from the jazz club to the souk

... she checks out Mozart while she does tae-bo, reminds me that there's room to grow ...*

Well, I'm checking out music too. I've just moved on from the Rat Pack to Arabic groove - none of them familiar to me - and I can feel my brainwaves being forced to reroute.

And my diet this year - thanks to a cash flow increase - has moved from sandwiches to salads ( always a favourite ) and also in a distinctly Asian direction. Sushi - yes.

* lyrics from Train: Drops of Jupiter

paralyzer, my arch enemy

Can't decide if I want to:

Roam the streets of the city right now, breathing chilly air and rustling the autumn leaves on the sidewalk. Being intensely there and yet far away in my mind, aching for other cities and another air.

Or forcefully work towards my dream, sit down and study hard.

Or meet a friend and try to connect my dream world to reality. Or hide in delicious solitude and fantasies.

So I waver, and waive all my choices. Curse my indecision.

Beautiful autumn trees hidden behind prison walls. I think there's a metaphor here somewhere.

où mon coeur me pousse

Je voudrais retrouver mes traces ... Et garder l’or de mon passé, au chaud dans mon jardin secret...

A song is playing on repeat, often on my CD player or my laptop, always in my head. I want to fill a ship with the images and perfumes of my voyages. I want to find the colours in my heart and set sail for the unknown.

Je voudrai partir avec toi
Je voudrai rêver avec toi
Toujours chercher l’inaccessible
Toujours espérer l’impossible
Je voudrais décrocher la lune,
Et pourquoi pas sauver la terre

But above all, I want to find again, inside me, the voices of the ones who taught me that no dream is forbidden. I want to talk to my father.

Mais avant tout, je voudrais parler à mon père... 

( Céline Dion: Parler A Mon Père )

a van Gogh view

In my kitchen nook, on the wall, is a postcard with van Gogh's Starry Night Over The Rhône.

Because, although I don't live by the Rhône but by a little piece of the Baltic Sea, this is more or less what I see when I look out the window at night.

I may not have a good life, or happiness, but I am so blessed. I have beauty.

( Picture from Wikipedia )

a whisper overheard

That feeling when the first snow starts falling and you can hear it hitting the dry autumn leaves in the silence of the dark evening - a strange whisper - and all the wool in the world doesn't seem warm enough, and you get out the candles and the rum and curl up under a blanket to watch The Pillars of the Earth.

And someone is singing outside. The first snow always comes early, it makes you think "oh no, winter already!" and yet, everyone is strangely  exhilarated.

not too late to seek a newer world

Someone once said to me that the true marker of how old you are is the amount of time that has passed since you last did  something you've never done before.

I think of this often. I'm not an adventurous person by nature, yet I take real pleasure in doing things I've never done before (big or small).

And in doing things differently than I'm used to. Creating new routines, or temporarily changing routines.

This year, so far, I've done a few of these things.

Changed jobs. Taken up zumba. Had a hot stone massage. Thrown a big party ( I'm an introvert ). Bought a watch. Stopped going to church. Changed my attitude to a language I previously hated - now studying it with fervour. Taken a more tactile and mindful approach towards life.

And every time you change something, you force your brain to create new pathways, becoming more flexible. Or so they say. Making way for the changes you long for, the ones you never thought possible.

an excellent failure

A day of digging deep into Excel sheets and feeling I've lost my way but that's OK. And there was chocolate cake. All in all, not a bad day.

If you had said to me six months ago that a day involving Excel sheets could be considered "not bad", I would have laughed. ( And then cried. ) I have evolved.

a box and a paradox

A candle, a glass of wine and  a box of old letters.

Darkness falls over the bay as I curl up on my sofa and am reunited with old friends. Many of whom are lost a long time ago, disappeared as the world beckoned us each towards different horizons.

