Sunday, March 30, 2014

no time, no plan

An email invited me to travel to Helsinki, to learn a computer program I need for my part-time job.

I should leave tomorrow. Not much time to plan the trip and it needs planning because hello, I haven't been to the nation's capital for 8 years and probably won't be able to afford another trip for the next 8 years ( train ticket 130 euro return ) so I need to make the most of it.

This coincides with debilitating stomach pain, plus a burning desire to write fiction. So I'll probably be up all night.

Friday, March 28, 2014

one of Paulo's best

Veronika Decides to Die. A great title for a remarkable book, and I was pleased to find that it is not bad as a film, either.
I rarely watch films these days, for some reason. I blame our information-overload society, which has made me as scatter-brained as everyone else. Films seem just... too long.

But I sat through this one when it was on television the other day. Spellbound.

And for some other strange reason, I always read Coelho's books with some reluctance. Usually as a result of some friend pushing one at me. I wouldn't pick them out of the library shelf for myself.

But I have never read a bad or uninteresting novel by Paulo Coelho. The one about Veronika is probably my favourite.

The day after watching the film, I didn't turn my computer on for most of the day. Instead, I went out, had a great lunch, felt the sun on my face, read a book. Enjoyed life.

(Picture from Wikipedia)

mirrors, zombies and Elvis

I never really fit in at fitness clubs.

Three months ago, I bought a temporary, discounted membership to one. I threw myself into their zumba classes but it took me a month to actually try out any of the scary exercise equipment.
I don't seem to know anyone at the club, which is a feat in itself in this tiny city. People don't make eye contact. They come in, plug in their headphones and do their training without interacting with anyone.

I'm an introvert myself and not much for making sparkling conversation when I fall into an exhausted puddle after the abs machine. But this atmosphere of muscle-obsessed zombies staring at the wall seems slightly creepy. Then I can better understand the joggers out on the beach walk.  As soon as the worst of the winter cold and ice are gone, I'm heading out there myself.

The zumba classes are better - at least you get a smiling instructor shouting cheerful encouragement at you. Our main zumba instructor starts out with the latin music but then throws in a lot of hiphop and reggaeton, even classic rock. She has lavender-coloured hair and sometimes forgets that not all of us are professional dancers like herself, but I dig her music. Yesterday we had a substitute who obviously liked the more danceable side of country & western. She was also heavily pregnant. I'm surprised to report that I had fun.

The best part of this fitness club is in fact the dance room. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors on two walls ( I avoid looking in that direction, there are always some wildly swinging limbs and uncoordinated movements that seem to be mine ) and large windows overlooking a busy city street.
I can pretend I'm in a  professional dance studio in Brooklyn, N.Y.  Gives me a much-needed boost of motivation when I'm wheezing after those crazy jumps to Elvis's "Hound Dog".

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

lost

Gathered some nachos, chocolate and wine to me and settled down for a much-needed home-alone evening.

One should be careful about doing such a thing. Because when the wine is taking effect and one tires of aimless FaceBook / Pinterest surfing, thoughts that only exist in solitude may come for a visit.

So when darkness finally falls over the bay after a glorious spring sunset, I light a candle and worry about being lost and not good enough.


Stand at the crossroads and look;
    ask for the ancient paths,
ask where the good way is, and walk in it,
    and you will find rest for your souls.

( The Bible: Jeremiah 6:16 )

Sunday, March 23, 2014

is it right to call them players?

The male version of the  volleyball tournament  was indeed a more genial affair than its female counterpart.

Much less shrieking and shouting, at least. Perhaps less emotion. Or the emotion might have been of a purer sort of joy or frustration, which is vented in one single burst and then forgotten. There was plenty of joking both within and between teams.

When the women were playing, yesterday, there were sour comments whispered about that team nobody liked. There were a few arguments with the referee, some vicious glaring and a number of arrogant attitudes being thrown around.

Or maybe that was all in my imagination. Perhaps I saw arrogance where there were only strong wills and a healthy fighting spirit. My own bad attitude ( hopefully well hidden ) might have influenced my perception of things.

All I know is that I was in a great mood when I arrived at the ladies' volleyball tournament to play with my team. Within two minutes of arriving, somebody looked at me the wrong way and I suddenly hated everything. Our team finished second, after the team I hated most of all, and I went home and cried.

