in the land of smiles, starvation and sullen elephants

"... never would have thought I would buy an expensive smartphone just to get addicted to it, but this one was worth every cent! I have loads of apps already, just for travelling. Just a few touches and I can read about a city I want to visit, then book a cheap flight there and check in using the phone, as well as look for inexpensive food and accommodation ... Not to mention the currency converter and various dictionaries. Just having Spotify in the phone makes it worth the money." 

Came across the blog of a young Finnish girl, name of Tess, out backpacking alone in Thailand. Funny how it seems so EASY.

I was nineteen when I went to Thailand. It was like going to another planet. But then, that was the '90s ... I went there with a group of friends, and like Tess our plan was to stay a few months and volunteer for a charity organisation. Unlike Tess, I had never even been on a normal two-week vacation in Southeast Asia before - so common among Finns now - so I had no idea what to expect. Unlike Tess, none of us had a smartphone or a phone of any kind, not even a credit card - in order to make travel arrangements to another city, you went to a travel agency and used your traveller's cheques as payment. If you wanted to know something about the places you were visiting, you referred to your friend's dog-eared copy of the Lonely Planet's guidebook and hoped that the information was up to date.

There weren't even any Internet cafés yet, much less any Skype. When a scared and homesick teenager wanted to get in touch with her family, she had to go to one of the little shops that advertised "overseas calls", order a call at the counter and then wait by the phone until it was connected. (Collect call since it was so expensive.) Or she could write an old-fashioned letter and hope it didn't take much more than a week to reach Finland. Whenever one of us received a letter from home, we were so excited that we read it out loud, regardless of the fact that we were from different cities and didn't know each other's families at all. Everybody "oohed" and "aahed" at the news that somebody's little sister had performed in a school play or somebody's dog had got a new toy. We tried to comfort ourselves by listening to an old cassette tape with music from home.

We were all homesick. Thailand was lovely but too overwhelming. It was full of sun, people, strange bugs, an incomprehensible language and weird rules. Just taking a bus was a mystery as we didn't know where it would stop, what the fare was or how to get the driver to drop us off at the right place. Once, we jumped off a moving taxi ( of the open-back pick-up variety ) because the driver got mad and refused to let us off. The few Western food-places in existence were American ( Burger King, Swensen's, Dunkin' Donuts ) and seemed only slightly less alien to us than the hundreds of street stalls selling local fried rice.

We did weird things like talking to prostitutes (who only spoke three words of English), singing Christmas carols in sex bars and hiking for hours in the mountains to reach primitive villages. On these mountain expeditions, which sometimes lasted for three days each, we filled our water bottles in streams and just popped a purification pill in the bottle before drinking. In the same streams, we took our baths ( with our clothes on, out of respect for the local tradition ).

And we alternated between starving and being horribly sick to our stomachs.

And what an adventure it was:
* Sleeping in a huddle on the floor with six other girls to stay warm in a chilly mountain hut, with a water buffalo for a neighbour.
* Going to the toilet in the great outdoors.
* Trying to communicate with people without a common language.
* Riding an sullen elephant. Visiting crocodile farms and snake farms. Chasing cockroaches.
* Walking down dangerous back streets in a city at night.
* Sunbathing on white beaches.
* Singing a lot.
* Meeting a Buddhist monk.
* Seeing the sun rise over the mountains and the coffee plantations while driving down perilous mud paths.
* Eating chicken feet and condensed milk.
* Getting to know my weaknesses and learning to love my friends.
* Driving a motorcycle for the first time on my own. Riding a motorcycle with two other people on it, in the mad Bangkok traffic.
* Witnessing a violent assault on my friend.
* Walking along a beach at midnight, the surf caressing my bare feet, on Christmas Eve with a beautiful man.

Not to mention breaking up a fight between  a dog and a monkey  ( without contracting rabies ). Oh, the things you do for charity. Probably a good thing I didn't have a blog back then, like Tess. My mother would have fainted.

I don't think I envy Tess so much after all. With her blog, Skype and all-knowing smartphone, I'm sure she is missing out on that terrifying, dizzying, absolutely exhilarating feeling of being lost on an alien planet.

the art of art

The best film I saw last year was The Intouchables (everyone, see it!). After having laughed and cried my way through, one of the ideas expressed in the film stayed with me.

One of the main characters said that people are interested in art because "it is the only thing one leaves behind".

Not sure I agree completely, but it struck a chord.

I'm obsessed with creating right now.  It's welling up inside me and I don't know how to let it out.

a door opened

And the feeling when, after eight years of ( mostly ) failed job interviews, an email starts with the words "we would like you to come and work for us".

I am an anxious, unambitious worrier who can hesitate endlessly over small decisions. But when the door marked  "Huge Life Change"  suddenly opens I barge straight through it without looking back. My family and friends, unaware of how long I have been brooding in silence next to it, are usually left in shock, coughing in the dust cloud I kicked up.

Gone are the days, though, when I used to pack my bags and go, not just to a new job but to a new country and new friends. This time I cling desperately to my old friends, old home and old habits while going off to face a new job. Because huge life changes get huger the older you get.

let the answer be no, please

Another random question at a job interview:

"Are you extremely religious?"

Even without hearing the tone of voice (carefully neutral), you realize how the interviewer feels about religion, don't you? I tried not to grin, I really did.

from the archives

we'll show the world that they were wrong
and teach them all to sing along
             - Nickelback

rooibos and the enchanted forest

Cosy on my sofa with a cup of steaming rooibos and some melted icecream. A candle nearby. Outside is the black January night - a lot of darkness but with a string of tiny lights around the bay and a special blend of dark beauty.

With me on the sofa are my new friends, Pinterest and Tumblr.

Can't say I really understand these two, they seem rather chaotic. But once I get lost in the jungle of pretty pictures - oh God.

I knew there is a lot of beauty in the world, but all this? Unbelievably incredibly unfathomable incomprehensibly inconceivably unimaginable beauty. All these places I never knew existed! All these wonderful things to experience! I get inspired to travel, eat, create and just generally  love life. I get a little insane.

Just one example:

Source: whatkatieate.blogspot.com via Kristy on Pinterest

my non-disclosure

I just wrote a blog entry called  "What I don't want others to know"  and listed all my secrets.

Then I came to my senses and deleted it. What is with this strange urge to disclose everything, to strangers, on a public blog?

I'm learning to share, with my best friends only, even the things I'm ashamed of. One thing at a time, when I feel safe. Because sharing is how you get closer to your friends and it can also save your mental health.

But in general, a little mystery makes life more interesting.

counterfeiting Pollock

My first week ( unofficially ) in charge of the Little Shop of Harmony.

The highlight? That would be when I ( from the customers' point of view ) literally disappeared from behind the checkout counter by falling flat on my face, quite unexpectedly and spectacularly.

The most impressive side-effect of this was that the shop's expensive laptop, whose cable I tripped over, performed the same disappearing act half a second later. It made a much bigger bang than I did. Now the computer screen resembles a Jackson Pollock painting.

To preserve for posterity this memorable week, I want to include a picture of this hitherto unknown Pollock:

I borrowed it from mischiefmakersmanual.com. It never fails to entertain and amaze me how you can find pictures of anything on the Internet. Somebody out there apparently predicted that somebody out there one day would need an image of a cracked laptop screen.


PS. If a future, prospective employer of mine is reading this ( I might need a future, prospective employer much sooner than I thought ), please be advised that smashing computers is not something I normally do.

a rose by any other name

Last night, I dreamed that I was named Gurt. It's actually not a bad name ( does it exist? ) and would be convenient if people wanted to yell,  "yo, Gurt!".

far from Jerusalem

I want to go to a place where I know God is. A physical place, like the Western Wall in Jerusalem. I want to hide a piece of paper with my prayer on it in the wall, lean my forehead against the sun-warmed stone and feel him close.

But Jerusalem is far, far away. And I am not Jewish.

he took my secrets to his grave

The boy who almost dug up the devil in his backyard is dead. He was my first friend, the one I played with every day between the ages of two and seven. I haven't talked to him since. Going to his  funeral  was like revisiting my earliest childhood. There was the other friend we also hung out with as toddlers, a girl I also haven't talked to since. And there was the lovely old lady who used to look after us all. It was a truly bizarre experience.

