in-love-fallings, part one

When I first fell in love with ...
 
* clothes: When I was in my early twenties - for some reason didn't really care much before then - and found a catalogue with the romantic autumn collection of a certain Danish clothes brand. I had just returned from a summer of adventure in a foreign country and a brown-eyed boy who looked at me as if I was beautiful - and then broke my heart. I sat in a student apartment with my friends, leafed through the catalogue, felt excited about another year at university and more adventures, felt a delicious chill in the air and envisioned a whole new identity for me in those beautiful clothes.

* coffee: That teenage summer when I had my first real summer job, cutting grass in the cemetery. The permanent staff, two middle-aged ladies, asked me the first day if I drink coffee and I didn't dare to say no. So every day for a month, on our twice-daily coffee breaks, I choked down a cup. Strong, black, unsweetened. It almost put hair on my chest and certainly was a very Finnish thing to do. Only later I learned that most people start with lots of milk or cream and sugar in it. If they start at all. But my coffee-loving family seemed so proud of me that I never looked back.

* writing: When I was 11 years old and had two great friends, a new bike, pretend dogs, a real dog and felt as if I owned the world (or at least the neighbourhood). My friends and I decided to write a story. It was a fictional account of three girls with cool bikes and dogs and a neighbourhood just like ours. Names were changed to protect anonymity (mine became Pam, which I felt was the coolest name ever invented). After less than one page, the story was abandoned - by everyone except me, who went home to write a sequel. And another one. And another one.

* TV: Watching Lassie at a tender age, understanding nothing.

the art of rain dressing

I may lament the fact that the  whirlwind bliss  that is the Nordic summer is over already, but I also delight in digging out glitzy leggings, wonderfully soft, long-sleeved henleys and bohemian legwarmers.

Today the rain was lashing down, which is quite rare in these parts. I went to have lunch with friends at a place where all the business people go ( why I and my friends go there is unclear ) and enjoyed the challenge of dressing in a crisp business skirt, grunge-style boots and a rain coat with the National Geographic logo. The overall effect was confusing and wonderful.

The umbrella ( a charity shop find ) withstood the test of the rain and the strong wind but I was soaked from the thighs down. Somewhere along the five-minute walk to the restaurant I managed to step ankle-deep into a puddle. The golden boots did NOT withstand the test.

But the water was not cold. Over lunch, I ogled the handsome business men, laughed with my friends, had a tasty fish fillet with salad, and did not mind in the least that my left foot was soaking wet. Maybe summer is not quite over.

strong true manifesto

What is this nonsense?

I will no longer be sucked down in the bog of my own self-accusations.

I will thank God for the miracle of every new day that I get to see. I will shine because I can. I will lower my voice, be at peace and remember, "wherever you are, be all there". I will plan my days, work on my language skills and my physical strength. I will divulge my dark secrets to my closest friends.

And God is somewhere out there, waiting. How close do I dare to go?

sentenced

I didn't actually buy a rose yesterday. I was going to, but the weight of people's gaze on me as I walked alone down the street made my knees buckle and I went home instead.

It may not have been the people's fault. It may have been the weight of my own unmerciful thoughts.

Why is self-judgment so relentless? Found guilty, lifetime imprisonment, throw away the key?

today's secret ingredient: garlic

* Watched a triathlon
* Got depressed by a long walk
* Was cheered up by a garlic pizza
* Bought a rose

when I was a kama'aina - a child of the land

I'm hitch-hiking with a couple of friends. Nothing to it. People always stop, and usually they have a pickup truck and you get to ride in the back, wind in your hair, beautiful views over lava fields and sea, and a feeling of complete freedom.

Hawaii, I'm 23 and impossibly lucky.  I travel around most of the Big Island. Black lava fields and white beaches, green beaches, black beaches and normal sandy-coloured beaches. The fragrance of the lovely plumeria flower everywhere.

Also some lusher landscapes. The fairytale Waipio valley, with black sand and pretty waterfall, which you can only reach if you have a 4-wheel drive (we don't but hitch-hiking works here too). Sleeping under the stars on an active volcano - half the night it rains and I'm colder than I ever thought possible on a tropical island, but then the stars come out and it's all worth it. Seeing rainforests as well as eerie landscapes of lava-burned forests, lava tunnels, black lava deserts where rotten-smelling sulfur is hissing out of vents in the ground. Visiting a Hilton luxury resort just to pretend we're millionaires and marvel at its own little world with marble halls, dolphin pools and channel boats taking you wherever you want to go.

Spending a quiet weekend at somebody's house in the inland hills, where the nights are cool. It's a welcome respite from the constant summer heat by the coast. We cosy up indoors to watch movies and rest, and I get to ride a very old and charming Arabian thoroughbred horse.

