Monday, February 29, 2016
the 366th
Leap day turned out to be a good day, after all. This extra day of the year gave me time to do everything I didn't get done in those 365 other days. Except propose.
punishment day
Woke up to a day off, a glorious day of winter sun over snowy vistas and diamonds hanging from every tree. A day filled with promises of pleasure, fun, pastries with pink glazing. A leap day, no less!
Then I remembered that I had appointments with the dentist and the accountant. In a previous life, I must have been one of those medieval ascetics who flogged themselves for fun.
Sunday, February 28, 2016
cotton eye Joe
Cotton Eye Joe, of the wild hair and angular face. Joe who called me Champ, brought me cappuccino just the way I liked it, gave me a bracelet and a novel by Salman Rushdie. Who told me I could do the crossword in a foreign language and make executive decisions. Who went on mad hitch-hiking adventures and rain runs and almost-ordinary dog walks with me. Who forgave me when I almost cheated on him with a movie star and let other men buy me dinner. Who flew to Hel to find me.
Cotton Eye Joe, who disappeared without a trace when I broke his heart.
Cotton Eye Joe, who disappeared without a trace when I broke his heart.
Saturday, February 27, 2016
stationary humming moon
There is something beautiful in the way a streetlight lights up so slowly, with a greenish or pinkish glow that grows brighter, against a twilit sky.
And in the way you can see the snow fall on a dark night, only in the beam of a streetlight.
The winter nights of my childhood were lit by one streetlight, the one across the road. Like a stationary moon, it was always there. I was alternately annoyed by the way it dimmed the stars and comforted by its protection against darkness.
I like the way streetlights hum. The way some of them swing on stormy evenings. The way they form a string of glowing pearls from a distance. The way they can make something ordinary or frightening look like a fairytale. Even the way they can make an empty night-time road cold and lonely like a nightmare.
And in the way you can see the snow fall on a dark night, only in the beam of a streetlight.
The winter nights of my childhood were lit by one streetlight, the one across the road. Like a stationary moon, it was always there. I was alternately annoyed by the way it dimmed the stars and comforted by its protection against darkness.
I like the way streetlights hum. The way some of them swing on stormy evenings. The way they form a string of glowing pearls from a distance. The way they can make something ordinary or frightening look like a fairytale. Even the way they can make an empty night-time road cold and lonely like a nightmare.
Tuesday, February 23, 2016
Monday, February 22, 2016
radiantly attractive
"Every now and then you run across radiantly attractive people and you’re
delighted to find they adore you, till you realize that they adore just
about everybody - and that’s what’s made them radiantly attractive."
(Mignon McLaughlin, The Complete Neurotic’s Notebook)
(Mignon McLaughlin, The Complete Neurotic’s Notebook)
Friday, February 19, 2016
cooling techniques
I reluctantly opened my door, feverish on a winter's night.
In came steaming, spicy Chinese food, white wine and someone intense who studied my every move and teasingly touched me without permission.
When he left, my skin was cool to the touch.
In came steaming, spicy Chinese food, white wine and someone intense who studied my every move and teasingly touched me without permission.
When he left, my skin was cool to the touch.
Thursday, February 18, 2016
cup of kindness
I like my coffee in ...
* the café at the Cloister Hill open-air museum in Turku, Finland: When I was tired of the hustle and bustle of the city, the impossible demands of the university, even my life-loving friends, I cycled up the hill to the museum with its ancient cottages. The café had several small rooms with antique furniture and was always quiet in off-season. I drank my coffee out of a thin porcelain cup, ate a nice old-fashioned cinnamon bun or a pastry in an empty room and listened to the soft murmur of old ladies chatting in the next room or a clock ticking somewhere. There was a smell of coffee and ancient history. There was a deeply soothing silence, so far from the real world.
* the village pub near the Magic Valley, Ireland: On my day off I walked the forest path to the village. After a ritual consisting of breathing the soft air beneath ancient oaks along the path, saying hello to the horses in a nearby field, checking my email at the so-called IT Centre and stocking up on chocolate and yogurt in the village shop, I parked myself in the pub for the afternoon. Ordered the garlic mushrooms, with a Bailey's Coffee for dessert. Read the newspaper in detail. Idly watched whatever was on the TV in the corner - usually The Weakest Link with the matchless Anne Robinson (I had never seen such cold rudeness in my life). I loved the days when the air outside was soft and wintry and filled with the smell of turf smoke, when there was a fire roaring in the fireplace near me. I thought about the strange people I met every day, what to do about the boy I loved, the feeling of being exactly where I wanted to be in life.
