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.

all you can learn at university, and more

A quiet dreamer - that was me during my university days. I spent lots of time in church and drifting around the city alone, and not enough time having fun or actually studying.

That's the mental picture I have of those days, anyway. I'm having to adjust it right now after refreshing my memory with the help of my old journals.

Apparently I also did the following:

* Took boat trips to islands far and near with friends (the city was by the sea), in autumn winds or icy spring sunshine. Shivered on boat decks, explored ruined monasteries and closed-for-the-season beach cafés, had sandwich picnics in windblown fields.

* Had very late nights at ancient pubs with vaulted ceilings, a bustling McDonald's or the fancy international café in the heart of the city. I dived deep into the minds of my friends, played cards or watched people.

* Arranged mega-parties in our flat with my more sociable flatmates. Weirdly, we seemed to attract a target group of mostly students of theology, later on also students of language, history and geology.

* Attended traditional events like the annual concert of the university choir, the high-brow Opening of the Academic Year and a poetry reading with mostly elderly, venerable upper-class people. My flatmates and I observed some old traditions in our own way, like reciting Runeberg on Independence Day, toasting Walpurgis Night with homemade mead, and smuggling in secret "little Christmas" presents. We also happily ditched these traditions when we couldn't be bothered, which made us feel bohemian and free.

* Celebrated spring on the ancient mountain, with all the other students. Sometimes in rain and tears, sometimes in a pretty dress and a smile.

* Toured with a dance team, recited a Runeberg poem in public.

* Was pulled into sledding competitions, bowling competitions, snowball fights, Pictionary tournaments. And every year, the volleyball tournament and lots and lots of volleyball.

* Tried Russian classes, the Fairytale Club, disastrous dates, alchemy classes (inadvertently), horse-back riding, dozing by the river in the arms of a handsome man.

* Ice-skated on the frozen river and drank coffee in a heated tent on the coldest of winter nights. Forced my long-suffering bicycle through deep snow, ice and dangerous traffic. Survived several traffic-related accidents with just a few scratches.

* Consumed pie and cider at long, lazy spring picnics. Stayed up all night with friends or gorgeous men to talk, drift through the city or watch the sunrise.

* Sang a lot, sang a few solos in my choir, gave up my dream of singing.

* Gate-crashed a formal party at the history student club and danced with gorgeous men in tuxedos (I think I was wearing jeans).

* Was hit by a bus once, accidentally set my hair on fire at least once.

* Travelled the world between terms and sometimes in the middle of them.

* Dealt with stalkers, thieves, pathological liars, drug addicts and obsessed lovers.

* Formed my world view and got a degree in something else.

* Said farewell to the city by circling above it in a tiny plane.

helsinki magic

Vague sounds of traffic, far-away sirens, voices. Lights from the street projected on the ceiling of a city flat at night. I'm trying to sleep on a makeshift bed, on crisp sheets smelling sweetly of detergent. Listening to the sounds but not disturbed by them. Unfamiliar sounds, a large city living and breathing around this young country girl. Unfamiliar smells of old stone and concrete, fumes, gas stoves, other people's cooking.

Whenever I visit my sister in the big city, my days are spent exploring. Being treated to delicious desserts and cinema evenings. Learning how to travel on the metro, navigate the city, savour ethnic food and appreciate art. Laughing at the sarcastic, hilarious jokes of my sister and her friends in candle-lit cafés at night. Seeing strange things and strange people.

I'm shy, wide-eyed, hopeful that life will always be adventurous like this.

The world is much louder than I knew, I think as the nightly sounds of the city rock me to sleep.

glamour stopped me in the street

I'm back in the city of my wide-eyed youth. On this very path I walked home after my first day at university, thinking I had taken on something impossible. I hid nervously behind my only two friends in the world as a handsome man, an older student, stopped us with a bright smile and suggested we join him and his friends for a beer. We nearly fainted. Many years later, we still laugh at how we stuttered an excuse and ran off like the scared little girls we were. 

Right there and then, the whole wide world threw open its portals and let us glimpse a future filled with unknown phenomena and exciting people. Glamour and adventure beckoned alluringly as the cathedral bell tolled the hour above our heads.

So I set off, running across the cobble-stoned streets with never-ending energy, entertaining dreams of interrail in Europe and beautiful men. I was surrounded by people who knew impossible stuff and appreciated ancient books as much as I did. People who were nothing at all like me. And people who were as hellbent on having adventures as I was, but without my fear. Sometimes I was desperate and lost. Then I sneaked into the ancient cathedral to stand beneath vaults as high as the sky and wander around decaying tombstones, to be comforted by the air of centuries past and the quiet of many prayers. 