In the men's tournament today I was helping my friends in the men's team that never has quite enough men. A great day, lots of laughter. Winning seemed only natural. And it was.

a spike of emotion

Second day of volleyball tournament. This time for the men, yesterday was for the ladies.

Sure hope the atmosphere yours truly will be less bitchy today.

Thursday, March 20, 2014

career decision

I would like to sit by a fire right now, earning money as a Collector of Odd Statements.

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

return of the confused bookseller

A twist in my fate.

Today I was selling angels, wrapping presents and answering questions about books I don't know. In short, I was back in the Little Shop of Harmony, the little book/ gift shop I left exactly a year ago.

Most of the customers were familiar. A few asked me if I was back for good, others just looked slightly bemused to see me. The cashier system was the new, complicated one that was installed shortly before I left. I couldn't remember a thing about it and had to start by reading the manual I had written for my coworkers before I took off for greener pastures.

The only real change was that the charity shop in the basement was gone. The Aladdin's Cave filled to bursting with second-hand treasures of every kind, the meeting place of humanity, from women in hijabs to goth teenagers. All gone. It feels like the soul of the place is missing.

I'm not back for good, just helping out every now and then. That is fine with me. Going back to something I left behind me once feels wrong. I'm like a shark - I have to keep moving to stay alive.

But I still like the people here. I sold some books and some angels, wrestled them through the cashier system and was comforted by the fact that the coffee in this workplace is MUCH better than in my previous one.

the universe is random so I can be too

Things I have said or written at some point - posted here because I can:

"A bath tub, a dog, a booked trip and more money - that's all I ask."
"The worst things in life: stomach bugs, blind dates, job interviews."
"God didn't sacrifice Gabriel."
"My car is like a cancer patient."
"I just drew a skull and crossbones on my cough medicine bottle."

Tuesday, March 18, 2014

a kick-ass lesson

The evening class at the community college was called Self-Defence for Women.

The teacher was a female expert on martial arts, a tough chick with a lovely manner. We were a group of regular women gathering in a run-down school gym once a week. She taught us practical techniques for getting out of almost every kind of violent or threatening situation but also often gathered us around her for discussions on how to avoid these situations in the first place.

We had a lot of laughs - it happens when you try to strangle each other, break kneecaps, crush windpipes and find painful pressure points. It turns out trying to kick a potential rapist's groin is not always the most effective defence.

These were dark winter evenings in Cambridge, England. I had to cycle home along the rather dangerous streets of the poorer neighbourhoods and the deserted fields of Coldham's Common. Before, like many women and for good reason, I was scared of the dark and felt weak and useless. After, I was confident. I knew that I still wasn't a martial arts expert who could tear the innards out of a potential aggressor, but I knew I was able to spot dangerous situations, avoid them and if necessary fight enough to escape them. Strong, no longer useless in a crisis.

And it's strange, the way that confidence from a few simple practical classes in that dark gym has followed me since - no longer scared of the dark, but also stronger in mind and spirit.

Monday, March 17, 2014

where do the Irish go in the winter?

Ireland, a while ago:

"Use your backhand!" Finian admonishes me kindly. He lets me play double with him in badminton and he is so good at it that he makes me feel good too. Kit shows me how to hold the racket more efficiently. Noel teases me for my killer attitude in the game and Philip makes me laugh.

The community centre in a remote Irish village has started up  badminton evenings  twice a week - early hours for children, later for the adults. Considering that the only other sports alternative around here is football, it's not surprising that so many show up. The gym hall has squeezed in four courts where doubles are being played simultaneously, and people are queueing in an orderly manner for their turn. You get paired up with whoever is behind you in the queue. Elderly men and teenage girls and everyone in between is there. Sometimes the wait is long but you can always pass the time getting updated on the village gossip.

I haven't played badminton since I was a child and secretly wish we could do volleyball instead. But before long, I love the game.

The hotel down the road where I, the foreigner, work and live has mostly foreign staff. Since I spend so much time around them, it's not easy getting to know the locals. During the busy tourist season there is no time for that anyway, and the villagers tend to avoid the hotel. Sometimes I wonder if they don't really like foreigners at all.

