a companion through the ages

My friend and I sat in a fast food joint in a bland, suburbian mall, discussing physical therapy and inheritance tax with the dissonance of muzak and screaming kids around us.

In our youth, she and I used to sit in medieval cafés in inspiring university towns, discussing dreams and the world as candles flickered quietly under ancient vaults.

But our friendship ripens and sweetens deliciously as time goes by.

while waiting for the first snow

I watched the lovely, quietly heart-wrenching film Ensilumi (Any Day Now) and I felt the pain, behind dark eyes, of waching destiny come for you. While the world is being beautiful around you.

We were alone in the cinema and I wrapped my scarf around me for comfort, and afterwards we went for cappuccino and silly jokes about engineers and Parisians, and my heart had been wrenched but it was all for good.

aimlessness with coffee

Green smoothies next to a book. A tuna salad underneath an exotic wallpaper with jungle flowers and pigs.  A laptop in a library, surrounded by whispering students. Buckets of black coffee with melancholia and a will to live.

Streets in a grey mist that reaches from here to February. Long sleeves over hands with silver nailpolish. A whole day of aimlessly roaming the city. Weariness with excitement, boots and woollen scarves.

when dealing with betrayal and geese, wear Armani

Today was the kind of day when I ...

... sat in the corner of a restaurant and said to a friend, "Do you understand that what you did was a betrayal and completely unacceptable? That you stabbed your friend in the back?"

... went to collect firewood from a shed at the edge of the forest, dressed in Armani

... ran across a lawn, laughing like a madwoman, with six wild geese trotting lazily in front of me


(Note: My one and only piece of Armani clothing was bought for six euros at a flea market. I'm an anti-consumerist.)

that dark roast feeling

Sometimes I like to sit with my laptop in a coffee house that has an international, trendy look to it. With hipsters, teenagers, young professionals that mutter into smartphones. Ambient house music from the loudspeakers, heavy but soft and seeping into my soul. Coppery yellow lighting. The smell of sugar and dark roast coffee and the feeling that I could be anywhere.

That coffee house has finally arrived in town.

new worlds in the oldest city

I go to Finland's oldest city and sleep in a monastery.

I wander slowly through the cathedral that ranks among my favourite buildings in all the world, savour the silence beneath its lofty vaults, light a candle, study the ancient tombs for the hundredth time and never want to leave.

I seek shelter from a snowfall and huddle over coffee in a hot and crowded café on the university campus - a comforting place where I used to hide from the challenges of English linguistics and French literature.

I abandon outdoor exploring when the snowfall turns into freezing rain and instead study 700 year old ruins in detail at the archaeological museum and write over a glass of wine in the museum café.

I stroll along the river in cold morning light and get soaked because I cannot get enough of its beauty. I dry out over a pot of coffee and reindeer pie in a hidden pearl of a café.

I deal with the business part of my trip by getting together with other freelancing translators, laugh with strangers over mulled wine and discover yet another strange new world.

I take the train home, as I did a thousand times before.

mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam

I dreamed of this back then, when I roamed the world and was feeling weary and homesick:

After a successful day at the office, taking an interesting evening class in the community centre in my hometown, the bright and airy building with the wonderful library and the cosy café in it. Being surrounded by people who speak my language, running into people I haven't seen for decades. Having coffee with a friend I've known forever, in that cosy café. Strolling around the library that was my second home as a kid.

Then going to visit my mother who welcomes me with more coffee and sandwiches, which we share with another random visitor, my nephew. Discussing everyday things (unpaid bills) with my mother and lofty things (macroeconomics) with my clever nephew. Feeling connected to past and future.

It's been a while since my world-roaming days and nowadays my dreams are mostly of new adventures. But today, as this particular dream came true, I was quite content with being right here - at home.

Childhood hoods

to helsinki, to be inspired

We drive the 400 kilometres to Helsinki, the nations capital, to hang out on a lovely beach near the city centre and watch the beachvolley championships.