As I read, my phone beeps twice. Text messages from two present friends - one of them a long-standing and long-suffering one who has written a couple of the ancient letters I'm reading. The other one quite new. Imagine that these people stick by me! Me, who take them for granted, who am slow to reply to messages, who disappear into my own world when they need me.

cold with candles

The sun sets behind the tall chimney on the horizon nowadays, as it does in equinox times. I like that half-way mark.

The boats are disappearing from the marina, one by one. Late evenings are dark and some nights surprisingly cold. I don't need the leaves turning red and yellow in the trees to tell me that the  season of ice  is approaching.

It may be the season of being cold and weary but also the season for candles and wool.

let go

 I would like to let him in today.

Because I'm too tired to smile and be perfect. Too tired to fend him off. Too tired to hide my embarrassing flaws and hideous wounds. Too tired to live in constant fear.

I would like to take a little love where I can find it and let it soothe me.

the hero of 2013

Sometimes, ordinary boring days baffle me completely.

Like today: cold rain lashing down, lunch in a little Vietnamese restaurant, and long office hours writing emails in three languages to customers, suppliers and colleagues.

And in the midst of my bored yawns, I marvel over this life.

The unexpected cold after a warm summer - shivering in my too thin layers of cotton, wool and leather wakes me up to the surprising reality of autumn. Diving into the restaurant, greeted by the warmth and my friend's smile and the smell of spices. The lunch hour rush around us - strangers and someone I recognise vaguely and the annoying familiarity of everything and yet, there are  a million new things  to see and learn here. And in the office - I'm in an office, for heaven's sake, moving on to new adventures after years of hotel receptions and shops and lonely rooms, and who would have thought that I would be writing emails in three languages?

Knowing my cautious, anxious nature, it sometimes strikes me as incredible that I have managed to learn things like drive a car or use a computer. Or make friends.

My default settings for what life should look like are apparently stuck in my '80s childhood. When only people much older and smarter than I drove cars, when only the nerdiest of nerds owned a computer, when friends were something that came upon you if you were very, very lucky and Vietnamese food was only found on the other side of the earth. When I was a pitiable creature who needed to be taken care of.

Having survived until 2013, if only to be ordinary, is a marvellous accomplishment.

ain't that a kick in the head

New things attempted today: moon cakes from China and the Rat Pack singing in my car. Both to my liking.

baby, it's cold outside

My small city centre is bleak on a Sunday evening in September. Closed shops and restaurants, only a handful of people around. A chilly wind.

I should be enjoying my aimless stroll while waiting for my two best friends. But I feel my mood sinking. I wander past the market square and see a small gang of hooded teenagers looking bored and two young women with suitcases on their way to the train station. A couple of weary-looking businessmen are exiting a taxi in front of the Radisson Hotel. I spend some time in the DVD rental shop, cheered by its bright lights. There are only two other customers, a young couple picking out a film and buying sweets for a cosy night in.

I feel a dark cloud of loneliness settling over my head.

It lifts when I see my friends. In an almost-empty restaurant, we settle into a dark corner. We eat a delicious, creamy chanterelle soup and brownies with sherbet. I keep my thick, chocolate-coloured sweater on all through dinner - not even the warm lights around us can dispel all the chilliness of this autumn. We talk about death and losing faith.

As I make my way home through abandoned streets, my weariness is heavy. It has been a dark evening. I think of the dreams I had, so long ago. I lost some and found some, now I feel there should be a sense of maturity and calm over my life, a sureness in moving on to the next phase. But I feel lost, and I saw that same confusion in my friends' eyes tonight.

Still, we are there for each other, sharing this like we shared those dreams of our youth. I finally slip my key into the door, arriving in my safe home where a warm bed is welcoming me. Arriving at a conclusion.

It's autumn, and I'm tired and not sure where I'm going, but life is still wonderful.

in the back of the room of knowledge

Today I have been teetering on high heels, leaving work early in order to sit through the public defence of a doctoral thesis, singing old folk songs and eating chocolate cake with friends who whispered furtively about the meaning of words like "epistemology". Like most of my friends there (the respondent not included) I had no idea what the word meant.

