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.