* the Starbucks in an English city, inside a gigantic book store: I ordered a vanilla latte and perhaps some cake and sat there for hours. Read the Times or borrowed books, wrote my journal, studied people, talked to a friend.
Having coffee is more than just having coffee. In my current home town, there are plenty of cafés and pubs. But none that really welcomes and shelters my soul. So my coffee, be it of the strong Finnish kind, with Bailey's or with vanilla and milk, is currently homeless.
* the café at the Cloister Hill open-air museum in Turku, Finland: When I was tired of the hustle and bustle of the city, the impossible demands of the university, even my life-loving friends, I cycled up the hill to the museum with its ancient cottages. The café had several small rooms with antique furniture and was always quiet in off-season. I drank my coffee out of a thin porcelain cup, ate a nice old-fashioned cinnamon bun or a pastry in an empty room and listened to the soft murmur of old ladies chatting in the next room or a clock ticking somewhere. There was a smell of coffee and ancient history. There was a deeply soothing silence, so far from the real world.
* the village pub near the Magic Valley, Ireland: On my day off I walked the forest path to the village. After a ritual consisting of breathing the soft air beneath ancient oaks along the path, saying hello to the horses in a nearby field, checking my email at the so-called IT Centre and stocking up on chocolate and yogurt in the village shop, I parked myself in the pub for the afternoon. Ordered the garlic mushrooms, with a Bailey's Coffee for dessert. Read the newspaper in detail. Idly watched whatever was on the TV in the corner - usually The Weakest Link with the matchless Anne Robinson (I had never seen such cold rudeness in my life). I loved the days when the air outside was soft and wintry and filled with the smell of turf smoke, when there was a fire roaring in the fireplace near me. I thought about the strange people I met every day, what to do about the boy I loved, the feeling of being exactly where I wanted to be in life.
* the Starbucks in an English city, inside a gigantic book store: I ordered a vanilla latte and perhaps some cake and sat there for hours. Read the Times or borrowed books, wrote my journal, studied people, talked to a friend.
Having coffee is more than just having coffee. In my current home town, there are plenty of cafés and pubs. But none that really welcomes and shelters my soul. So my coffee, be it of the strong Finnish kind, with Bailey's or with vanilla and milk, is currently homeless.
Wednesday, February 17, 2016
drop them when they bore you
"There is only one way to read, which is to browse in libraries and
bookshops, picking up books that attract you, reading only those,
dropping them when they bore you, skipping the parts that drag — and
never, never reading anything because you feel you ought, or because it
is part of a trend or a movement. Remember that the book which bores you
when you are twenty or thirty will open doors for you when you are
forty or fifty — and vice versa. Don’t read a book out of its right time
for you."
(Doris Lessing, The Golden Notebook)
(Doris Lessing, The Golden Notebook)
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
river summer and rosebud winter
What I did in Cambridge, England:
Lounged on the lovely green banks of the river Cam with picnic food, a coffee frappuccino and occasionally a friend. Long, sunny afternoons doing nothing much except reading a book and watching people having fun in the river punts. Composed ironic poems in honour of the puntsman I had a crush on.
Worked in a fancy hotel, confused over how well it was run and how psychotic the boss was. In fairness, I had at least one psychotic episode there myself. Hotels can do that to you.
Spent a cold evening in a garden shed with half the world. All of us drunk, stoned or Australian, i.e., a typical hotel staff party.
Moved in with a complete stranger: a lawyer with an extra room and a view of an apple tree.
Took my friends to a tiny corner pub I had discovered, for a live jazz evening. Was rewarded with a kiss from a gorgeous Frenchman.
Strolled and biked along the river, through Stourbridge Common where Isaac Newton once bought books and prisms and where cows and horses now graze. Met one particularly memorable pony that took a bite out of my arm when he couldn't get a bite out of my sandwich.