( I feel so separated from my childhood self, as if it was someone else. )

And the horror of a young man being suddenly dead. His elderly mother and orphaned daughter crying in the church. It was almost too much to bear, just watching them. And the absence of a father ( my friend's, his daughter's, my own ) was so tangible that it sucked the breath out of me.

I took a close look at a picture of the deceased. Not having seen him for decades, I was surprised to see that he had grown up to be a strong, handsome man. I recognised his small-boy grin and remembered the secrets we shared with nobody else. I knew him so well, once. Today, at the funeral, I talked to some people who also knew him well, but as an adult ( and as such, of course, a complete stranger to me ).

Not a word to each other since we were seven years old. And he still knew things about me that nobody else did. 

come away, o human child

A memory:

Around me twelve mountains, marshland, silence and the rich scent of the wild earth. I stand in the middle of all this, awestruck, and let it all sink into me.

Afterwards, I walk  back to the road. My friends are having a spontaneous, quick picnic. In the car. They have only left it to take a couple of pictures of the magnificent landscape.

I don't understand. Sitting in the car, surrounded by twelve mountains, and you hardly even bother to take a look? We might never, ever come back here.

We are in Connemara, in the west of Ireland, it is July. I am tired but wild with freedom and saturated with beauty.

( Picture from Wikipedia - since I didn't have time to take any. )

Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand.
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
(W.B.Yeats)

darling books: comfort food at Quentins

  She had just got to telling the twins the bit of her very unhappy life where she hadn't been chosen for the hockey team.
  'It doesn't sound terribly unhappy,' Maud complained.
  'No real, awful things,' Simon added.
  'If you wanted to be on the First Eleven, and should have been, then that's pretty terrible,' Ella protested.
  Her phone rang again. This time it was Nick. She listened and her face got red and then white again. The twins watched her with interest. 'The bastard,' she said eventually. 'The class-A bastard.' She took down a number on the back of her notebook. 'Thanks, Nick, I'll get back to you on this.' Her voice was slightly shaky, but a promise was a promise.
  Those children had got their heads around quadratic equations. Now she had to tell them the story of an unhappy life. 'So the day of the school's hockey final approached...' she began.
  'Could you tell us about the bastard, please?' Maud asked politely. 'It sounds much more interesting.'

Maeve Binchy's novels - my comfort books, feel-good literature. Quentins is one of the best ones. Binchy does a neat story-teller trick in her writing that makes you get to know the characters in a roundabout manner - it's masterly and sometimes very funny. She tells several stories in one novel but it's always engaging and easy to follow. The characters feel like real flesh-and-blood people you might meet while walking down a street in Dublin.

And she makes you feel that if you are a normal, not very remarkable, and maybe very messed-up person, you may not get the happy ending you wish for but in the end, everything will be okay. And that actually, you are somehow very remarkable after all.

Yes, it's feel-good literature but it's anything but shallow. Any writer who makes me suspect that there is still hope and affection in the world gets my vote.

the little blog entry about absolutely everything

I'm nervous because I'm going to zumba class and I don't know zumba and when will I have time to eat before zumba class and there is so much stress at work and I don't have energy for my friends and I may have to go to the dentist because my tooth hurts and it's so expensive and I still don't have those flight tickets for  my holiday and I might run into that terrible person today and somebody might call and offer me a job and ask about my French skills which are pretty much non-existent and what will my current boss say if I actually get that job and I'm getting old and did I forget something and I probably had too much coffee today.

the annual, annoying ice age

Winter is a fight you can't win - except through patience and enough time - but I roll with the punches.

I brush the snow off my car once again, scrape ice off the windshield, shiver while waiting for the heater to get going, and nervously wonder whether the car will handle the extreme cold or if the engine will stall the first time I stop at a red light.
I dig out woollen socks and thick sweaters to wear in my drafty flat.
I accept the fact that walking to work takes an extra ten minutes when a spell of milder weather has turned all the snow into slush and water, creating impassable lakes on street corners.
I sigh and walk with care the following day when all the lakes have frozen into icy patches.
I become an expert in driving on ice and in thick, mushy snow, and in avoiding the use of windshield wipers because they have frozen into place.
I take detours to avoid tall buildings where tons of snow and ice threaten to slide off the roof and kill an unsuspecting passer-by.
I wonder how many days or weeks it will be before the sun makes a brief appearance, hanging low in the southern sky.
I want to close my eyes when I travel on the main roads where salt has turned all the white snow into brownish-grey mush that makes the whole world look like a desolate, post-apocalyptic landscape.
I light candles to fight off the darkness that descends around 4 pm.

I also sigh with wonder at the beauty of the ever-changing white-grey landscape of the frozen sea and of bare tree branches glinting with frost or weighed down with snow.
I marvel at the fact that, even though many birds have moved south, rare birds of prey come out of the forests to look for food.
I even find entertainment in watching how deftly snowplows, tractors and lorries clear snow off the streets and sidewalks, easily moving around parked cars and signposts.
I watch the stars on clear nights, and sometimes the aurora borealis.

And sometimes, I walk out into the vast expanse of the frozen sea where there is only silence and wilderness, and I'm cold but I survive it and I love it.

Everything is asleep but maybe that is what we need for now.

adventures in fog-walking

The  Cliffs of Moher,  on Ireland's west coast. A beautiful spot where tourists gather to view steep cliffs, unusual marine birds, and the waves of the unruly Atlantic crashing onto the rocks far, far below.

When I arrived there, all I saw was fog. And tourists. Disappointed tourists.

( I seem to attract fog, especially when I go to places of great natural beauty - see this post. )

I and my friends set out on a leisurely walk along a path. Away from the other tourists, it was lovely. One one side there was only fog. On the other side, you could vaguely see grassy fields and a few cows staring at us from the other side of a fence. The air smelled of grass and flowers and was warm, despite the fog. Larks were singing. I felt the peace of a quiet summer's day settle in me.

There was nothing, really, to indicate that you were near the sea, except a muted sound of waves somewhere. And the flat rocks we were walking on seemed to just end a few metres to our left. I went near the edge and had my friend take a picture of me from some distance.

Not until I actually saw the picture I realised just how steep the Cliffs of Moher are, or that there really was nothing but air beyond that edge.

I came back some time later and saw the cliffs and the sea in all their glory. But in this case, I was more impressed by the fog.

ring a sacred bell

As I was walking to work this clear, frosty morning, a bell was ringing. And not through some automated timer system either, as in most churches these days. As I passed the beautiful Greek Orthodox church, I glimpsed a man in the bell tower.

( Picture from Wikipedia )

It must be a transcendent experience, standing in a bell tower one bright winter morning when the sun is rising, ringing a bell that echoes over a still quiet city. But I hope he was wearing earplugs.

the receptionist who wanted to go home

It's a funny feeling you get when you browse through a bookshop while waiting for a flight at a London airport, pick up a book at random and discover you are mentioned in it (even if not by name).

"A wander past hotel reception offers a reassuring cameo, however, as a woman with a bevy of kids surrounding her is engaged in delicate negotiations with a woman behind the counter who is wishing she could press a button that would instantly sit her in front of the telly with her feet up on the sofa, fag in one hand, foaming pint in the other. She opens her eyes but the woman with the army of kids hanging from her arms, legs and pockets is still giving her a hard time. 'But you must be able to fit us in,' she is saying. 'I know for a fact that John Rooney isn't coming, we can have his room.' The reception looks warily at the children, who seem to be multiplying by the second. 'Yes, but it's only a single room ... it only has a single bed ... for one person,' she adds helpfully. 'So what?' says the woman, 'we'll manage.'"

It happened to me. The book was called In Search of the Craic by Colin Irwin - a fairly entertaining account of "one man's pub crawl through Irish music". The author travelled around Ireland and visited all the well-known traditional music events. As I had been working at a hotel that hosted a big pipe festival I looked up the chapter describing this particular event, and almost choked on my airport latte as I read this short passage.

As the receptionist in question, I can attest to the truth and accuracy of this part of the story. The children were in fact innumerable but I did end up giving them  the single room, with the single bed, for one person,  just so I could finally go home and have that foaming pint.

read my mind

Sometimes I check my own blog and kind of hope that there will be a new exciting blog entry waiting to be read, right there at the top of the page.