That world pulled me in, molded and strengthened me, then shot me off into the universe.

As I walk the same streets now, I'm there and here simultaneously. That long-lost excitement and hope whisper to me again and yet I've seen so much, good and bad. 

Be inspired by the nostalgia or choke on it? I can't decide.

where the river flows backwards

Stepping with caution in a long, black skirt, up and down winding staircases of stone worn smooth, with walls too close and lintels too low. Breathing in the damp, medieval air and thinking I was made for this. Losing myself in the history of murderous kings and jealous duchesses and servants no-one remembers, feeling their sorrows. 

Sitting alone under ancient vaults, centuries groaning beneath my feet as I listen to the silence. Staring up at imposing, thick walls that have stood for seven hundred years and feeling that they are mine. Wandering like a ghost.

I'm finally reunited with my favourite castle, the one that stands by a river that flows backwards. I'm all alone and I'm home.

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.

the procrastinator and the American

If you're a procrastinator, you will always be a procrastinator.

It could have been that American guest professor I had at university who said it. He taught me what the word means. I had never heard it before, my mother tongue Swedish has no such word. 

He had his good sides, that professor, although all the students were scared of him. He was too demanding and then disappointed in our efforts during his courses - like most of the other guest professors who came from the UK or the US of A to a small Finnish university where the students at the English department were surprisingly good at English but terrible at analyzing literature and writing essays. (Finland is a country that teaches languages but not literature. Strange but true.)

"Do NOT procrastinate when you write your essays during this course," he warned us, with something vaguely threatening beneath his charming American smile. I of course procrastinated wildly and handed in my essay after pulling an all-nighter just before the deadline, as always. I hated writing essays (and receiving disappointed feedback on them later). I hated all-nighters and deadline panic even more, but that didn't help. They were a constant ingredient in my university life. I was a procrastinator, preferring instant gratification to self-discipline. Born that way.

But I'm not a procrastinator anymore. 

Maybe I finally had had enough of instant gratification. For a while I did only what pleased me and it didn't take long before the inevitable emptiness of that life caught up with me. It was probably that and the hatred of deadline panic which changed me eventually. It took years.

The heady feeling of accomplishment and the unexpected pleasure in having set routines for work/study are strangely addictive. Also, I am driven like never before. I was never ambitious. But I have an urge to get things done because life is short and you don't want to waste time fretting over chores when you could just get them done and then go do something more fun, or something great and meaningful. 

And studying is much more fun if you're actually interested in learning something. Which I wasn't for years. But I am now. Life is full of fascinating facts and the more you know, the more fascinating it becomes. 

So I'm not procrastinating anymore (except when it's about washing the dishes). I'm not scared of Americans either.

still lost in the Delta Quadrant

The pandemic drove me to go on a retro-trip on Netflix. I binge-watch Star Trek: Voyager, the series I loved madly twenty years ago.

I've had no interest in the show since then, but I've fallen right back in now and can't stop. What a dream it would have been twenty years ago, to have access to a series streamed on demand, or even DVD boxes! Back then I was limited to one episode a week, broadcasted on TV (and if my VHS recorder or TV malfunctioned I only got to see it once or missed it completely), a few pages of fanfiction on the brand new Internet, and a couple of paperback fandom novels I found in a sci-fi bookstore on a dodgy backstreet.

(But if Netflix had existed, I would never have got a stitch of work done, or managed to find my way out into the world.)

Filming and acting were different in the 90s. Now the acting looks clumsy, the dialogues sound clichéd. But were they clichéd back then or do they seem so now because I recognise every line, from that show or any of a thousand others I've watched since?

Oh the nostalgia! Twenty years ago I was graduating and gearing up to go see the world for real. April then was like April now, minus pandemics and lockdowns: the golden light returning, seagulls, wild spring in the air, exuberance, promises of happiness. I threw open my windows to dark, crisp evenings and watched Voyager's crazy adventures while I secretly, desperately wished for adventures of my own.

And yes, I got them. I got on a plane, almost on a whim, and ended up in a mad place where I sometimes thought of myself as part of a starship crew in a universe of impossible adventures. Because it was actually a bit like that. I ran around putting out fires, fighting monsters (sometimes almost literally) and kissing aliens (really literally). I wore a uniform, screamed for backup in threatening situations, tried to communicate with hostile entities and ate things I probably shouldn't in the mess hall. I couldn't have found more drama and weirdness if I had gone looking for it in outer space.

Still, did Star Trek: Voyager set me up for disappointment? I mean, what normal life could continue to provide such a maelstrom of mad happenings and tightly-knit teams of friends? Yet somehow I think I expected it to.