So many new, American things. Breakfast on pancakes with maple syrup. Walking the air-conditioned aisles of Walmart and Costco - as a small-town European girl who has never seen supermarkets the size of cathedrals before. Tacos, and that shop that gives you a free seashell necklace just for walking through their front door. A local rodeo with real cowgirls. Coca-Cola of a dozen different flavours. McDonald's breakfast menu. Voicemail. Tipping, and that weird tax they add to everything. Drive-thrus. Late-night shopping. Frappés and frozen yogurt. The Americans - so sociable, so friendly.

So many Hawaiian things, too. The feeling of being on a tiny island in the vast Pacific. A mongoose crossing the road, a school of manta rays coming up to the surface by the pier. Giant turtles on the beach. A local family coming back from a spear-fishing trip and hauling a big, dead squid up on the beach - they let us have a look and we see it bleeding ink. The Kona Nightingales (a gang of wild donkeys). The sun in zenith. The warning signs for falling coconuts and deadly man-of-war jellyfish. Little girls doing the hula. Red-hot lava flowing into the sea under a full moon. Termites and the fumigation of buildings. Trying boogie-board surfing. The sound of tsunami sirens being tested. Guava nectar and shaved ice. Glorious and incredibly speedy, blink-and-you-miss-it sunsets. The awe-inspiring crater of Kilauea Caldera and the exhilaration of standing on the summit of an active volcano.

And my job in the Financial Services office where I get to introduce myself proudly as "Purchaser at the University of the Nations". I have no head for numbers and am mostly relegated to routine paperwork but I get to know people all over campus. My proudest moment is figuring out that the University had paid twice for the flag of Taiwan.

My hitch-hiking advances to motorcycles and even once a taxi (without paying). There is only one weird moment when a gentleman offers me 40 bucks if he can kiss my feet. I politely decline and get out of the car very fast.



(Pictures: gladtravel.com, aloha-hawaii.com)

stirring the air

I have  not been cold  in five weeks.

That must be some kind of record on this west coast of the North. Where even in the heat of high summer there is usually the occasional chilly evening that makes you sweep wool around your shoulder after an evening swim, or a surprisingly cool breeze from open sea.

But I, the queen of shivering, walk around in eternally bare feet. I cannot remember what wool feels like next to the skin. I sit in the shade, wear as little as possible and take cold showers when I'm too far away from a beach. I gasp for air or bask in the summer heat. I look up recipes for ice tea when a hot cuppa is unbearable.

I discard the duvet and throw the door wide open to the night air. I turn the air conditioning to full blast in the car, while the tiny fan in my flat is of no use at all. I pin the letter slot in my front door open in a desperate attempt to create a cool draft. I drink gallons of water even when it tastes funny. I sit outside for hours in the white nights of the North.

I am tanned, wild-haired, sweating rivers and - weirdly enough - feeling sexy.

Finland and the Finns are throwing off their coldness and just loving life for a while.

music played out of doors

Some kind of punk rock music is reaching my ears, through my open window, from an outdoor stage not far away. Heavy metal is supposed to follow soon.

I think I'm the only Finn not fond of heavy metal.

Sometimes, when there's not a rock festival in progress, gentler music may reach my ears from some minstrel playing at the seaside café.

Until such a time, I'll take the punk rock. Soon enough, the deep silence of winter will be here. As John Keats said,

“Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.”

storm day

Sometimes you end up holding the baby while his mother goes out to find a chainsaw.

It was in the middle of the most vicious  thunderstorm  I ever saw and a fallen tree was blocking traffic outside. I was wearing a skirt with pictures of fish skeletons and felt vaguely surreal. The heat was like a heavy blanket, making it hard to breathe. Three older kids were asking anxious questions and a little dog was barking excitedly. I fed the baby his bottle. He just looked at me with blue eyes.

from salty sea to city pee

Took a month off in paradise.

Paradise, somewhere on the Baltic Sea, is off the grid. No electricity, no running water. The Internet connection is so slow on my tiny smartphone screen that I avoid it at all costs.

BUT a private beach on a quiet bay, birdsong, a hot sun and cool waters.

So I spent the month wild-haired, tanned and barefoot. Swimming in impossibly clear water, reading thrillers in the shade, going to the local grocery shop to ask nicely if I could refill water canisters. I was slowly weaned off my addiction to social media, hot showers, city streets and any entertainment that wasn't locally sourced (such as squirrel babies and dramatic volleyball with nephews).

The days stretched out into infinity. I lived on sun and beauty.

Yesterday, it was time to return to the city. Time to air out the flat, gasp in horror when I looked in a mirror for the first time in weeks (tan looked nice but WHAT WAS I WEARING and was it time to get reacquainted with mascara perhaps?) and eat some real, processed food instead of pure potatoes and grilled meat.

The first sight that greeted me when I looked out the window was the epitome of Saturday night in the city: a bunch of wasted guys spilling out of a car with beer cans in every hand, staggering around to find a piece of wall to pee against, accompanied by rock music from the car speakers.

Home, sweet city home.