finished the chapter, closed the book to take that last sip of my cider and was immediately spoken to by one of the guys - how can you be reading here? I shrugged, said that it's a good book, took my last swig, packed up and got out of there.

Both of the women nodded me a quiet goodbye as I left.