Sat down to read a novel in a beautiful cemetery and was questioned on the meaning of life by a stranger.
Fell in love with the city itself. Winding streets that changed names at random and always got me lost (and I never get lost), beautiful colleges that were worlds unto themselves, wide parks with strange names (Christ's Pieces, hello?), suburbs that weren't suburbs but rather quaint villages with leafy paths and a lush, summery feeling.
Took private chess lessons from a Czech woman (gives a whole new meaning to the expression "check mate") in pubs with names like The Slug and Lettuce and Fort St. George in England.
Whiled away an autumn afternoon in the enchanting orchard of Grantchester.
Spent hours at Starbucks, in dark pubs, by the river, in the computer room of the city library.
Cycled through suburbs and greens, on dark evenings to my self-defence class and on chilly Sunday mornings to church.
Joined a real volleyball club with a real coach, and was escorted home by a liver transplant surgeon.
Frequented the police station to look for my stolen Peugeot (bicycle).
Felt lonely, pressured to breaking point at work, exhausted from years among an endless stream of strangers. Felt excited, joyful, in love with the strangeness of the world.
Was serenaded on the street by four unknown young men in formal wear, some of them on bended knee.
Did a holiday in Cornwall, a few weird weekends in weird cities, and whirlwind day trips to the marvellous city of London. (And the train back to Cambridge from King's Cross station leaves from platform 9, next to that of the Hogwarts Express. So it doesn't really matter if you get on the wrong train. I did that once but only ended up in Ely.)
Flirted underneath the fireworks on Guy Fawkes Night and was sent a dozen roses to my workplace by a guy in a mohawk.
Checked too many celebrities into the hotel and soon hated their arrogant, whingy guts.
Curled up in a corner of the dark Eagle pub with the ghosts of Watson and Crick while a rare blizzard howled outside, then danced in the snow with my Czech mate.
Experienced the birdsong-and-rosebud winter of England's sunniest corner, as well as the strangest Christmas Day ever in a completely shut-down London. Christmas dinner under the blueish strip lights of a Libanese falafel joint, squeezed in at a plastic table between a fat Russian and a chatty French family and smiling joyfully at my best friend.
Went back to Finland, via New York and a hidden Irish valley (a.k.a. the long way), after an eventful year.
Lounged on the lovely green banks of the river Cam with picnic food, a coffee frappuccino and occasionally a friend. Long, sunny afternoons doing nothing much except reading a book and watching people having fun in the river punts. Composed ironic poems in honour of the puntsman I had a crush on.
Worked in a fancy hotel, confused over how well it was run and how psychotic the boss was. In fairness, I had at least one psychotic episode there myself. Hotels can do that to you.
Spent a cold evening in a garden shed with half the world. All of us drunk, stoned or Australian, i.e., a typical hotel staff party.
Moved in with a complete stranger: a lawyer with an extra room and a view of an apple tree.
Took my friends to a tiny corner pub I had discovered, for a live jazz evening. Was rewarded with a kiss from a gorgeous Frenchman.
Strolled and biked along the river, through Stourbridge Common where Isaac Newton once bought books and prisms and where cows and horses now graze. Met one particularly memorable pony that took a bite out of my arm when he couldn't get a bite out of my sandwich.
Sat down to read a novel in a beautiful cemetery and was questioned on the meaning of life by a stranger.
Fell in love with the city itself. Winding streets that changed names at random and always got me lost (and I never get lost), beautiful colleges that were worlds unto themselves, wide parks with strange names (Christ's Pieces, hello?), suburbs that weren't suburbs but rather quaint villages with leafy paths and a lush, summery feeling.
Took private chess lessons from a Czech woman (gives a whole new meaning to the expression "check mate") in pubs with names like The Slug and Lettuce and Fort St. George in England.
Whiled away an autumn afternoon in the enchanting orchard of Grantchester.
Spent hours at Starbucks, in dark pubs, by the river, in the computer room of the city library.
Cycled through suburbs and greens, on dark evenings to my self-defence class and on chilly Sunday mornings to church.
Joined a real volleyball club with a real coach, and was escorted home by a liver transplant surgeon.
Frequented the police station to look for my stolen Peugeot (bicycle).
Felt lonely, pressured to breaking point at work, exhausted from years among an endless stream of strangers. Felt excited, joyful, in love with the strangeness of the world.