I watch episode after episode and find myself back in that stormy spring world of the year 2000. It was a magic idea, such unlimited freedom, to end up 70 000 lightyears from Earth like the starship did - but the other day I saw a picture on the news of a black hole 5.5 billion lightyears from here and that adjusted my perspective a little.

But I still wonder why my life has so few space/time rifts, hull breaches, aliens wielding flashy weapons and chatty Talaxians cooking leola-root soup.

true colors shining through

One summer's day, many years ago, I threw the first draft of my Master's thesis out through the open window from the seventh floor - a crumpled sheet of paper. It fell on the busiest street in the city and I never saw it again. Not that I missed it much.

That summer I suddenly transformed from a lazy, shy and somewhat lonely dreamer into a restless, confident life-lover. My days started with lunch at the student cafeteria with friends, then we drifted through a city that sparkled with life. We hade icecream on the river bank, listened to live music in the park. There were fizzy drinks in dark student pubs, hamburger meals, hot chocolate at outdoor cafés in the cool evening air. On rainy days we went through an impressive amount of films on video or in the cinema. There were choir rehearsals and Sunday services in the church where all the interesting people went. There was the occasional, dutiful visit to the university where I was supposed to be working on my thesis - usually just to look for fun stuff on the internet. There were excursions to the archipelago and to ancient cities, there were picnics beneath the old oak tree.

I suddenly found myself surrounded by interesting people who wanted to hang out with me. With me! I was enchanted.

My most faithful companion was the boy I was in love with. I had never met anyone who was willing to spend entire days with me before. When our friends went home, we had sandwiches and long talks in my flat. Too wired for sleep, we went for walks or bike rides in the white nights of summer,  along the slowly flowing river, all the way to the mysterious, brooding castle. We climbed the highest hill to watch the sunrise in a happy daze of sleep deprivation. We danced all night, wildly, on a ship in a storm where the dancefloor heaved beneath our feet and martini and love warmed our blood - waltz and foxtrot and tango. I teased him and tricked him into eating the bitter rowan berries as summer was turning into autumn and he tried, unsuccessfully, to throw me into the sea.

There was also jealousy, despair and many tears. It's just, ah, a little crush ... But when he left, I felt strong and brave. I sat down and wrote my thesis.

A man can't change you. Daring to finally be yourself can.

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.

the making of music

My mother, probably sometime in the 1940s, sat down at a pump organ, the kind that was rather common in Finnish homes, chapels and schools at the time. Her grandfather kindly taught her a few basic major and minor chords and she practiced putting them together. In the same way, she sat me down at our beautiful upright piano many years later and passed the chords on to me.

My father, when the mood took him, would sit down at the same chocolate-coloured piano and hammer out the sad-sounding tune to a hymn with the oddly happy title "Jag har inga sorger i världen".

I had already taken many lessons in classical piano (and hated it) but chords were a new world to me. Somehow I managed to figure out, before the age of the helpful internet, how to put them together and make music, starting out with a melody and the root note. I found some song books and taught myself to play.

When I moved away from home and the chocolate-brown piano, I bought a synthesizer with a little help from my father and took it with me to university.

A few years later, my music maker was an old, black upright in a back room of an Irish hotel. The hotel staff got used to me sneaking into the room in the evenings to practice everything from the Moonlight Sonata to hymns and pop songs. The music soothed me if I was upset and inspired me when I was restless and frustrated. The piano was eventually moved to the hotel's main lounge and occasionally, when I was feeling brave and not too many people were around, I played there too despite my fear of public performance.

Then, there were the quiet years.

Now, every Monday evening, I cycle through lashing rain or walk along icy back streets to the little bright room with the piano, clutching sheet music in my hand. My teacher meets me with a smile and many encouring words. Music has returned.

silence the pianos, let the mourners come

In the dark corridor of the English Department at the university, just outside the literature library where forgotten books were gathering dust, a poster hung on the wall. It had a poem, "Funeral Blues" by W.H. Auden, on it.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Passing by this poem every day, was it then I realised that my blood always sighs with melancholy - of either the happy or the sad kind?

road trips in Finland when you're young

You travel in the wilderness of Lapland, along the marvellous sand ridge of Punkaharju and to the mighty rapids of Imatra when you are so young that the memories only consist of hazy, dreamlike images and smells - reindeer crossing the road, the pine smell of a wooden cottage where you stayed the night, the oddly unknown mummy of Keminmaa. Your dad takes pictures of you in front of carved troll statues and your grandmother climbs mountains wearing long skirts and wellies.

