The first time I fell in love with a man from the north was when I was about 9 or 10 years old, I think. My step-father was studying for his Masters in Piano at the San Francisco Conservatory, and he was practicing for a recital with a handsome Norwegian violinist with beautiful golden hair, named Steffan.
I played violin, too, at that time - if you can call sawing mercilessly on the poor thing "playing." As I was fond of hauling out my instrument to proudly display my musical ineptitude whenever he came over, I can only hope I was cute, because I know my skill with the instrument was less than compelling.
My strongest memory of him was of going to a party at his apartment in the city after their performance, and watching him talk to his friends in Norwegian, thinking "why is my face so hot?"
Picture hijacked from the web, and no doubt (c) someone
to whom I send my apologies for borrowing...
Next: Danish handsome prince of the New York City Ballet, Peter Martins. Was it the hair? Maybe. Like Steffan, Martins had an impressive mane of golden hair, and exemplary bone structure; but also, uh, he was a Principal Dancer at the NYC Ballet, Duh! Needless to say, I had pictures of him all kitted up to dance the part of the prince in Swan Lake glued into my diary.
I was crestfallen when he retired from active duty as a dancer to take George Balanchine's place as the Ballet Master in Chief of the NYC Ballet when I was 13. I can still recall, with crystal clarity, a picture of him in the newspaper from his last performance: Martins was taking his final curtain call, all beautiful, upright posture, ballet tights and golden mane, his chin tilted up in all of it's epic glory, and with all the flowers thrown up on the stage to honor his princeliness strewn around his feet.
When you're a hopelessly romantic 13-year-old girl, it doesn't get better than that, folks.
When I was 15 or 16, Norwegian pop star Morten Harket from the band A-ha was the Scandinavian treat of the hour.
I think what really caused it was the utterly charming video for their song "Take on me," in which Harket, and his exemplary bone structure, are trapped in a motorcycle racing comic book until an 80's style Euro-moppet in floppy clothing falls into the pages and in love with him (like any girl in her right mind would), causing him to bust out into her world Altered States-style. My sister was positively besotted with him, and so was I.
My internet trawling for pictures to include with this post reveals that today, at 45-years-old, Harket is an avid photographer, cultivates orchids, has a spelt bread baking enterprise, a degree in theology, three children, and that he has not aged a day in nearly 20 years.
Woof!
Crazy Baybee,
I know how you feel about those cool nordic men. When I was a child and my 'mones were fillin out their newly found extremities I discovered a passion for a little duo named NELSON. The thoughts of these bookends turning me into the warm marshmallow filling of a human s'more still keeps me warm at night. Then I moved on to HANSON. Oh yeah, in an MMMBop they're gone. Yeah.
Oh...if spermicide were genocide I would be the Stalin of self abuse. If you get where I'm comming from?
XXOO
Tosho the Chandler
Posted by: Tosho the Chandler | 07 únor 2004 at 02:56 dop.
Tosh,
I do get where you're coming from... but I must say that, as a teenaged girl, I really had no similar impulses. I was much more enraptured by the romance of my violinist's hair when he played the thrilling parts, and by the flowers around my ballet dancer's feet; no imagination of a carnal nature occupied me, nor could it have been more satisfying. I was much more of an idealistic Woodrow Wilson, I think.
Moreover, this was a GIRLISH rumination, if you please. I know you are used to being the queen, but as The Queen of this website, I must ask you to KEEP IT CLEAN.
Affectionately,
Jane
Posted by: Jane Herself | 07 únor 2004 at 07:01 odp.
Dear Crazy Baybee,
How quaint to apple moi la “queen’. So recherché. Now let me see if I have this right:
As I was sitting on the moist heather quietly humming the latest gift of the boys known as NELSON, even quieter yet as I wove fresh, full and fragrant stems of lavandula agustafolia, grown from seeds my mother brought back from a summer in Provence, into sachet wands to grace my handkerchief drawer, I thought and grew moist, moist in the eye as I wondered if I would ever be happier. The sensuous scent mixing serendipitously with the sweet sound of their song propelled me to a new level of sad-happy melancholia knowing that I would never feel this way but once. Warm tears, gently expressed, flowed from their lachrymal origins reconfirming that I was now and forever washing away the remnants of my childhood. It was the week that Nureyev died. It was time to grow up. The great comfort yet to come was in the unknown to be called HANSON. I took out my handkerchief , placed the long dewy, purple tipped wand into it and wrapped my hand around it, never wanting to let it or my youth go.
Posted by: Tosho the Chandler | 08 únor 2004 at 08:45 dop.
As I was fond of hauling out my instrument to proudly display my ineptitude whenever he came over, I can only hope I was cute, because I know my skill with the instrument was less than compelling.
Crazy Baybee,
How naughty but I totally understand. At least men understand an instrument when it is done well or pounded, blown or fingered badly.
Posted by: Tosho the Chandler | 08 únor 2004 at 08:50 dop.
I'm not sure which is more purple-tipped, your "wand" or your pen. Perhaps we can just be postmodern about it and just say "same difference."
Cheers!
Posted by: Jane Herself | 08 únor 2004 at 09:15 dop.
'Tosho', eh? Very very clever... MR. YEDLIN!
Posted by: rcjohnso | 08 únor 2004 at 11:02 dop.
Ok. THAT was pretty much the funniest comment EVER.
Posted by: Jane Herself | 08 únor 2004 at 05:34 odp.