To eat a weird lunch of cabbage rolls, to sip cold beer under a chestnut tree while a group of Hare Krishnas are having a street party right in front of us.

To walk among oddly coloured houses, to feel the asphalt soften under our sandals in the sizzling heat, to seek refuge and good coffee in deliciously cool malls. To watch people with weird hair colours and weird attitudes. To wonder about the hieroglyphs painted on a door.

To spend a lazy, inspiring weekend in a heatwave, in a beautiful, quirky and cool city.

walk on water, win this fight

I walk along a windy, endless beach of smooth sand, seashells and pretty pebbles. With me is one of my closest friends, not seen for years. We are less than an hour into our happy reunion and there is a slight tension between us - are we still close, has she changed, have I changed?

We watch surfers and playing dogs as she tells me of her plans to kill herself before her birthday next week. It seems so wrong, more than ever against the wild beauty of the beach in the sunshine, the tide just starting to come in.

When the April wind gets too cold we sit down in a café that is warm from sunlight, steaming coffee and the exuberance of families celebrating a sunny spring day. We drink hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows and talk in low voices about possible reasons for living.

It's completely absurd, but I have never felt so intensely alive.

monday in Monaghan

"Don't taste the foam", I say. "Dip straight through to the dark liquid."

I am in Ireland again, at last, and this time I brought a few Finnish friends with me. We're on a road trip and ended up in the rather unknown little town of Monaghan, where we had to stop for the night.

It's Monday. Monday in Monaghan, and we're celebrating our last night in Ireland with a little pub crawl. One of my friends is trying Guinness for the first time and I'm giving her advice. Guinness can be a shock when you're not used to stout - it was for me, the first time, and I couldn't even finish my pint without adding blackcurrant essence to it. Now I'm thinking I should make Guinness my drink.

Monaghan is dark, quiet and secretive, a contrast to the wild coast of Donegal we experienced during the last few days. Already drunk on holiday feelings we have stumbled out of the guesthouse and into the nearest bar.

In Ireland (and probably everywhere else) you know you've found an authentic, non-touristy pub if the only patrons are a few men, seated at the bar, who turn around and stare when you enter. You know you've really struck gold if one of them, the resident drunk, greets you eloquently despite his inebriated state and the others tell you not to mind him. This bar in Monaghan does not disappoint. We reply cheerfully and drink our Guinnesses and Jameson's.

The next, and last, bar on our tour is even better. Dark as sin, Gaelic name, even more unembarrassed staring. A couple of us decide to shake things up a bit and order Bailey's on ice. The bartender couldn't have looked more shocked if we had asked for a pint of the Saviour's blood. That's all it takes for the locals to engage us in an intense discussion about the terrible spring Ireland is having and whether Finland's could possibly be any worse.

The Bailey's comes in slightly dirty glasses and is delicious. Our Monday night out in Monaghan is a roaring success.

by the turf fire

For the best breakfast in Dublin:

Make sure it's lashing down rain of the coldest, most awful kind outside. Find an ancient, venerable café that has a marble-topped table right next to the fireplace with a fragrant, warming turf fire. Order organic porridge with blueberries, granola and honey, and a glass of orange juice. Read the paper and eavesdrop on upper-class people complaining to the manager about how the service no longer is what it used to be a hundred years ago. Feel the friendliness and goodwill of the Irish permeate the atmosphere, even so.

Sigh with pleasure as the heat from the fire soaks into your cold, weary body.

to see a world in a cup of espresso

A memory:

The waiter in the little seaside café brings me an espresso because my rusty French doesn't seem up to ordering the café au lait I really wanted.

Sometimes the world decides to show you new perspectives of itself. The espresso, coupled with a tiny piece of dark chocolate, flows into me like smooth, black honey.

Around me are sunwarmed cobblestones, squabbling sparrows and a sweet breeze from the sea. I am free, I have my best friend with me and I am on the beautiful coast of Normandy.