Well, I never claimed to be completely normal.

Wouldn't I be surprised if one day there was a new blog entry I didn't remember writing. Posted by my subconscious, maybe. And what if it was really eloquent and profound?

darling books: God on another planet

"He waited, shaking, daring them to speak. 'No questions? No argument? No comfort for the afflicted?' he asked with acrid gaiety. 'I warned you. I told you that you didn't want to know. Now it's in your minds. Now you have to live with knowing. But it was my body. It was my blood,' he said, choking with fury. 'And it was my love.'"

Mary Doria Russell: The Sparrow (picture by pauabooks.co.nz).

The books I present as my "darling books" are the special few that stand out in a lifetime of reading. But only a few among these I would define as "books that never let go". This one, and its sequel Children of God, belong in that category. I like books who take on original topics. It doesn't get much more original than this. Jesuit priests ( in love with God ) and agnostic scientists go off to search for intelligent life on another planet? And still, it's all very believable. I bond with almost all the characters. Only one of them returns to earth, the most loveable of them - now broken in body and soul, and accused of terrible crimes which are explained piece by agonizing piece. I'm not a fan of either science fiction or religious mysticism. This is both - and yet I was enchanted.

These novels are extremely well-written. I have seldom read scientific details explained so accessibly to a non-scientist or religiously devout persons made so real, human and likeable to us others. There is a lot of absolutely hilarious dialogue. There are heated debates among the characters on philosophy and religion - the kind of debates I never normally would be interested in, but here they manage to be both profound and refreshingly down-to-earth. There are fascinating descriptions. And above all, the plot is intriguing. After a while, you start to understand the mystery of the terrible tragedies that occur, although you have to keep reading ( which I did happily ) to the very end of the sequel to have some of your most troubling questions answered.

And the story is  utterly, utterly heartbreaking.

"I am in God's hands, I thought. I loved God and I trusted in His love. Amusing, isn't it? I laid down all my defenses. I had nothing between me and what happened but the love of God. And I was raped. I was naked before God and I was raped." 

2012: Cleopatra, a fairytale cottage and freedom fighting

* With much-longed-for solitude, wine and the beginnings of a dream I entered the year of the world's end (according to the Maya calendar). Signed up (on FaceBook) for the Post-Apocalypse Party in December just in case.
* Chased a man all the way into a church.
* Entered the smartphone world and realised my days of texting while driving were over. So were my FaceBook- and Twitter-free vacation days.
* Chinese New Year celebration with vintage Pu'er tea, dumplings and non-Chinese people. Hail the Year of the Dragon!
* A sisterhood founded in the Beach Hut.
* Followed monsters around the Island on Shrove Tuesday and was a little bit scared and very fascinated.
* Almost fell through the ice walking across the bay. Excitement of the year.
* A new boss with digital ideas.
* Once again paralyzed by shyness - in the company of the closest family.
* Finished last in a volleyball tournament with much bloodshed and almost death by laughter.
* CABIN FEVER.
* Lots of coffee dates that never led anywhere.
* Fell in love with the sound effects in Angry Birds.
* Eastern Europe Easter - a dinner mixed with a little African colour and funny YouTube-clips. Our discussion topics: flash mobs, thesis writing, kulich recipes, Bulgarian Idols, man-hunting Chinese girls, Indonesian women who have plastic surgery to look like Korean women.
* A reminder that true friendship includes detailed involvement in somebody else's life, jealousy-free trust and bacon pasta.
* Bought my very first own washing machine. A washing machine is a heavier possession than a car - mentally speaking.
* Spent a morning at the police station and came back with a stolen laptop.
* Two days semi-paralyzed. Questioned the wisdom of getting that tetanus shot, but it turned out to be worth it since I almost lost a finger to the vicious teeth of a mini-turtle some time later.
* Me and my mother discovered  Turkey.  Celebrated my birthday and was thrilled to be brutally/seductively woken in the middle of the night by the call to prayer. Drifted around (lost but always finding a way, and loving it), tried to avoid the flirts, discovered the Turkish language is inundated with French loanwords, felt at peace among the ruins from Cleopatra's time, watched BBC, realised Turkish women sometimes bare their heads and tourists bare almost anything. Saw a camel use the pedestrian crossing, wearing a cowboy hat. And what is that spicy scent that always appears after nightfall around the Mediterranean Sea?
* A couple of clubbing nights with euphoria, beer spray and dancing on shards of glass. Also included a nice chat with my worst enemy ever, until two burly security guards told me enough is enough.
* Language-checked books on farmers and prophets.
* New experience: buying land and watching surveyors do their stuff.
* A summer month in the countryside, living in a fairytale cottage with a sheepdog, getting involved in the village gossip and contributing to it.
* Midsummer on the Island with the Midsummer People. It involved midnight shopping, tobacco flowers bought on credit, cat-and-dog fights (between actual cats and dogs), lots of food and laughs, a lullaby and a spectacular midnight sunset.
* Realised that a five-week summer vacation should always start with pavlova and bubbly.
* Summer weeks at the cotttage: Acted as mediator in dog fights, director of trampoline action movies, rescuer of drowning seagulls, volleyball coach, Twitter addict.
* Squeezed in as much as possible of what I live for, summer's essential activities: beach volley and raft floating. This makes me feel like myself. (And this is what I will be doing in heaven all day long.)
* Family reunion with seldom seen cousins, my hilarious aunts, mixed feelings and a sense of belonging after all.
* Road trip with mother and poodle.
* Proudly discovered that I'm woman enough to change a flat tire by myself, in a mini-skirt on a hot day.
* TV taught me to love my mother.
* Binged on clearing out closets, drawers and even those never-looked-at boxes of stuff in the attic storage space. OCD? Possibly. But such a feeling of  freedom! When the time to fly comes, I will be ready.
* Happiness is a chilly evening playing pretend volleyball in high heels on a muddy lawn, warmed by three glasses of wine and cool people who laugh at  my jokes.
* Impressed my dentist ( one of the few people I managed to impress this year ).
* Witnessed my laptop die and be brought back to life ( speaking a new language ). 
* Got tired of church.
* Found the meaning of life in a great pair of jeans and a great pair of boots. Spent October haunting the city streets and rediscovering autumn leaves.
* Paid my last TV license ever.
* A visit to the maternity ward and plans for the baby's future - these plans included flirts with strangers on a train to Durban, South Africa.
* On the winning team in women's AND men's volleyball - at last!
* Made  my modest contribution (a translation) to the geocaching world.
* Saw fighter aircraft fly in formation past my window and decided I live in a real city after all. Saw a big owl kill a hare outside my window and had to admit I live in the boondocks.
* New experience: push starting a car on my own, on a busy city street. ( Damn French cars in cold weather! )
* Seafood and laughing friends at a semi-oriental wedding.
* Spent the entire year addicted to a TV series I dreamed up as a 5-year-old. Hated Finland and experienced its beauty and quirkiness in intense detail. Trawled YouTube and found fascinating music I never knew existed. Had  a troubled mind.
* And the world did not end. The last evening of 2012 was spent cooking for three hours, but in a very relaxed manner, and resulted in nine courses of real Chinese food, as well as in chocolate cake by the fireside, in the company of friends, when the clock struck midnight.

and they're off! - first day of the year

Darkness and rain outside, endless episodes of Dollhouse inside, not wanting to answer that text message I just received from someone who wants to date me. No plans for 2013 because

"I just want to live now for a little while / and cast my dreams to the wind"

That was the first day of the year.

( Quote from Vonda Shepards song "Maryland" )

the wedding laughers

The couple are saying "I do", and I look down at my high-heeled boots and try not to sneer.

To be precise, I can't decide whether to sneer cynically or allow my eyes to well up from the beauty of a wedding. Weddings are not for me. Will never be for me. I would never do my wedding like this (Plan A: to elope, and later throw a highly informal, fun and boisterous garden/beach party for everyone; Plan B: to just elope). Sometimes I feel bitter about it. Sometimes I sigh with relief that it's not me, standing there at the altar. Sometimes (like now, watching the bride fighting tears) my heart just melts anyway.