Was serenaded on the street by four unknown young men in formal wear, some of them on bended knee.
Did a holiday in Cornwall, a few weird weekends in weird cities, and whirlwind day trips to the marvellous city of London. (And the train back to Cambridge from King's Cross station leaves from platform 9, next to that of the Hogwarts Express. So it doesn't really matter if you get on the wrong train. I did that once but only ended up in Ely.)
Flirted underneath the fireworks on Guy Fawkes Night and was sent a dozen roses to my workplace by a guy in a mohawk.
Checked too many celebrities into the hotel and soon hated their arrogant, whingy guts.
Curled up in a corner of the dark Eagle pub with the ghosts of Watson and Crick while a rare blizzard howled outside, then danced in the snow with my Czech mate.
Experienced the birdsong-and-rosebud winter of England's sunniest corner, as well as the strangest Christmas Day ever in a completely shut-down London. Christmas dinner under the blueish strip lights of a Libanese falafel joint, squeezed in at a plastic table between a fat Russian and a chatty French family and smiling joyfully at my best friend.
Went back to Finland, via New York and a hidden Irish valley (a.k.a. the long way), after an eventful year.
Monday, February 15, 2016
we took the name from a Swedish king
Vaasa/Vasa, my little city. The place to come to if you want to:
* cross over by ferry to Sweden, 80 kilometers away
* specialize in energy solutions
* meet lorries transporting 50 meter long wind turbine blades
* be international
* hear Finnish and Swedish in a carefree mix (almost everyone speaks English, too)
* study for free
* enjoy the sea and the sun (in moderation; this is not the Mediterranean, after all)
* feel safe
* watch a quality game of icehockey, soccer or even American football
* get drunk
* see a UNESCO world heritage archipelago where the rocks line up in neat ridges
* experience glorious, warm summer days with pure air and water, or dark, life-threatening winter nights straight out of a Scandinavian film noir masterpiece
* meet honest and friendly people
* meet quiet and reserved people
* (if you approach from the right direction) see a city that looks like a string of jewels on a bed of velvet
* hang around students
* feel the wind
* see the mad ice-fishing gang walk on ice that is melting away beneath them
* see the mad ice-bathing gang take a dip in the sea in temperatures of minus 20 degrees Celsius
* cross over by ferry to Sweden, 80 kilometers away
* specialize in energy solutions
* meet lorries transporting 50 meter long wind turbine blades
* be international
* hear Finnish and Swedish in a carefree mix (almost everyone speaks English, too)
* study for free
* enjoy the sea and the sun (in moderation; this is not the Mediterranean, after all)
* feel safe
* watch a quality game of icehockey, soccer or even American football
* get drunk
* see a UNESCO world heritage archipelago where the rocks line up in neat ridges
* experience glorious, warm summer days with pure air and water, or dark, life-threatening winter nights straight out of a Scandinavian film noir masterpiece
* meet honest and friendly people
* meet quiet and reserved people
* (if you approach from the right direction) see a city that looks like a string of jewels on a bed of velvet
* hang around students
* feel the wind
* see the mad ice-fishing gang walk on ice that is melting away beneath them
* see the mad ice-bathing gang take a dip in the sea in temperatures of minus 20 degrees Celsius
Sunday, February 14, 2016
behind barred doors in Le Havre
I'm sure Le Havre is a very nice city.
It's by the sea in Normandy, France. It has a nice strand promenade. That's about all I saw of it. My friend and I arrived late one July evening in our rented car. Looking for a place to stay, we found a cheap hotel in a back alley. The hotel "lobby" - more like a cramped corridor with peeling wallpaper - should have scared us off but we were desperate for a place to stay the night and bravely approached the receptionist, an aging rock chick. She gave us a room but made it clear that the breakfast should be avoided at all cost.
We barred the door to our worn-down room with some spare furniture before daring to go to sleep - that was the vibe we got from our surroundings. And we were relieved to find our car not stolen or destroyed in the morning. We left Le Havre very quickly, and without breakfast.
The rest of France is very nice.