You travel along small roads through hills, villages and lots of forest, enchanted by summer. You swim in a few of the country's 187,888 lakes. You cook spaghetti lunches in pure lake water on a camping stove. In the evening, you drink red wine before squeezing into a small tent with best friends and strangers.

You pack an old van full of friends and skiing equipment and drive north on wintry roads. You spend an unplanned day in a non-descript town halfway when the van breaks down. You finally reach your destination late at night and discover that Lapland is a magical realm of snowy forests, starry skies and the breathtaking silence of an icy wilderness. You ski on the mountains all day and stop only to grill sausages over open fire and pass a thermos of hot coffee around in the middle of the forest. You spend evenings in a cottage playing board games in front of the fire with people you will never see again but will remember for the rest of your life.

You stay at an Orthodox monastery and watch the monks make berry wine. You explore the medieval castles of Olavinlinna and Suomenlinna. You island-hop in the charming Åland archipelago and try seaweed delicacies. You laugh until it hurts and you tire yourself out driving endless distances through empty forests.

You return home to the open prairies near the west coast, with the vast sky and the glittering sea saying welcome.

the Irish saga: an academic enters the maze

The fairytale inn, a little Irish hotel in a hidden valley, is bursting with people on the evening I arrive.

I'm exhausted and shaking with adrenaline as I walk into my new life with no idea what to expect. Darkness has fallen on the May night outside but the inn is as merry as one would expect of a fairytale - lights, laughter and clinking glasses. The geography is confusing - I wander winding corridors with slanting floors before I find the hotel reception.

I am a twenty-seven-year-old woman who just days ago completed the last assignment for my Master's degree in English as a foreign language, back home in Finland. I have no experience whatsoever of hotels, unless you count a few unmemorable nights in cheap chain hotels during my travels. Nevertheless, here I am in an Irish hotel, hoping the job offer sent to me in an informal email is still valid. Hoping that my father's irate prediction, that I will end up chained to a brothel bed in a foreign country, is NOT valid.

I'm two days into my new freedom after a completed university education. My official graduation "ceremony" is still months away and will consist of me opening a boring envelope with my diploma inside, sent to me care of the hotel. I'm dizzy from the sudden transition from university life to working life - over a thousand miles and a lifestyle shift away.

I'm fresh off the plane and the bus, so exhausted that I'm leaning against my heavy suitcase. But it will be three hours before I get to fall into bed in my temporary staff accommodation. In that time, I will have experienced my first hour behind the reception desk, found my first friend - the chatty Canadian receptionist who will later lead me into so much trouble - and fallen in love with the red-haired chef who put together a simple spaghetti supper for me.

Before I fall asleep I look out from the window of my tiny room, somewhere deep inside the maze of corridors. A cobblestoned courtyard, the bright windows of a bar, a merry party. So this is Ireland?

lose myself in landscapes

I should get in the car and just drive more often. Turn up the music, stop for coffee at a cute café, explore an old town that I always meant to visit sometime.

I should go back to my old university more often. Visit places where kings ruled and bishops decreed eight hundred years ago, where I had giggly picnics with my friends eighteen years ago, where venerable past and glorious future have always mingled in bubbly hope. Walk the streets where I was once so clueless and worried and excited. Look back with nostalgia and enjoy the confidence I have gained since. Have coffee in ancient, sunlit gardens and wine by the river at twilight.

I should travel by myself more often. Explore endless pathways on foot, linger at the places where my spirit ignites, write in badly lit pubs. Send pictures to friends and caption them "wish you were here", lose myself in landscapes that would seem boring to them. Remember lost friends and be grateful for present ones.

I should ... and I do, sometimes.

of cakes and castleyards

I had white chocolate cake the other day, in a castleyard that was silent and hot with sunlight. You could say that I drove four hundred miles just to have cake in this castleyard. I had a sudden craving for something sweet and the Middle Ages.

Turku Castle

Where I am from, there is history too. Things like million-year-old meteor craters and Neanderthal caves - but they look just like enormous fields and any old caves. People lived here a thousand years ago and more, but they left no castles behind, just a few mysterious stone labyrinths and the fields they plowed.

When I went to university in a city far, far away, many years ago, I discovered what it was like to walk down the same cobblestoned streets used by monks seven hundred years ago and explore a castle where a king threw his brother in the dungeons. And staying up late, labouring over my books, seemed easier when I knew students around here had done the same for centuries.

After graduation and some exploration of the world and even more ancient history, I eventually returned to my homeland of silent forests, birdsong and diligently plowed fields. I love the pure air, the flowers, the small boats in the archipelago, the earthiness of the people. But I miss the visible history and the atmosphere it brings. That's why I took the car and drove hundreds of miles to the castleyard.