But now it's October, turning into November. Tourists are scarce and most of the foreign hotel staff have returned to sunny Spain or rainy Romania. When the hotel is getting quiet, all of a sudden the locals bring their kids and aunties and wet dogs and pour into the hotel bar. They come for Sunday lunch or a quiet weekday evening pint, to watch a rugby game or horse races on the TV screen, to play a game of darts near the roaring fire or enter in the annual pool competition (first prize: a turkey). They rent a meeting room in the hotel for their gun club or deer society (which I suspect is the same thing, a gang of hunters) or the district development association. They throw enormous, boisterous 21st birthday parties.

And I, one of the few foreigners left, slowly get to know them. I thought the Irish always kept a wary distance underneath their easy chatter. Now I realise they are fun. And I go to the badminton evenings and find out they are warm-hearted and caring, once you get past that first superficial banter.

To get to the community centre, I have to cycle the two miles to the village. I have no light and the road is pitch dark. I meander along the middle of the road, where I can vaguely see the painted middle line, to avoid crashing into any trees. If I hear a car coming, I get off the bike and press myself into the foliage at the side of the road (Ireland doesn't have ditches) because people drive like there is no tomorrow. Sometimes, there are really weird noises in the darkness around me. And I have to pass the place where they used to hang people a long time ago. A great deal of courage is required to get to this badminton game.

But I go, time and again. I feel as if I'm finally part of Ireland.

Lá Fhéile Pádraig Shona duit go léir, taitneamh a bhaint as an seisiún!

Saturday, March 15, 2014

objections and orange coconut

I was very, very fortunate to be offered some work only days after losing my job, I know.

I still whine, of course. The boredom of it. The impossibility for a woman of poor self-discipline to work from home, resulting in constant mental pressure. And the personal objections I harbour towards the texts I'm translating.

I comfort myself with the thought that I can decide freely when I want to take a day off. Or why not a week off.
Working at my kitchen table doesn't seem so bad when there is a sunset to look at and a mug of steaming orange coconut tea nearby.

Thursday, March 13, 2014

my life doesn't quite translate

This job is so 2006. If I remember correctly, that was the year I spent at my kitchen table, restless and bored, translating Finnish texts. And now I'm back, much against my will.

Amazing, how quickly and almost completely life changes with a job. I'm not the kind of person whose existence revolves around her job. And yet, I feel like a completely different person today than I was just a week ago. Just because I don't go to the office to gently argue with Chinese suppliers by email anymore.

With a new job, so much is suddenly different. Not just the tasks. A part of your identity, and the way you feel when you tell people where you work. The people you spend 8 hours a day with. Your spending habits. Other habits that change just because you take a different way to work, at a different hour.

My working life has been volatile, and I'm baffled by people who spend decades at the same workplace. I see the allure in it. I also see the horror in it.

Wednesday, March 12, 2014

ice art

The magical spring light, the beauty of melting ice ... This is from my favourite corner of the Baltic Sea.
Ice sculpture au naturel:
Some filigree work:
There are hundreds of newly returned seagulls wheeling around in the sky, singing their eternal seagull song. But we are far from the city and it is still quiet enough that you can hear that particular, eerie sound of melting ice - a quiet murmur, an occasional little crack, a stifled groan.

Whispered promises of a wonderful summer ahead.

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

it's a class thing

I like  evening classes,  the kind you take at adult education centres or community colleges.

Every now and then I join one. I'm doing one right now. I gravitate towards computer classes since they are so useful and so quickly forgotten. ( I have taken a beginner's course in Microsoft Excel about three times. I still don't know how to use it. )
 
The teacher is invariably some middle-aged or elderly man who is used to teaching computer skills to middle-aged and elderly women. He takes us through things slowly, carefully answers also rather irrelevant questions by the more talkative students, while I drum my fingers against the keyboard impatiently. Usually the course content is spread out over maybe five lessons when it could be easily condensed into two.

But the atmosphere is always so gentle and warm. There is no pressure to actually learn anything unless you want to, since there is never an exam. The students are mature, uncompetitive and friendly - attending out of a genuine interest towards the subject.

And the best part, there is usually a coffee break. Even an introvert like myself finds it strangely enjoyable to sip bad coffee ( when you know you shouldn't, because it's evening ) and chat with complete strangers. Because the evening class type of stranger is always so nice.