This wedding turns out all right. ( My only complaint being that there is no wine and no dancing, but this is not unusual in my circles and I expected this. ) My best friends are there too and at the reception afterwards I get to sit with them at the very back of the room, where I can watch everything but still keep a distance, and we laugh very loudly and the food is excellent. We clandestinely and rebelliously rearranged the seating plan for our table before we sat down, because one of us happened to be seated next to a person she absolutely could not be seated next to, and we get a laugh out of this too. We pay attention to the program at times, and at other times quietly whisper secrets to each other, or coo at a baby, or try to steal each other's complimentary chocolates. As the evening meanders on, things get increasingly laid-back and slightly chaotic, with people slipping off to fetch more food or chat to someone at another table and children playing tag.

I and my like-minded friends constantly balance between  sarcasm  and ... what is its opposite? When a wedding guest's solemn speech veers off in a strange direction, are we allowed to giggle - soundlessly, unnoticed by outsiders but with knowing glances at each other - or should we be generous and kind and smile warmly at the speaker? I want to be generous. I do not want to be rude. But when you don't understand the world and other people and why you are so different from them, it is a comfort and a joy to turn it into a joke and have someone to share it with.

My boots are killing me but I walk home with a smile.

adventure in the aisle

I'm fairly sure that, in the history of mankind, not many people have written an essay on the topic of grocery stores.

I hereby proudly present mine! ( Don't ask me why I have one. )

If you visit a grocery store in a neighbouring country, no matter how closely that country's national character and habits match those of your own, there will be completely different goods on display. There will be the unavoidable Cokes and Heinekens and Rice Krispies on display, of course, but most of the staple foods are indigenous to that country - bread and milk and eggs are of brands that look altogether alien to foreign eyes. Putting them in your shopping basket makes you feel adventurous and you cannot help but think that the milk will have at least a slightly unfamiliar taste to it. You take forever to find the kind of bread that you like and choosing a chocolate bar is a delicious gamble ( at least if you're brave enough to avoid the Snickers and Mars ).

When you live in the same country for a long time, shopping for food gets boring. You pick the same stuff you've always bought, with few variations. In a new country, after the adventure of the first few weeks, you start to hone in on a few items that you've discovered and learnt to love, wonderfully different and delicious as they are, until you've done it for long enough and that country's food gets boring too. Coming back to a well-known country after you've been away for a while is heavenly in its own right, and you revel in buying all the well-known and much-missed food items you see on every shelf.

In  my present hometown, I have three grocery stores that I frequent. One is a supermarket, the one I feel I should go to as it has the lowest prices and I'm on a tight budget - but it's large and I get exhausted wandering around it when I'm already worn out from a day at work. It also has ridiculously long queues at the check-outs. I stand there waiting and remember fondly Tesco's in the UK where queues were simply not allowed to form - but then I find that I have there, in that queue, a rare moment of being able to just "stand and stare". And watch people.

Then there is the smaller grocery store - part of a chain, like all the others - which is quirky because it has all the hustle and bustle of a convenience store attached to a petrol station but is also on a street corner in the middle of the city. Because of its long opening hours, petrol and tiny café it attracts all kinds of people (and I do love places where there are precisely all kinds of people). It's on my way home from work so this is often where I end up buying my bread and eggs and bananas.

And lastly, there is the other little corner shop, on a different street corner and slightly removed from the city centre, tiny and quiet. I never see anyone I know there. This is my guilty pleasure shop, the place where I go occasionally on rainy days when I sit at home watching DVDs and have a sudden urge for a bag of crisps, chocolate or a can of sweet cider. Then I walk there along the seafront, in old clothes and no make-up to indulge myself. And the girl at the check-out always smiles at me.

( And yes, I know I'm supposed to buy only locally produced, organic and dolphin-friendly food. But the people who tell me so have apparently never had to starve. )

where the lovelight gleams

Yes, family is precious. I am extremely blessed to have yet another Christmas with people who love me and belong to me.

To spend a night and a day with chatter over good food, presents being doled out, smiles (both genuine and strained), glittering tinsel, glossy lives being described to seldom-seen relatives, warm touches you didn't expect, warm feelings among the faked ones, too much chocolate. I have not been looking forward to this but I know I will treasure the memories some day.

But tonight, the relief of being alone with only a borrowed (but well-loved) dog for company, in my own home. Of sitting on my kitchen floor and chewing on a carrot and receiving  wet canine kisses,  and giggling. Merry Christmas, everyone!

christmas, but

Christmas Eve. Twilight is setting in. People are gathering for traditional family Christmas dinners.

I'm painting my nails and having a little wine to postpone the inevitable: dinner with my own family.

Grateful for my family; absolutely. But.

darling books: howling in Montana

  They found the signals right away, clucking clear in the crystal air, and they knew the wolves were very close. In the beam of the flashlight, they found tracks no more than minutes old.
  Helen turned off the light and they stood quite still and listened. The only sound was the soft thud of snow falling, now and then, from a tree.
  'Howl,' she whispered.
  He had heard her do it several times, without success, but had never yet attempted a howl himself. He shook his head.
  'Try,' she said softly.
  'I c-can't. It w-wouldn't...'
  He made a little gesture with his fingers toward his mouth and she realized that he was afraid his voice might not come, that it would betray him, and leave him mute and embarrassed as so often it did.
  'It's only me, Luke.'
  For a long moment he looked at her. And she saw in his sad eyes what she already knew he felt for her. She took off her glove and reached out and touched his cold face and smiled. She felt him tremble a little at her touch. And as she lowered her hand, he put his head back and opened his mouth and howled, long and plaintively, into the night.
  And before the note had time to die, from across the snow-tipped trees of the canyon, the wolves replied.

Nicholas Evans: The Loop (picture from dooyou.co.uk). Wolves, wolf-hating ranchers and a heartbroken biologist in the Montana mountains - can it get any better?

darling books: the one that ruined me

  'Look,' we said, 'what is it that draws two people into closeness and love? Of course there's the mystery of physical attraction, but beyond that, it's the things they share. We both love strawberries and ships and collies and poems and all beauty, and all those things bind us together. Those sharings just happened to be; but what we must do now is share everything. Everything! If one of us likes anything, there must be something to like in it - and the other one must find it. Every single thing that either of us likes. That way we shall create a thousand strands, great and small, that will link us together. Then we shall be so close that it would be impossible - unthinkable - for either of us to suppose that we could ever recreate such closeness with anyone else. And our trust in each other will not only be based on love and loyalty but on the fact of a thousand sharings - a thousand strands twisted into something unbreakable.' 

Sheldon Vanauken: A Severe Mercy (picture from eden.co.uk). A lot of interesting things in this little true story: the love of beauty and freedom and literature, C.S.Lewis, finding a faith, Oxford in the fifties.

This is also the book that ruined my love life, possibly. For how could an impressionable teenager read a true story of such an incredible love between two people and ever settle for anything less in her own life?

Even now, as a jaded cynic, re-reading it makes something in my heart tremble. And against all logic, the same resolve re-establishes itself in me: I will not - cannot - settle for anything less.

the pink fairies of poverty

Came home from work with a string of pink fairy lights. Pink. Well, when you buy all your stuff in thrift shops you can't afford to be picky.

A framed print also followed me home. It's of a painting featuring a cow, a sheep, a horse and a rooster. When you buy all your stuff in thrift shops you can afford to bring home and try out something you're not sure about, and then throw out (read: give back to thrift shops) the things you're tired of.

There is  great freedom  in being poor. I say this with no sarcasm whatsoever.

'twas the night before apocalypse when all through the house...

Small. Sad. Lost. Separated from myself.

Out of comfort food (why, oh why did I not pick up Ben & Jerry's on the way home?), shivering with cold, adding to my headache with sour white wine, feeling near death because of a beginning toothache, unable to escape reality but trying desperately, pathetic, indifferent to my friends' attempts to reach out, worrying in advance about the cold weather coming and my car which will refuse to start. Hello, Christmas. How do other people sort out their lives?