2017: the year of breaking, mending and knitting

* Started the year with an impromptu midnight party with wine and meringue-and-persimmon cake.
* Fell into despair of the worst kind, then fell in love - all in one night.
* Rescued road kill - an Edam cheese.
* Contributed to a businessman's memoirs.

* Bought rescue spray and heard God speak.
* Took anti-depressants and talked to a therapist for months.
* Stood in a bread line with a criminal and drove him to his trial.
* Ate pizza from the 80s, courtesy of my boss.
* Stopped for a hitch-hiker.
* Had a moving weekend in Tampere.
* Finished my cross-stitch project not touched for 20 years.
* Pledged eternal friendship and prayed on a cold April beach.

* Taught myself how to knit scarves.
* Realised that I'm good at trust.
* Had Easter brunch with sourdough croissants, rhurbarb juice and friends.
* Got a new nickname: The P-filter.
* Attended a book release party with blue cookies.
* Took a guided tour of the pathology department at the hospital - tissue studies, the autopsy room and a forgotten fetus in a jar.
* Celebrated my birthday: care label composition, hospital lunch (more fun than it sounds), parties: with wine, pizza and rowdy friends in a bohemian attic, with silver pear-and-strawberry cake and quieter friends, with luxury chocolate cake and family.
* Tried to fix my knees, without much success.
* Was compared to the common houseleek ("letting no nonsense through").
* Babysat a fluffy cat.
* Discovered new worlds in the town museum.
 * Went to a police auction (bought  none).
* Took a road trip to the world heritage site of Rauma old town.
* Enjoyed days of nostalgia and free-spirited roaming in my beloved city of Turku: wine by the river, organ concerts, prison visits and exloring the best castle in the world.

* Experienced a summer in paradise: rain and chilly air, wild rabbits and herons, feeding the fire with A Farewell to Arms, bike race in rain-heavy forest, boat race in sunny harbour, partying with fireworks and barbecue and family, lazy introspection in the company of wine and a poodle and a wide open sky, and a delicious day with butter-fried perch.
* Started food fights in the local hospital.
* Celebrated midsummer with the Midsummer People, sauna and French toast.
* Had visits by a death-defying kitten.
* Organized balcony parties, a summer favourite.
* Bought a grandma bicycle.
* Took a road trip to Helsinki to watch beachvolley on a sunny beach and drink mojitos.

* Painted a house yellow.
* Experienced the Night of the Arts with friends, the best nachos in town, and cider and low conversation by a darkening sea.
* Drove across the country on summery roads to watch the beachvolley championships: hot sun and huddling in pouring rain under umbrellas, princess cake in bed and old Batman reruns in a crowded budget hotel room - inspiration for the autumn ahead.
* Cut down on volleyball, took up pilates and the piano and some difficult dancing instead.
* Had an unexpected encounter with the finance minister.
* Did an art excursion with art-lovers in coffee-smelling studios with rainy windows.
* Waved goodbye to my shepherd and guiding light.
* Enjoyed a Per Gessle concert with coworkers, beer, a long skirt, a VIP badge and a plus one.
* Had some lovely, dark autumn evenings with Harry Potter, friends and wine.

* Was commanded to go on a training day at work: a boat trip to the outer archipelago with ancient history, wilderness and a great steak.
* Explored the secret rooms of the city: Mannerheim's bedroom, a haunted theatre and a wig studio, a top-secret cigar room, a cupola on the roof, the Court of Appeal with chandeliers and Finland's oldest flag.
* Visited the dog shelter and fell in love more than once.
* Had an October picnic by the sea with an old lady.
* Lighted my winter mornings with a daylight lamp.
* Enjoyed a suspiciously happy November.
* Did an All Saint's Eve with a difference: drove north under a gigantic moon to see long-lost relatives and listen to a private organ concert in a deserted church.
* Was whisked away to an office party with luxury, gold and burlesque dancers.
* Drank my way through a tea calendar in December.
* Played at being a shop assistant selling Danish design.
* Had a nightclub outing with new friends and half the town, much frustration and some joy.
* Dined on fine steaks and wine with one volleyball team, hamburgers and beer with another.
* Wandered through a winter weekend in Tallinn with medieval feelings and honey beer. Found the gates of heaven.
* Celebrated Christmas in two places at once and almost crashed my mother's new retro Fiat.
* Had a Nepalese New Year's dinner with new friends and Lambrusco while other people's children ran rampage in my home.

