Wednesday, May 31, 2006

à la recherche d'un pays perdu

It is time for a journey.

One of my favourite quotes is by Marcel Proust, who once said: A true voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes. This is a motto to live by. A comfort when you walk down the dreary grey streets of the same old city again - I try to tell myself that there is always something new to discover. Sometimes it even works.

But after a while it stops working altogether and nothing breaks the monotony of your days. You find yourself stuck in the worn-down grooves of your mind. You are unable to see things from the other perspective. You live on long-gone discoveries and suddenly realise you haven't had an original thought in months. Then it is time to seek out those new landscapes. Do something you've never done before. Learn a new skill. Adopt a puppy. Make a new friend. Travel.

I have decided it is time for a journey. If I'm really lucky, it might be a week in France this summer. The mere thought of it makes me delirious. Sweeping hills, baguettes and brie cheese, medieval castles, chilled white wine under the sun, cranky old Frenchmen, le joie de vivre...

La France, si douce. Monsieur Proust, j'arrive tout suite.

Monday, May 29, 2006

thoughts on a soft day

I wrap up in an old shawl, make myself a huge cup of coffee and stare through the window at the rain softening the seascape. Walking to the convenience store on the corner, I cover up in a large coat and enjoy the peace of the empty streets. I stop to talk to a friendly golden retriever outside the store and afterwards my hands bear the familiar smell of wet dog.

Most people here hate rain. Rain makes the winter less of a winter and the summer miserable. But to me, rain on a summer's day is gentle, rain whispers to me of the soft days in Ireland. The days when I would curl up in front of the roaring fire in an old country pub and chat to the locals who walked in with mud-covered wellies and accompanied by smelly, wet dogs. My throat would burn with the taste of a hot whiskey and I would be teased about my habit of reading old copies of the Times.

In the store, I buy honey to cure my cold, and loads of citrus fruit. Today is one of my unemployed days, but I don't mind. I have books to read, books to write, things to learn, people to remember, journeys to dream of. Today, I will not worry. Today, I will only live. I will not forget the music.

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

after your third place, go back to the first

I have finished my latest work assignment and there is no new one in sight. I have had a glass of wine. I have browsed some interesting blogs. I have contemplated the beauty of the sea from the window. Music is booming in my ears.

Forget my ramblings about the Island, at least forget them temporarily because the Island will never let go of me. But I am leaving town, I am going to Paradise On Earth, a tiny cottage between the sea and the forest, the family's hideaway where memories of all my summers on earth come back to me in sweet-breeze-whispers. I am going to be sunkissed by day and spend the white Nordic nights writing in front of the fire and reaching overwhelming conclusions about Life, Universe and Everything. I am going to read all those books I never read and I am going to be me, be gorgeous and smart and with the charm of an angel and still be completely, thoroughly me.

Last night I had a dream that I was seeing a shrink. No doubt I need it. But if I can see her in my dreams I can save some money at the same time.

Monday, May 22, 2006

Finland rebooted

Shock and euphoria in Finland after the Eurovision Song Contest. All you Europeans out there must know what I'm talking about, and the rest of you don't care... But the entire world view of the average Finn has been turned upside down. We don't know quite what to do with ourselves today. Winning the Eurovision has always been the measure for the ultimately impossible. So what do you do when the impossible happens? Should you make good on the promises you made all those times you said with a sneer: "When Finland wins the Eurovision I'll shave my head/ get a job in the Antarctic/ marry you."

Go the latex monsters! The next few weeks should be very interesting. The natural order of things has been reset to zero.

Hell is now officially frozen over.

Friday, May 19, 2006

visit your third place

Drove across the big bridge into the fairytale world of the Island and left the city behind me in another universe. Here, on the other side of the bridge, are the salty winds of the sea and quirky villagers who live in their hundred-year old cottages with broadband connections. They are sea-faring folk with an uncanny way of looking at me which makes me feel like my cityness is something to be pitied and that I am a lost soul if I can't tell the difference between a catamaran and a catboat. I feel a desperate need to be accepted, to be one of them, although I know it's impossible. I know my hippie ear-rings, my city accent and my uncertain smile stick out a mile.

I am lucky to have friends here though. I sit at an ancient plank table in one of these old cottages with the musty, vague smell of old wood and fish nets around me. There are flowers on the window sill and a white cat carefully inspects my laptop before I’m allowed to turn it on. I get to hear the latest gossip about the villagers and I listen eagerly, as if it’s important that I learn everything about the people in this little community. This time of the year, it’s all about setting the boats out to sea as the ice is finally gone.

This is the Islander: tall and proud, standing straight even when the storm sweeps in from the sea, smelling of salt, with bright eyes that see all the way to the horizon, knows that everything he can see is his. Not afraid of the deep of the sea, knows how to fix the engine and gut a fish, looks after his neighbour, talks without hesitation of his roots stretching back generations in this same place. It is the Islander or the Island I fell in love with. Not sure which one.

In comparison I have no roots, I just drift on the surface, envious. If I could choose a home, this would be it. But you can't choose. The Island chooses you.

i.am.on.line

There are no words to describe the feeling of waking up and seeing the little light on my modem shine like a trusted friend just back from a long journey.

My internet connection is working again after two horrible weeks. Got online straight out of my bed, with my hair standing on end, my stomach growling from hunger, my eyes barely managing to stay open and my fingers with blue nail polish eagerly tapping on the computer keyboard. Hello world, hello friends and foes, hello seagulls, I love you all today.

Thursday, May 04, 2006

between a rock and a hard place

My new neighbourhood is a special place. My house is a quite ordinary apartment building but next to it sits the private villa of the Pizza King. The PK is an enterprising man. Not only did he introduce the pizza to us suspicious Finns decades ago and convinced us to love it, but he also came up with the idea of unstaffed hotels (ideal for us Finns who hate having to talk to anybody in person if we can manage just as well by flashing a credit card), named the ferry line to Sweden after himself and has a hand in most things that happen in this city.

My neighbour on the other side is the prison, more commonly known as the Strand Hotel. It is a beautiful old red brick building that overlooks the bay. From my fourth floor flat I can conveniently look over its walls, and I wonder if it is not some kind of breach of the prisoners' privacy to have people in the surrounding buildings looking in on them like this. Except for us neigbours, not many people have ever had the chance to peek into the prison and I wonder if I could not make money on this by setting up business as a prison correspondent. Or smuggler - I bet I could throw stuff over the walls. Or spy - take pictures and sell them to the Americans.

On the other hand, nothing really ever happens behind those walls. No riots, no murders, no drug deals. Occasionally I see the prisoners walking around the courtyard. That's about it.

I never see the Pizza King either. Rich and famous as he is, he hides behind walls too.

Strange place, this. I mean, all of this.

not all of this is a dream

I must be dreaming. Must. There is no other explanation. I have moved into another flat, a tiny one where not even half of my book collection can fit in, but behind the large windows is the Sea. I step out onto the balcony and am met by the sun, the salty winds and Jack Bauer with a bottle of champagne. The view is magnificent, even when I tear my stare away from Jack. I sip the bubbly and wait for myself to wake up.

The alarm goes off.

Jack Bauer is gone. Damn. But the sea is still there, the sun, the balcony, even the bottle of champagne. I have a new home. By the seafront. It's not a dream.