Maybe I won't have to, if the world really ends tomorrow. I will be spending the last day of the earth at work, wrapping presents and trying to smile at customers while being annoyed by the fact that the apocalypse will be ruining my holidays. In the evening, the end-of-the-world movie 2012 is on the telly. I will be watching it, or the real thing.

darling books: God made you a painter

  'Gabriel? What troubles you?'
  Gabriel swallowed; his distress was becoming clearer with every passing moment. He spoke to Father Teo. 'Father, I was made for ... for pleasure. You would say for sin. I do not think that God would receive me.' 
  Leonardo let out a single oath; Father Teo raised a hand to silence him. His mouth had hardened into a thin line but Serafina understood that it was not Gabriel he was angry with. 
  He said, 'Gabriel, my son, God does not care what men have made you.' The anger dissolving, he smiled a little and bent over Gabriel to take both his hands up into his own, and examine the thin fingers with the paint stains ingrained around the fingernails. 'God does not care what men have made you,' he repeated, 'for He made you a painter.'
  Serafina saw Gabriel's hands convulsively return the priest's clasp. His eyes widened in sudden wonder. He whispered, 'Truly?'
  'Truly.'

Cherith Baldry: The Reliquary Ring (picture from Amazon). I'm not sure why I love this obscure little fantasy novel about an alternative, medieval Venice where genetically engineered people are held in slavery. It's a bit weird. But it tugs on my heart strings.

I remember reading it in one sitting, the first time. The sitting being on the floor of a train, because I couldn't find a seat, in the draughty little hallway between passenger cars. A long journey from London to Cornwall. I paid no attention to the discomfort or the disappointing fact that I couldn't see the lovely landscapes I was travelling through. I was lost in my book.

impulse and a beanie

I took myself out for a run. I do this very irregularly, acting on a random impulse. Stuffing my cold-sensitive ears with cotton, pulling on a beanie and gloves, I set out along snow-covered back streets. Snow was piled high everywhere, there were Christmas lights in every window, and the lighted path along the shore looked like winter wonderland.

Cold and dark, with enough pretty lights to guide me. And the satisfaction of knowing that soon I will be back home in a cosy chair with a hot cup of tea. I decided to have this random impulse more often in the future.

darling books: wine of a hot bright scent

  But Jay was not listening. He lifted the glass to his face.
  The scent hit him again, the dim cidery scent of Joe's house, with the incense burning and the tomato plants ripening in the kitchen window. For a moment thought he heard something, a clatter and glitzy confusion of glass, like a chandelier falling onto a laid table. He took a mouthful.
  'Cheers.'
  It tasted as dreadful as it did when he was a boy. There was no grape in this brew, simply a sweetish ferment of flavours, like a whiff of garbage. It smelt like the canal in summer and the derelict railway sidings. It had a acrid taste, like smoke and burning rubber, and yet it was evocative, catching at his throat and his memory, drawing out images he thought were lost for ever. He clenched his fists as the images assailed him, feeling suddenly light-headed.
  'Are you OK?' It was Kerry's voice, resonant, as if in a dream. She sounded irritated, though there was an anxious edge to her voice. 'Jay, I told you not to drink that stuff, are you all right?'
  He swallowed with an effort.

Joanne Harris: Blackberry Wine (picture from Wikipedia). While Harris' later novels are too dark for me, this one makes me want to buy a derelict house in France, fall in love, make peace with my childhood memories, and yes, drink homemade, magic wine. This book is evocative, like its wine. It has "a breeze of other places - a scent of apples, a lullaby of passing trains and distant machinery and the radio playing."

the classics and the seducers

I'm a book snob. I don't know how people can be bothered to read chick lit, for example. I generally find crime fiction boring. But here's the weirdness: I don't know why people read  the old classics  of literature either. I try, every now and then, and am reminded of what I realised already at university, as I was studying literature:

Most of these classics are great, on a theoretical level. They are fun to analyse because they have so many levels. And I love to be familiar with them because they are an integral part of our culture. But they don't speak to me emotionally. They fail to pull me in, because they were written for people of another time and another mindset. Another generation.

Perhaps I'm unimaginative, dull, even a bit thick in the head, since I can't get into that other mindset and identify with anything that is too far removed from my own time and culture. But I can't get rid of my stupidly romantic notion that reading should be fun AND challenging, a book should sweep me off my feet.

Reading should be like one of those whirlwind romances that leave you flabbergasted, heartbroken and feeling like you have lived an entire lifetime and in three alternate universes at once.

afternoon in the Balkans

Sitting in an unassuming little kebab joint that has rapidly evolved into the city's most popular restaurant. Its recipe for success is lots of kebab for a modest price, served by charming men from the Balkans. As usual on a Sunday afternoon, all the tables are taken and people are queueing for takeout.

I just got out of bed and one of my friends comments on my wild hair. I chew on my pita kebab and listen to the others debating whether schools are taking a lazier path in educating children. "The teacher said, 'what's the point in teaching children how many pups in a guinea pig litter when they can just google the information if they need it?'"

Afterwards, we walk down the street, snow crunching underneath our boots and the cold biting our faces. The sun, pinkish and low in the sky, makes a rare appearance and you can almost see people's spirits soaring. "Time for coffee!" I say, and my friends eagerly agree. And all is well in the world.

a nocturnal warning

Going to a Christmas concert today. Not sure I really want to. But in a dream last night, I had missed the concert and was weeping with rage and disappointment.

Guess I'd better go then.

goats, clouds and the missing view

When you take yourself up onto a tall mountain ridge in Switzerland, you expect a spectacular view. At least I did.

When I arrived at the last stop of the little mountain railway, at an elevation of 3,400 metres in the Jungfraujoch pass, all there was to see was fog. Thick fog, embracing you on every side. The only things visible were the quaint little train station building and various hiking trails leading off in different directions on grassy slopes.

To say I was pissed off is like saying hell's furies are mildly annoyed. I had been in the country for three weeks, volunteering for a nonprofit organisation, and had so far been a bit disappointed by the fact that Switzerland is not all dizzying heights and deep valleys. During my last week, I had been travelling through the country on a railway pass and had finally got to see the Alps. Actually going up to the highest train station in Europe was supposed to be the highlight, satisfying my desire to be IN the mountains, ON the mountains, at the "Top of Europe". Now I was here, and had to go back on the next train down, and could not see a thing.

Dejected, I walked up one of the slopes ( taking care not to lose sight of the trail ) and sat down in the grass. I opened my picnic bag and got started on my sandwiches. And suddenly found myself surrounded by a pack of hungry mountain goats hoping to get a taste of the picnic. As I was shoving one particularly bold billy-goat away, I realised that the fog was actually clouds, shifting and moving, and that a "window" had opened between them. I glimpsed a breathtakingly beautiful, snow-capped mountain through that window.

I was so struck by this sight that I nearly lost my sandwich to the billy-goat.

In a few minutes, more and more "windows" opened and closed, and opened again with a slightly altered perspective. I glimpsed a mountain summit here, part of a valley far, far below there. Twenty minutes later, the clouds had dispersed and the late August sun was shining. All around me were the majestic Alps, except on the side that provided the spectacular view of the valley below.

It was jaw-dropping, especially since it was presented in such tantalising pieces at first. I was almost dancing with joy. The sandwich was forgotten - the goat probably made off with it.

( Picture from Wikipedia. )

from Russia with robots

I was thrilled to notice that my blog seemed to be hugely popular in Russia for a while, judging by the number of hits according to the statistics. My heart swelled with pride, thinking that something in my writings must be speaking directly to the complicated Russian soul.

That is, until I noticed I was being flooded with spam comments.

That will teach me to be polite ( read: a smartass ) and answer back to spammers.

Now I've put in word verification for comments. And I find it absolutely enchanting, the request Blogger has of every potential commentator ( I can safely say I have never been asked to prove my humanity before ): "Please prove that you're not a robot."

how to spend a happy day in Ireland

* Go to a seaside town, preferable one huddled in the  Mourne Mountains.  Make sure you pick a time outside of the tourist season. Bring a friend.
* Walk on the beach in the sunshine.
* Find a pub of the genuine kind, with flagstone floors, a pregnant waitress and a fire roaring in the fireplace.
* Order the seafood platter and be prepared to go to gastronomic heaven.
* Have a nice drink to round it off.
* Walk back along the seafront and gasp at the starry skies stretching from horizon to horizon.
* Crawl under the duvet in a comfortable bed, in your B&B room overlooking the bay and the lighthouse that is lulling you to sleep with its calm, rhythmic pattern of light flashing across the dark sea.

the Irish saga began with a Bulmer's

The first experience of a genuine Irish pub - far out in the Irish countryside, in a valley where the gorse was blooming in shocking yellow and the air smelled of spring leaves and turf fires.