A year of anxiety and exhaustion - but also the end of the Reign of Terror in my life. Seeking help, rooting out buried secrets, learning to listen to my body and live as loved. Looking for God, facing up to demons, daring to be weak, growing stronger.

A year of gym, pilates, piano, knitting scarves and seeking help, physical and mental therapy, troubled back, troubled knees, troubled hair, book club, volleyball  - but no beachvolley.

Social events: pool in pubs, "Finlandia" and hot tuna sandwiches, cocktail testing, gingerbread cookie baking, office parties, Harry Potter nights.

Work: talk show, teenage gaming slang, Bogart movies, other 40s movies, Puccini and his white beans, English for a child show competition, care labels and inspection certificates, the law, what to do in the event of nuclear fallout, googling assassin terminology.

in the courtyard of summer

When looking forward is difficult, I look forward to sitting in a certain courtyard.

It is sheltered from the wind and heated by the sun. Around it are old houses and a tall tower made of red brick, looking incongruous and mysterious. I have kicked off my shoes and my feet are bare against warm cobble-stones. I sit in the shade and I have someone with me and a large mug of coffee. Maybe even chocolate cake.

a tale of two cities

This winter has been strange in so many ways.

One of them is how slow the days have become, not in a bad way. I have time to feel the chilly wind against my skin, to enjoy the softness and warmth of wool mittens, to watch the shifting clouds. To sit quiet and peaceful, doing nothing except watch people around me instead of hurrying home to distract myself with entertainment.

Today I sat in the expensive Fazer Café, sipping a latte macchiato with beautiful foam art and discussing mental problems with a wise woman under the golden glow of trendy light bulbs.

Then I wandered, slowly, along cold and grey streets with a hulk of a man beside me. Each step felt balanced and peaceful, despite the troubled heart inside both of us, despite the wind slapping snow in our faces. Twilight fell as we meandered through an empty park and stopped to greet a pair of enthusiastic dogs.

We ended up outside a small church where a few quiet people already waited. Several more gathered as we stood there, all patiently waiting and chatting in low voices. This was the city's breadline. People with worn clothes and worn faces, unassuming and cautiously friendly. When the church opened its door, we were served hot soup with sandwiches, and food bags were distributed. I'm not poor enough for breadlines so I didn't take any food, except some soup which I paid for, but my friend eagerly accepted his share.

The contrast with the glamourous café was startling, but the atmosphere in the dark church was welcoming. We all sat there, huddling in our winter coats despite the warmth, eating tasty lentil soup and exchanging a few words with the strangers next to us. A new world to me, populated by brave people.

Another strange dimension to my strange winter.

food levels in December

In the month before Christmas, there is an inexpensive meal of rice pudding and bacon rolls in a crowded church basement where I discuss gospel music with friends.

There is a meal of burgers and beer in a colourful, mock-Australian restaurant with equally colourful volleyball ladies.

There is a loud family party with birthday cake and teenagers who roll their eyes.

And there is a festive business lunch with men in suits and women in heels, with mentions of turnovers and quality control and expensive boats.

There are so many levels in my December life.

make merry

The pub with the worn wooden tables and vintage "Guinness is good for you" posters is where I come to

drink beer with friends
order a cider alone and read the paper
talk to people I haven't seen for decades
stare out at rain-washed streets
elbow my way through a crowd to find a free table
play pool
watch games on the TV screen
scream with laughter over the air hockey table
spend hours on the dance floor
jive around the tables outside the dance floor
listen to my friend's band play covers
get offered elaborate cocktails by secret admirers
discuss God and history and ex-boyfriends

The odd thing is that I actually come here very seldom.

afterlife in the library, over coffee

"You would think that in a group like this, somebody would have had an out-of-body experience," the elderly lady says in a disappointed voice.

