homesick in Helsinki

Helsinki, a Sunday afternoon. Exhausted after days of sightseeing, shopping, museums and city life in general. 

I dose in chilly sunlight on the back porch of my hotel, waiting out the last half hour before I catch the train. I wish I was already on it. I wish I was already home. Staring at a greyish lawn, I'm comforted by the sight of the first spring flowers poking through old grass.

I used to visit my sister in the big city over a weekend. Sunday afternoons were quiet in Helsinki back then. They still are, at least in this residential area far from the bustling city centre. Sunlight over dusty streets, dog walkers, children laughing in the park, the occasional tram rattling past. 

I feel the same weariness as back then, when we made our way to the train station where my sister would wave me off. Sundays in Helsinki have always been like this.

Weariness always make me feel lost. As if I don't know my way home. I try to hold on to everything that feels comforting. The thought of those weekends long ago, of my hotel bed last night, of my sister's face, of spring flowers in my mother's garden. 

I envy the people walking by, people with dogs and children and homes nearby. I envy myself in the past.