The pub was dark, as it should be, the ancient wooden paneling infused with centuries of smoke and alcohol and human emotions. There were locals there, people who through my foreigner's eyes looked like stereotypical Irish farmers, but my company - and myself - were the new breed of Irish, the immigrants who were flooding Ireland, loving Ireland and becoming a part of it. Young Canadians, Swedes and Spaniards chatted around me, full of plans for adventure in this magical country.

I felt very far from home, surrounded by unfamiliar things. The pub itself - I had never been much of a drinker - the people, the language which was clumsy in my mouth, the smells and sounds. There was a pang of homesickness. There was also that dizzying, exhilarating feeling you get when a rollercoaster is about to go into free fall. It was a chilly May night and my first night in Ireland.

Someone put a pint glass of Bulmer's Irish cider in front of me and I felt my new life beginning.

hell, grasshoppers and Horatio

Lazy autumn Sunday, browzing Wikipedia over a cup of coffee. Random facts learned and reflections made:

* A Pennsylvania town is home to seven gates that lead directly to hell.
* The Beginning of the End could not begin until 200 grasshoppers had been sexed.
* If you have to be killed by a cyclone, wouldn't it be nice if it had an unintentionally poetic name like Tropical Depression Eleven-E?
* Jalan Jerangau Barat, Federal route, is a federal road in Terengganu, Malaysia.
* The male features of high cheekbones, a strong jaw and chin are an attractive physical trait. (Actually, I knew that already.)

In response to all this, I have to quote the Bard again:

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy"

Jaw-dropping, the amount of information available on my laptop. When I grew up, an encyclopedia was a huge book that was slightly outdated even when it was new but you never questioned the facts in it.

Nowadays, if you want to quote Shakespeare but can't remember the words, you only have to google "heaven horatio" and the quote pops up in 0.2 seconds.

I have also become an expert on questioning and doubting facts. But I still love Wikipedia.

unauthorized use of the superlative

I like using bizarre words. Not incomprehensible, made-up ones, just unusual ones. ( Like bizarre. )

Perhaps because I have a somewhat weak vocabulary and try to compensate by showing off.

I'm trawling the Internet for an application that picks out the bizarrest words in my blog and lists them.

The language police just informed me that "bizarrest" is not a word. Why couldn't they just let me be happy.

never-ending squabble

I'm thinking: friends or New York.

What is more valuable? Why do I have to choose?

"My heart wants roots
My mind wants wings
I cannot bear
Their bickerings"
(E.Y. Harburg)

I think I'll just settle for a while.

the hearing-aid flirt

Got chatted up, at work, by a customer. A guy who had to be pushing 80. Oh well, mustn't be picky. His hearing aid wasn't really working so we conducted our little flirt half-shouting, to the amusement of other customers.

Now I'm gearing up to go play volleyball with the lads. The other two girls who normally play are away, so I will be the only one balancing up all that testosterone-fuelled, here's-for-all-the-frustrations-of-the-week, Friday night male aggression.

the echo song

Can I make an echo here
though this song is much too quiet
Will this sound be travelling on
and make some waves when I am gone?

halloumi and creepy eyes

Leaning across my halloumi salad to whisper to my best friend: "That child is creepy."

The child being a painting on the wall, staring at me with huge, accusing eyes. That's what you get for having lunch in a posh art museum. But the rest of the interior is beautiful and the salad and the company are excellent. After a great cup of coffee, we drift through the souvenir shop and laugh at Andy Warhol-shaped fridge magnets and artificial snowballs that even feel like real snowballs, minus the cold, when you squeeze them. ( Who came up with the idea of fake snowballs, and why, and is this person a millionaire now? )

My friend goes back to her studies and I try to decide how to spend the rest of my day off. The day is typical November: A chilly wind and a grey darkness that hardly qualifies as daylight.

I could go for a run. I could study a foreign language. I could go visit my mother. Or I could wrap myself in a blanket and spend this dismal day on the sofa, watching DVDs.

the table at the heart of creation

A Saturday evening and a Sunday spent having a Numb3rs marathon and eating pizza.

Days are being wasted, but what else is there to do?

Writing is stupid. How can you be so sure, throughout your entire life, that this is what you want to do and are actually able to do, and still have nothing in your heart to express? I have nothing to say. I have nothing I even want to say. Most of the time I just want to withdraw into a corner and leave other people to their boring lives.

Other times, I dream about living in a big house where colourful, opinionated and brilliant people gather in a large kitchen to eat, work, talk, and - above all - be  creative  in every sense of the word. I see a large, wooden table strewn with laptops, coffee mugs, pencils and paint brushes, physics textbooks, maybe a half-empty bottle of wine. I smell cinnamon coffee and a whiff of the wet dog that is nosing around people's feet. I hear voices raised in good-natured arguments on Hegel's philosophy or the benefits of the latest architectural design software, and in the background, Bach or Billy Joel is playing.

In this company, I might find something to express.

the Aberration

I miss you, Dad.

I never really believed that there was anything in the world that the human mind was incapable of dealing with. Until my mind was faced with the task of processing the completely unfathomable, incomprehensible, impossible fact that you were gone.

Not only gone. Dead. One day you were there, smiling at me, ready to give me anything, loving me. The next, the world did no longer contain you. And that was impossible. That night, when I lay awake, I understood the tears and the pain that was ripping me to shreds. But my mind, my logic and intelligence, my readiness to accept and believe in irrefutable facts, failed me for the first time. The fact was there, my mind tried to grapple it but failed - slipped back a few steps - tried again, with the same result. That entire horrible night, not to mention days and weeks and months afterward. My mind was like a faulty recording, skipping back every time it reached that scratch in the disc, that glitch in the software, repeating the same sequence endlessly. Nightmarishly.

You, no longer. You, nowhere.

And faith, which usually steps in, could not help. Faith held me up, cushioned and soothed me with words like "heaven, immortal soul, meet again", but faith is in another dimension. Comfort from others, with words like "you are not alone", was invaluable and absolutely life-saving, but comfort is also there in the other dimension. Reality is here, and reality is harsh and blinding and relentless.

Someone put it beautifully (quote from here): "... she's been in this vague in between lifes world. One life of what you knew is passing away, dying on the winds while the other is opening up and brightening to blind and bleach out your brain. It hurts like stabs in the heart."

Eventually, I must have learned to live with that fact that had blinded and bleached out a part of my brain. My mind is no longer skipping. That scratch or glitch in the weave of the universe is still there, always will be. But I glide past it with a respectful nod, and move on.

Usually. Every now and then my mind stumbles over it from an unexpected angle and falls flat on its face, painfully. And then, again, the shock and horror: You, no longer. You, nowhere.

a boring description of a boring event

An urgent need to de-stress.

My mind suggests a week-long stay on a beach in the Seychelles and then immediately rejects the suggestion for financial reasons.

I walk home from work, exhausted and knowing more work is waiting at home. Decide on a short detour, just a couple of blocks to unwind. A dark November evening.

A stop by an R-kioski (Finland's answer to 7-11) for no other reason than that it looks bright and inviting. I look at the broad selection of magazines, everything from adult magazines and Newsweek to knitting and sailing periodicals, in several different languages. Impressive. I look at the paperback shelves, mostly Fifty Shades of Grey and the latest Finnish whodunits. Not so impressive. I eavesdrop on a conversation between a middle-aged man and the cashier: "The opening hours of Sampo Bank have been reduced again! What's next, all their employees will be let go, won't they?"

I continue my walk through back streets, past the hospital and down the path through the woods down to the beach. It's after dark but the path is well-lit and you can (almost) always feel safe in this town. Plenty of joggers and dog-walkers around. I look at the dark, ice-cold waves washing ashore.

Past a grocery store to pick up apples, eggs, bread, a small bag of crisps. And then home.