The rest of us shake our heads, slightly ashamed. This is a book club, after all. Most of us ladies have plenty to say. One tells us about her newly diagnosed heart problems, another of her reluctance to experience afterlife if it means lots of effort. A younger lady, one of the librarians, mentions time travel. Another has brought a stack of books for reference, a strange combination of The Divine Comedy, Kafka and something by Ursula K. Le Guin.

I sit back and sip my coffee while somebody misquotes Dante and the ladies argue about the shocking amount of violence in today's fiction. In the library, with books and elderly ladies and coffee, is how I would like to spend the afterlife.

in-love-fallings, part five

* Mexican restaurants: the first time my big sister took me to dinner in one (Finnish, fake-Mexican, probably terribly unauthentic and cheesy). I love the poorly lit booths, narrow passageways, cheerily colourful decor, the sangria and fried icecream. (I may be in for a horrible surprise if I ever make it to Mexico.)

* Irish pubs: my first, dizzying evening in Ireland. Dark nooks, rough wooden tables with spilled beer, smell of tobacco, red-faced men saying incomprehensible things, raucous laughter, Guinness ads claiming it is good for you, pipe music (and U2 music), radiators on full blast to ward off the chilly dampness outside, and a feeling that all is well with the world.

* second-hand shops: in a treasure chamber in a basement, where I got accidentally locked in.

* laptops: some cold evening in a wintry Finland when I first lost myself in the world out there, available on my own lap. (Tablet computers are too clumsy to type on. Smartphones annoy me.)

* peppermint tea: on holiday, tiny cabin at boring camp site, parents and sister. I was about 16. The weather was chilly, I can't remember doing much fun and the only tea we had in the cabin was peppermint. But the atmosphere: family, cozy evenings, peppermint. So, peppermint = coziness, comfort. Reinforced during that summer in France when I spent the evenings watching TV in the attic with two wonderful boys who always brought me peppermint tea because I had once mentioned that I liked it.

cup of kindness

I like my coffee in ...

* the café at the Cloister Hill open-air museum in Turku, Finland: When I was tired of the hustle and bustle of the city, the impossible demands of the university, even my life-loving friends, I cycled up the hill to the museum with its ancient cottages. The café had several small rooms with antique furniture and was always quiet in off-season. I drank my coffee out of a thin porcelain cup, ate a nice old-fashioned cinnamon bun or a pastry in an empty room and listened to the soft murmur of old ladies chatting in the next room or a clock ticking somewhere. There was a smell of coffee and ancient history. There was a deeply soothing silence, so far from the real world.

* the village pub near the Magic Valley, Ireland: On my day off I walked the forest path to the village. After a ritual consisting of breathing the soft air beneath ancient oaks along the path, saying hello to the horses in a nearby field, checking my email at the so-called IT Centre and stocking up on chocolate and yogurt in the village shop, I parked myself in the pub for the afternoon. Ordered the garlic mushrooms, with a Bailey's Coffee for dessert. Read the newspaper in detail. Idly watched whatever was on the TV in the corner - usually The Weakest Link with the matchless Anne Robinson (I had never seen such cold rudeness in my life). I loved the days when the air outside was soft and wintry and filled with the smell of turf smoke, when there was a fire roaring in the fireplace near me. I thought about the strange people I met every day, what to do about the boy I loved, the feeling of being exactly where I wanted to be in life.

* the Starbucks in an English city, inside a gigantic book store: I ordered a vanilla latte and perhaps some cake and sat there for hours. Read the Times or borrowed books, wrote my journal, studied people, talked to a friend.

Having coffee is more than just having coffee. In my current home town, there are plenty of cafés and pubs. But none that really welcomes and shelters my soul. So my coffee, be it of the strong Finnish kind, with Bailey's or with vanilla and milk, is currently homeless.