I ate my cake and breathed deeply, and felt better.

optimism is a strategy

“Optimism is a strategy for making a better future. Because unless you believe that the future can be better, you are unlikely to step up and take responsibility for making it so.”

(Noam Chomsky)

"Noam Chomsky is our household deity here in the modern languages building," said one of my professors at university. I'm still not entirely clear on why. But I feel that I should quote him at least once.

Well said, dear household deity.

history as it should be

I minored in history, back at university. Probably because of the house.


It was ancient and everything seemed to be made of wood: wood panelling on the walls, wood floors that squeaked, wooden window frames so bent with age that it was difficult to open the window.

It just seemed so right to be discussing ancient kings in this setting.

And it was a refuge from the modern languages department where I spent most of my time. Here, no-one made me write long essays or discuss themes I didn't understand in languages I didn't speak. I just sat there, among all that creaking wood, and listened to stories. Read a few books, sat a few exams, went on a fascinating field trip in a fragrant forest to see bronze age forts and iron age settlements.

It was university studies as I had thought they would be.

the year I stepped through the looking glass

From my diaries: the year 2000 ...

* The eve of the new millennium: a cold, cold, winter's evening in my home town. Dinner with friends and a church youth event. I wore my first short skirt and was bored. Just before midnight, I was given a candle and told to think deep thoughts for ten minutes. Couldn't. But when the countdown clock to the new millennium hit 00:00:00 I was struck with unexpected euphoria. There was dancing, then I went home and wrote a lousy poem.
* The year took off on a wave of inspiration. I finished my master's thesis on Englishness, fought against Jules Verne in French and hid in a basement at the university. In love with the internet, fanfic and solitude.
* Braved great adversity to get my thesis to the printer's - cycled on icy streets in lashing rain. Who says a university degree is all about mental exertion?
* Played a lot of volleyball, assisted in an Alpha course, had a houseguest for two weeks (wild hippie with blond braids, just returned from Africa).
* Planned my Irish adventure and tried to convince my father that I was NOT going to end up chained to a bed in a brothel.
* Birthday spent planning an international move, attending bible study and having a café night with friends.
* Hectic spring weeks bubbling with university students celebrating spring. Sushi and dancing, the theatre, picnics with beautiful men, country drives and a flight in a small plane.

* Moved all my furniture 400 kilometres, then said goodbye to everyone I knew and moved to Ireland. On arrival, I was greeted with sunshine and a clementine.
* Began my working life in a hotel reception at world's end. My arrival coincided with that of the digital revolution and the big, old hotel ledger was thrown out.
* Fell in love on the first evening, with the red-haired Irish chef who made me a spaghetti dinner.
* Spent the rest of the year intoxicated, wild and in love - with a reserved chef, a cool businessman, a bohemian soulmate and life itself.
* Worked and partied with an international bunch who at first seemed shallow and negative but brought out the wildness and strength in me.
* Learned to drive on the wrong side of the road and collected counties. Kissed the Blarney stone and saw the twelve mountains of Connemara.
* Dated a jockey who stood me up three times out of four, partied in a cemetery, threw stones at a man's window and modelled for a mad Belarussian artist.
* Learned how to be a hotel receptionist and do everything else as well - from babysitting newborns to waitressing, carrying suitcases and handling irate managers.
* Took long walks in a magic valley to get away from fights, drama and burning cars.
* Had a sheepdog that disappeared into thin air.
* What else I learned: how to be loved, how to let loose, how to not take it personally when people scream insults at you, how not to date, how to drink, how to deal with an unfair world, how to be me.
* Went home for Christmas.

kiss my turku

Turku, Finland. Probably the best city in the world. One sure sign of its greatness is that it's built on seven hills.

It has a real castle, where a king was held captive in the dungeons, pining for the love of his life.

And a real cathedral (13th century) where on an ordinary weekday afternoon you can hear live organ music echo under the vaults and touch your very soul. Peace is found here - no wonder, since it's built on the Hill of Sleep.

There are lovely river walks. And bar boats!

There are unimaginably charming hidden parks, ancient buildings, lots of lovely cafés (order the blueberry/dark chocolate pastry Kiss My Turku) and the combined wisdom of two and a half venerated universities. And a huge daisy.

Not to forget, a giant spiderweb in a cave very near the city centre. What lives here?

Turku is the first capital of Finland, its first real city. Nine hundred years of history and a beach where you can experience the thrill of having your swim rudely interrupted by giant Stockholm ferries. What more could you possibly need?

I lived seven years in this city. Here I learned everything about life, love, friendship, the internet and how to write a French essay when you don't know any French.