It's by the sea in Normandy, France. It has a nice strand promenade. That's about all I saw of it. My friend and I arrived late one July evening in our rented car. Looking for a place to stay, we found a cheap hotel in a back alley. The hotel "lobby" - more like a cramped corridor with peeling wallpaper - should have scared us off but we were desperate for a place to stay the night and bravely approached the receptionist, an aging rock chick. She gave us a room but made it clear that the breakfast should be avoided at all cost.
We barred the door to our worn-down room with some spare furniture before daring to go to sleep - that was the vibe we got from our surroundings. And we were relieved to find our car not stolen or destroyed in the morning. We left Le Havre very quickly, and without breakfast.
The rest of France is very nice.
Saturday, February 13, 2016
what february is
February is long, dark evenings with blankets, candles and dreams.
Fingers going numb while scraping ice off the car and moods swinging with the temperature - sullen frustration with wet slush, crystal joy with ice cold sunshine.
The silence of snow. The silence of a society between party seasons, working hard, staying indoors and trying to survive. The comfort in hearing the unmusical chirp or squawk of one single magpie or sparrow. Longing for the cold of January or the warmth of March.
Body lotion, remote controls, woollen socks, sneezing. Pale skin, vitamin D supplements, bottles of wine, heavy boots. Gym bags and irregular sleep. Dragging oneself out of bed in the morning and seeing the southern sky a little brighter than the morning before. Trying to locate lip balm or a lost glove or one's will to live or just one more piece of chocolate.
Fingers going numb while scraping ice off the car and moods swinging with the temperature - sullen frustration with wet slush, crystal joy with ice cold sunshine.
The silence of snow. The silence of a society between party seasons, working hard, staying indoors and trying to survive. The comfort in hearing the unmusical chirp or squawk of one single magpie or sparrow. Longing for the cold of January or the warmth of March.
Body lotion, remote controls, woollen socks, sneezing. Pale skin, vitamin D supplements, bottles of wine, heavy boots. Gym bags and irregular sleep. Dragging oneself out of bed in the morning and seeing the southern sky a little brighter than the morning before. Trying to locate lip balm or a lost glove or one's will to live or just one more piece of chocolate.
Monday, February 08, 2016
a Cornish holiday of missing
September, but Cornwall is hot and sunny like summer ...
I arrive shaken up by the novel I read on the long, long train ride from London.
I scratch my name absently on a pebble on the beach and wonder who will find it and ask themselves who I am.
I walk, when the tide is out, to St. Michael's Mount, which is like a smaller déjà -vu of Mont Saint-Michel in France. Wrap my head in a bright orange scarf and miss my friends.
I buy fresh seafood from a fast-food stall and watch people remove a dead seal from the beach.
I have coffee and walnut cake in one of the romantic "tea rooms" that abound in English towns and talk to my parents on the phone. Miss them.
I note that I love to wander aimlessly in foreign landscapes, for hours on end, but when the sun sets I'm struck by an anxious longing for safety and home.
I take a day trip to the amazing little town of St. Ives. Buy a flattering skirt and write my journal on a sunny rooftop terrace overlooking the bay.
I marvel at the tides, endlessly fascinating for someone who's grown up by a smaller sea unaffected by the moon.
I wander around Penzance for days and have an ongoing text conversation with a friend who, like me, is having a lonely holiday but somewhere far away. We tell each other we're strong and independent, and feel better.
I want to go into a church but don't dare. Instead end up in a club across the street, drinking wine and listening to good music. Talking to God and texting another friend who makes me laugh across a distance of two thousand miles.
I sleep in a B&B with flowery wallpaper and have breakfast made by a motherly old lady. Read a novel that makes me miss God.
I take the train home while thinking how strange it is to leave a place like Penzance and know that you will probably never see it again. Miss it already.
I arrive shaken up by the novel I read on the long, long train ride from London.
I scratch my name absently on a pebble on the beach and wonder who will find it and ask themselves who I am.
I walk, when the tide is out, to St. Michael's Mount, which is like a smaller déjà -vu of Mont Saint-Michel in France. Wrap my head in a bright orange scarf and miss my friends.
I buy fresh seafood from a fast-food stall and watch people remove a dead seal from the beach.
I have coffee and walnut cake in one of the romantic "tea rooms" that abound in English towns and talk to my parents on the phone. Miss them.