And wow, I'm de-stressed.

they don't make grandparents like this anymore

What my grandfather tried to teach me:

How to read the clouds
How to be open-minded, humble, yourself, and loved by everyone
How to play with matches (although not with fire)

How to make coffee
How to tie somebody up so they can't get on their feet
How to comfort the grievers when you're dying

Everybody loved my grandfather. He had a natural, sincere charm, was great at telling funny stories and loved life. He listened with focused interest to what people were saying. Towards the end of his life, he rarely complained even when he was in pain, preferred to make little jokes instead.

I only knew him after he had already retired from his active working life, which had consisted of a little farm with a few fields, a few cows and a plowing horse. My uncle took over the farm and my grandfather and grandmother moved to the little suburb where my family lived, bought a little flat with a little garden in a rowhouse.

I'm sure they missed the village where they had lived their entire life, missed the neighbours they knew so well and the endless fields and the closeness to nature. It must have been an enormous change, having mostly nothing to do after working from dawn to dusk since they were very young. I could tell, by the wistful tone in grandfather's voice when he told the funny little stories about village life or spoke about how he loved the open horizons he saw when standing in the middle of his fields.

But I never saw either grandfather or grandmother bitter or complaining. My grandmother, quieter than he was, focused on feeding and spoiling her grandchildren, on tending to her garden and her handicrafts, and on the English course she took in order to understand the letters she received from relatives in Canada. Grandfather took to exploring his new surroundings, getting to know all the neighbours and helping my father with various carpentry projects. He watched TV documentaries and read biographies as well as tried to think up practical little inventions to solve everyday little problems. He also drew miniature portraits and landscapes (mostly copied from pictures in magazines) on the back of recycled pieces of carton.

They lived simply and sparingly, with a  contentedness  that I have not seen since their generation passed away.

And we, the grandchildren, were always welcomed with open arms. When I was little and my parents were going away for an evening, I took my dog and went to my grandparents, where I played little games with grandfather and was fed sweets by grandmother. When I was in my teens, I used to mow their little lawn, hoover their flat or tune their TV set, and I knew that my reward would be coffee with muffins or cinnamon buns, enjoyed on the patio if the weather was good. When I moved to another city I sent them postcards frequently (often with miniature drawings of my own, to my grandfather's delight), and during my brief weekend visits, my grandmother took great care in packing a goodie bag for my train ride back.

Grandfather was well into his nineties when he died, grandmother a few years younger. My mother took care of them and their household for years when they were too old to look after themselves. But eventually, grandfather spent long periods being in bad shape in hospitals and grandmother needed around-the-clock supervision because of her worsening dementia.

One of the last times I visited my grandfather in hospital, he was dying and barely able to speak or move. I hung back and let my mother do the talking - I felt paralyzed by helplessness and grief and just wanted to run away from that room. Grandfather noticed. He managed to lift a hand to wave me closer, then whispered to me in short breaths - a funny little story again, just to make me laugh. Even on his deathbed, his only thought was to comfort me.

Eventually he died, "being old and full of days". Grandmother, in her quiet way, followed him less than a year later. I still miss them.

granny and the Arabic bottle of life

Last night, in my dreams, I was dying.

It wasn't particularly painful or sad or anything, just a bit of a hassle.Various family members featured vaguely in my dream, coming to offer condolences or talk sense into me. But the main character, making a very surprising appearance, was my grandmother. The more distant one of my grandmothers, the one who died a long time ago and whom I didn't see that often even before then. In my memories she is always sitting on her bed, quiet and gentle of mind, body twisted by arthritis, crocheting doilies until the pain in her joints stopped her. Still, she must have been a strong woman once, the daughter of a farmer and marrying a penniless farmhand even though her father threatened to disinherit her.

My teetotaller granny, who was probably never within a mile of a wine bottle in her life, managed to shock me deeply last night. In my dream she was convinced that she knew a way to save me from death. Somewhere, she had gotten her hands on an  Arabic wine bottle  and if she could just figure out the writing on the label, these words would stop death.

In my mind, as of now, she is Scheherazade.

and so to bed

My immediate plans:

Pull the duvet over my head in my lovely, lovely bed. Feel safe.
Dream of love and new horizons.
Wake up, well-rested. Feel that I'm good enough for this world.
Have a lazy brunch.

in the corridors of life and death

Today I went to the hospital. I don't like the hospital nearly as much as I like the prison.

In fact, seeing it usually makes me shudder. I have never had to be admitted to one, thank God, but disease is right at the top of my fear list.

As I walked toward the entrance this dismally dark November evening, of course I had another horrible, dark November evening in mind: two years ago, when I came to this same hospital to say a final, too-late farewell to my father who had been taken from me without warning. That time, as I waited in the car park for the rest of my family, I was leaning against my car and paralyzed by shock.

But in this hospital, I was also born once. Since then, I have come here on a few occasions, even during the years when I lived far away - to see a newborn nephew, to visit an ailing grandfather, to bring a sick friend to the emergency room one late evening when we had to wait for hours and watched an icehockey game in the waiting room. Once, by a ridiculous coincidence, I had a Valentine's Day date in the dull cafeteria here. Another time I visited a friend who was a patient but also belonged to the hospital staff - he took me on a weird walk through the mysterious basement tunnels.

Today I suddenly remembered these things. I thought I hated this building. But I can't just dismiss something that is a part of my history.

The joy of this particular occasion probably helped. I took the lift to the maternity ward and was met by one of my best friends with a day-old baby in her arms. No matter how cynical and world-weary I am, that sight made me feel that maybe, just maybe, all is well with the world.

a wall between us

I like the prison. (I live near one.) Seeing it feels like home.

The red tile walls, the barbed wire and the surveillance cameras remind me that I'm not the only one in the world who feels trapped sometimes. That not everyone is living the dream. That people can hit rock bottom and get back up.

Even a prison has a daily life. I see deliveries of timber to the carpentry shop, the van that takes prisoners to the court building, the floorball team from the outside which comes once a week to play against the prisoner team, the tired-looking ladies who leave late in the afternoon after their work in the kitchens, the church people (all dressed up) who sometimes visit on Sundays, the relatives and girlfriends who patiently wait for the main gate to open for the weekend visiting hours. I see prisoners in the yard, lifting weights, playing darts or just walking around. They never look up at the sky.

Sometimes when I walk past and the prisoners are sitting at the window in what is probably a common room, they wave at me. I always wave back. Hello, neighbours!

Hey now, hey now  
Don't dream it's over 
Hey now, hey now  
When the world comes in  
They come, they come 
To build a wall between us 
We know they won't win

(Crowded House: Don't dream it's over)

what my mind said at work today

- I'm tired.
- How come I have to type up all these hand-written lists?
- How come I have taken two classes to learn Excel and STILL don't know how to use it??
- Having a cheese sandwich for lunch is really getting old.
- God, I'm tired.
- Isn't it coffee break time yet?
- Oh no, not that customer again!
- That man better stop smiling right now or I will plant my fist in his face.
- What am I doing, checking Facebook again?
- Can I skip volleyball training tonight and still maintain my self-respect? No? Damn.
- Everyone should really feel sorry for me.
- Seriously, it can't be only 3 pm. It was 2 pm three hours ago.
- Didn't you hear me, I'm TIRED?

how to walk through October

Make a different October. 

Put on a pair of boots that not only look great but will take you miles. And a thick coat, with a hood and with pockets that can store anything from your smartphone to a bottle of water and perhaps a half-eaten sandwich - the kind of coat that you can huddle up in, if you don't want to be seen or if rain is lashing down, and feel warm and safe in.

Then start walking the streets of the city. Even if you think you know the streets of your home town and know there is nothing really worth seeing. Even if you don't know why you're not with your friends or fleeing reality in front of the TV. Even if your heart aches because you can't get away to see other cities and other, more exciting, streets - especially then.

Walk aimlessly. Think of nothing. Pay attention to details - to the dirty asphalt, to bright windows behind which people are living their lives, to a million wonders like a sunray through tree branches, a beautiful wrought-iron gate, the glimmering diamonds in the jewelry shop window.

If you feel vulnerable and sad, stick to empty back streets and take comfort in the beauty of the gardens you walk past. If you feel brave, watch the people - there is so much beauty to see in them as well, in the broad shoulders of a strong man, in the long legs of a teenage girl, in the tentative smile of an old lady. Entertain your curiosity and ask yourself what that man is buying his daughter at the fast food kiosk, why that lovely girl is in love with that weird boyfriend, what that tired-looking shop assistant is thinking about right now.