I also do language courses sometimes, French or Finnish ( my mother tongue is Swedish ). Although this kind of course requires you to actually study between lessons. They are also more unpleasant since you are often asked to make conversation in the foreign language. I employ my usual tactics for these situations, attack is the best form of defence, and take the lead so I can monopolise the easiest phrases.

Then there are sports classes of course. I took one in zumba because I had no idea what it was and was scared to try it at a regular fitness club - it was less frightening to try it out in the company of grannies. A badminton class became my salvation one winter in a very remote village when I suffered from cabin fever - it would never have occurred to me to take up that particular sport, but the only alternative was soccer so it was a question of the lesser of two evils. Turned out badminton is a lot of fun.

Once I also tried wirework, where my proudest achievement was a rather horrible basket that I lugged unfinished through city streets one late night after the last class. ( Too embarrassed to take it on the bus so had to call my dad to come and pick me up. )
My most memorable evening class was in self-defence, taught by a female expert on martial arts. It was awesome. We got to sit on each other and try to gouge each other's eyes out.

Mostly I like my evening classes because of the feeling I get on dark winter evenings when I make my way through cold streets to get there and spread out my notebooks on the desk. It's a very rare feeling of community. Of belonging.


( If you are still not convinced to try this feeling of community, read Maeve Binchy's Evening Class. )

Monday, March 10, 2014

the anti-depressant was shining today

One day you walk through a pretty forest and feel depressed because there has been  no sun for a month.  It's like living underneath a wet grey wool blanket.
A few days later, you trudge down a dusty city street. Joyfully, because the sun is shining again.

time to turn at Beauty's glance

Monday morning and I try to work out what to do with my day now that there's no job to go to.

The plan for today includes picking up a parcel containing my new boots, eagerly anticipated. Have coffee with my mother and sister. Stop by the unemployment office to get some more forms to fill out ( necessary evil ). Maybe indulge my guilty pleasure and do another round hunting for treasures at the flea market. Be out on the town and do some people-watching. All these things I never seemed to have energy for when working full-time.

Before that, I will stay on my sofa for a few minutes more, finishing my mug of coffee and watching the first migrating birds returning to the bay.

One part of me, usually cowering behind the anxiety, is happy to finally have time to watch the birds and the bay.


( Title from W.H.Davies' poem "Leisure" )

Wednesday, March 05, 2014

pop some tags

When you are down on your luck, you should get yourself a faux shearling coat from that thrift shop down the road. Only got twenty euro in my pocket but it was enough.

Tuesday, March 04, 2014

first day on the dole

The worst happened ( employment-wise ) and I was told yesterday that it was my last day at work. And I had just begun to feel fairly confident that my job was safe after all.

My plans for  dealing with a crisis  like this usually involves getting ( moderately ) drunk the first evening. Instead, I went to a computer course I had signed up for earlier and sat there trying to concentrate on rectangle frame tools and on being sociable with my coursemates during the coffee break. Coming home, I was too exhausted to even contemplate alcohol.

My plans for the following days looked like this: get up early, get showered and dressed and breakfasted, make sure the house is tidy - in short, make sure all circumstances are optimal when I then sit down at the computer to start the whole business of job searching, CV writing and unemployment benefit application.

I should know by now that I never do that. I got up this morning and despair drove me straight to the computer. By noon I was still in my PJs, hair looking like a rain forest, stomach growling for breakfast. But most of the bureaucracy was done and despair had settled into something almost resembling optimism.

Or at least I was chasing the dog around the house, singing "Have You Ever Really Loved A Woman". That must be the same thing.

Saturday, March 01, 2014

ponies and Proust

* Reading Donald Duck comics or pony stories at my parents' kitchen table as a child - forgetting to eat and making my meal last for hours, until my mother had to outlaw reading at mealtimes.
* During university days, sneaking away from studies and lectures in order to escape reality in a café with a magazine or a cheap thriller.
* As an overworked receptionist, hunching over a Proust or Rushdie novel during short lunch breaks in the hotel kitchen ( attracting ridicule from coworkers ).
* Browsing fanfiction on the internet while enjoying a drawn-out weekend brunch at home.

My history of combining food with literature is long and pleasant. They say it's not good for your food experience. But it sure is good for my literature experience.