I note that I love to wander aimlessly in foreign landscapes, for hours on end, but when the sun sets I'm struck by an anxious longing for safety and home.
I take a day trip to the amazing little town of St. Ives. Buy a flattering skirt and write my journal on a sunny rooftop terrace overlooking the bay.
I marvel at the tides, endlessly fascinating for someone who's grown up by a smaller sea unaffected by the moon.
I wander around Penzance for days and have an ongoing text conversation with a friend who, like me, is having a lonely holiday but somewhere far away. We tell each other we're strong and independent, and feel better.
I want to go into a church but don't dare. Instead end up in a club across the street, drinking wine and listening to good music. Talking to God and texting another friend who makes me laugh across a distance of two thousand miles.
I sleep in a B&B with flowery wallpaper and have breakfast made by a motherly old lady. Read a novel that makes me miss God.
I take the train home while thinking how strange it is to leave a place like Penzance and know that you will probably never see it again. Miss it already.
Sunday, February 07, 2016
not the same as never leaving
"Why do you go away? So that you can come back. So that you can see the
place you came from with new eyes and extra colors. And the people there
see you differently, too. Coming back to where you started is not the
same as never leaving."
(Terry Pratchett, A Hat Full of Sky)
(Terry Pratchett, A Hat Full of Sky)
Saturday, February 06, 2016
instructions for a snowy afternoon
Walk in fresh snow and biting wind. Look for poetic windows. Call your mother while you walk, holding the phone with a thick mitten. Barely avoid getting run over by a manic snow-plough. Dream a little. Smile at dogs. Use the boot scraper when you come home.
Thursday, February 04, 2016
top 5 today
Desserts with whipped cream
Jackdaws
Courier guys when you're bored in the office
Accidental meetings with a sister
Wikipedia
Jackdaws
Courier guys when you're bored in the office
Accidental meetings with a sister
Wikipedia
Wednesday, February 03, 2016
a fairytale with coffee-flavoured cotton
"For once, this place actually looks as if we're in the clothing business," said my boss and took a picture of me surrounded by cotton cardigans with defects (one of these defects was categorised on my list as "too many fairies").
I hung a tape measure around my neck for practical reasons - tape measures always end up on the floor otherwise - and pretended I was a real seamstress, instead of just an office assistant measuring cardigans sewn in some Turkish factory.
I found tiny particles of cotton fibre swimming in my coffee cup. I drank my coffee anyway. It wasn't polyester, after all.
I hung a tape measure around my neck for practical reasons - tape measures always end up on the floor otherwise - and pretended I was a real seamstress, instead of just an office assistant measuring cardigans sewn in some Turkish factory.
I found tiny particles of cotton fibre swimming in my coffee cup. I drank my coffee anyway. It wasn't polyester, after all.
Monday, February 01, 2016
dry müsli and the order of the phoenix
During my year in England, I spent a considerable amount of time discovering Cornish castles, driving down country lanes and walking on rainy, endless beaches, mending a crushed spirit on the streets of London, and sneaking into every hidden courtyard in Cambridge. Not to mention loving life on the banks of an idyllic river on many a lazy summer afternoon.
But I particularly remember one week when I did none of these things. I spent it reading Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix in my unmade bed, in a tiny room in a sleepy suburb. Didn't go out, only occasionally and reluctantly rolled out of bed to go work an evening shift in the hotel. Didn't tidy up my room, do my laundry or even go grocery shopping - only ate dry müsli straight out of the box and, in the evenings, drank cheap white wine out of an unwashed mug.
I finally finished the book, got out of bed, cleaned up myself and my room and bought some milk to go with the müsli. Got on with my life. Looking back, however, it was a strangely poetic week.
But I particularly remember one week when I did none of these things. I spent it reading Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix in my unmade bed, in a tiny room in a sleepy suburb. Didn't go out, only occasionally and reluctantly rolled out of bed to go work an evening shift in the hotel. Didn't tidy up my room, do my laundry or even go grocery shopping - only ate dry müsli straight out of the box and, in the evenings, drank cheap white wine out of an unwashed mug.
I finally finished the book, got out of bed, cleaned up myself and my room and bought some milk to go with the müsli. Got on with my life. Looking back, however, it was a strangely poetic week.
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