In a city centre street at noon you will feel the immediate and strong pulse of the world. In a quiet street at dusk you can catch your breath among trees in vivid autumn colours and - best of all - hear the birds singing (they do it for you). If you're lucky, you can find a dog to pet.

And even if you are not at the moment in that other city where you long to be, you can take a deep breath and know that in this moment, there is nowhere else you need to be.

I impressed the Taj Mahal

Automated message from Twitter in my email inbox: "Taj Mahal India is now following you on Twitter."

I hadn't followed Taj Mahal on Twitter myself. To be honest, I had no idea the Taj Mahal was even into tweeting. And how does it choose whom to follow? Is an obscure nobody from a faraway little country, with a grainy picture, only a scattering of followers and rarely tweeting at all, really the obvious candidate?

Anyway, I'm not complaining. I must have done something right if Taj Mahal India is following me on Twitter.

bored in a bookshop

Workplace boredom.

It usually hits around 3 pm. It doesn't always. Only on days when I have a sleep deficiency and hence an unwillingness to take on the more demanding tasks (this sometimes includes reading) that would otherwise keep me occupied.

Then I sort postcards or go wild with the discount stickers on books I don't like.

Or call my mum and say: "Can I come over after work? Can we eat something?"

Although if I had a bookshelf that looked like this I probably would find something to do.

this week's love list

Peanut butter on crispbread.
Roaming the streets.
Be Still by The Fray.

Google's little (or not so little) animations - fun, creative, educational.
Freedom.
Skintight jeans with fur-trim boots and a tunic.
Cleaning out my closet and getting rid of stuff - even when it gets slightly OCD.

White Collar (as usual).
Staying home alone.
Being a woman.
Encouragement.

a dump(ed) person after all

Uh oh. I might have hurt poor Anonymous' feelings (his/her heartfelt ones, about the jewelry). I'm not getting spammed anymore.

And here I was already thinking my blog was turning into one of those interesting, dialogue-based meditations on the meaning of life, the universe and pearl bracelets.

a dump person no more

I seem to be getting spam comments on my blog these days. I love spam comments! They are absolutely adorable and give me great enjoyment when I think up courteous replies.

This comment was left on my blog entry "this saved a wretch like me", where I inanely rambled about my breakfast and my coach potato day:

"Good day, sun shines! There have were times of hardship when I felt unhappy missing knowledge about opportunities of getting high yields on investments. I was a dump and downright pessimistic person. I have never thought that there weren't any need in big initial investment. Nowadays, I'm happy and lucky, I started take up real income. It's all about christmas jewelry that is incorporate it in real deals, and shares the black pearl bracelet with you. If you get a chance pop up by my page, maybe you would like cultured pearl earrings."

Aaww. Doesn't it just melt your heart? I feel I have really made a difference in poor Anonymous' life. In comments on later entries, he assures me I am inspiring and eye-opening and that his colleague bought him breakfast because of me. Bless his heart.

a walk-on part in the city

A walk:

* Forgot my scarf and regretted it.
* Lots of autumn leaves, one hit me in the face on its way down and very nearly left a scar.
* Shame and fear, my constant companions.
* The library: two novels, an essay collection on life in Moscow, a movie on DVD, a CD by Snow Patrol.
* Slumped over a table in the reading room with today's paper, bonetired and questioning the meaning of life.
* Sat in a burger place and pretended I was on the run in a foreign city (I've read too much fanfiction) and dreamed of a man.
* Lots of people, lots of dress styles.
* Low, heavy clouds, chilly, a surprising ray of sun.
* The shopping centre: looking for a headband and an English course book.
* The happiness of perfect denim and tall boots. Not to mention red leather.
* The convenience store: apples, crisps, chocolate, butter.
* Sat on a bench in the park by the marina, watched a big boat being taken out of the water, was slobbered on by a lovely dog, felt that I should sit in the park more often.
* Saw the weird ex-psychologist at least three times at different places during the walk. Not a stalker, he just happened to be wherever I went.
* Phrase overheard: "If you were an atheist, you wouldn't be sitting there."

home and breathing

Finding oneself is bloody hard work.

Not that I'm not myself in my daily life, pottering around in the shop, stopping by the grocery shop for bananas and eggs on my way home, listening to the chatter in the changing room before volleyball practice.

It's life and it's mine and I need it. But it's the real world, and I'm only at home among dreams. Whether I believe in them or not.

So I have to come home and look out over the bay, power up the laptop, and breathe deeply.

staff room confessions

Found a pediatrician sitting in the staff room at my workplace when I came for a cup of coffee. Before I knew it, I had ditched my normal inhibitions and was spilling my guts to him about my adjustment problems in this town for the last seven years.

The combination of a doctor's authority and a fatherly attitude always knocks me flat.

this saved a wretch like me

Today's definition of the grace of God, courtesy of a sinner (myself):

Curling up on the sofa, rain lashing the windows, lazy brunch on toast, chicken with blue cheese, avocado, eggs, kiwi fruit, lots of coffee and lots of peace of mind... and watching Lie To Me.

dream reels and real dreams

Last night's reality: I was in handcuffs for stealing bread.

Today's dream: I'm watching the rain and waiting for the day to end.

Wait, no, sorry, it was the other way around, wasn't it? Yes. The first was a dream I had. The second is the reality. Always get those two mixed up.

my way home

(via outcamethesun.tumblr.com)

wolves, an Aaron and yellow pills

This is a discussion among friends, in the pub after the cinema. If you can guess the film, reward yourself with a Ben & Jerry's Cookie Dough Icecream.

"How come she just trusted him right away, a stranger turning up in the middle of a gun fight?" - "Well, he did have kind eyes."
"We never did find out if he had been in love."
"Why was he killed?" - "He had to go find some ammo."
"Imagine that those people just agreed to take them out to sea in their boat!" - "Well, she did say 'please'. With tears in her eyes."
"A physical enhancement of 1.5 % isn't really that much - you could achieve that just through exercise."
"Is that what you do at your job too, enhance people?"
"Wasn't it cool how he woke up all sweaty from a coma and the next minute was able to run around and fight for hours?" - "Lucky she screamed 'run!' at the right moment!"
"I don't think wolves really snarl like that. They are kind of quiet."
"Don't eat yellow pills."
"Only half of that virology theory is true, you know."
"If you live in a big house in the woods, you really only have yourself to blame if a psycho turns up to murder you."
"Wouldn't you like to have an Aaron coming to your rescue?"
"I wonder if seeing all the previous films would have helped or not." - "Well, I've seen them all and it didn't help."

Sometimes you just have to curl up in a chair in the darkness of the cinema. Allow your mind to float and just be entertained by cool sound effects and pretty pictures. Not think. Have your best friends and a Snickers bar nearby.

is Clyde staying behind?

Preciously rare sunrays of autumn are warming the cobblestones around our table. We picked a café table out on the patio because it's a long, long way to next summer and nostalgia is in the air. It's quiet and lovely.

Perhaps that's why we talk somberly and intimately about pressure, about expectations and limitations in a small town. Our deep-felt desire for freedom.

"Let's just go", I say impulsively, playfully. "To New York or London. We'll just go!"

To me, those are the most romantic words anyone could ever utter. If he said them, I would be helplessly his.

Well, I suppose not everyone can be a romantic. He is slipping from me, and I can't even bring myself to care that much. I'm too much of a romantic, even under this pragmatic and cynical exterior. I want love on the run, love in motion, Bonnie and Clyde (without all the dying), hand in hand towards the open horizon, sharing cold pizza and beer and love under starry skies before jumping on the next train somewhere else we've never been. Absolute freedom and endless love.

Not sure I could handle it. But I want it.

roses and slime

Today's collection of random quotes from the Little Shop of Harmony:

"I want to try this blouse on, could you put it aside for five minutes while I go home and take off my coat?"
"I will shut up now so you can write."
"You have to get some prettier greeting cards in. Red ones with roses."
"This morning I broke a bowl just like this one."
"Nowadays it's mostly slime that comes up in the mornings."