But I felt a great joy in being back in the academic atmosphere. Lecture halls have always appealed to me, ideal as they are to someone like me who likes to sit in the back of the room, back to the wall, and see and observe everything, including my fellow students. Doctoral theses are at best difficult to follow, sometimes incomprehensible if you are not familiar with the subject, but this one was actually interesting. I listened and learned a few things about the study of traditional songs ( the meaning of "epistemology" I have yet to learn ).

And I had my best friend at my side. The one whom I was used to having at my side in lecture halls when we were both students - exchanging meaningful glances and passing furtive notes with sarcastic comments about the lecturer's choice of tie, or suggestions about which cafeteria to grace with our presence at lunch. Sometimes whispering with our heads together, blushing when the lecturer gave us a warning look. Raising our eyebrows at the too-ambitous blonde in the front row who always had an intelligent answer to the professor's questions.

It made me almost wish to be back there, on the campus of my past. Taking notes in my bad handwriting, yawning in remembrance of a great night out with friends the evening before, distractedly glancing at a goodlooking guy on my left, dreaming about lunch. Dreaming about a glorious future.

I gave my friend a meaningful look today. She knew what I meant.

walk my dog down a Manhattan street

I don't really need anything feeding my feverish longing for New York. Or for a dog. But this book is irresistible.

It seemed almost incomprehensible to Everett. He had lived with this dog for five days. In five days, his life had come alive for him. His street was full of people, and his city was full of streets. His park, once nothing more than a grand exercise track, was now a landscape, a lawn, a garden, a thicket, a boulder, a swamp.

(The New Yorkers by Cathleen Schine)

a sidewalk moment

September sun, coffee and a cupcake at a sidewalk café table, a friend I just happened to run into.

This was not the plan for this afternoon. As usual, I plan something, and then change my plans on a whim. Or don't plan at all, and just wait and see what happens.

My life may be lonely sometimes, and not quite right. But I am free.

go east, young woman

Every once in a while you need to get perspective.

For example, you can bring your mother and sister and drive through many miles of forest wilderness to reach a few remote villages, connected by narrow gravel roads. Alien territory, to you. There's a tiny cemetery sitting there, with the September sun and a mild breeze slipping through tree branches. It's very peaceful.

You can look up a specific grave - it takes a while, because you haven't been here for ten years - and stand in front of it in silence. Your great-grandparents' grave, Anders and Maria.

In a world where it's so difficult to feel connected, you can feel a bond with these two whom you've never met. You just know that they would smile at you with warmth, if they were here.

wake me up when september ends

Phenomena previously observed in September:

* desperate friends and the King of Sweden (2006)
* edgy Finns and a Sunday angel (2007)
* mind games and an apple fly (2008)
* rough winds and a Mongolian doppelgänger (2009)
* circus dreams and a father's voice (2010)
* mission statements and a metal cuff (2011)
* hi - tech mood swings and a Steinbeck book (2012)

the people of oblivion

The little plastic bag broke, of course, as I was loading it with apples. As it often does, in the little corner shop.

Red apples bounced on the floor and rolled among the feet of two men nearby who were waiting for the cashier to ring up their groceries.

And none of them lifted a finger to help me pick them up.

Yet, I know what it's like. The Finnish sense of independence and self-sufficiency, that strength and pride, is so powerful that the instinct to help doesn't even penetrate it. You see someone have a little mishap - nothing serious, just mildly embarrassing - and your Mind Your Own Business-gene only registers a mild relief that it's not you, and you move on without another thought.

Sometimes I hate my own people.

aux armes, citoyens

In the middle of a work meeting, we stop our discussion of quality control issues in order to listen to La Marseillaise on YouTube and marvel over its blood-and-entrails-heavy lyrics.

That's what you do when your boss' kid is in the office and needs help with his homework.

wish list - and what to do about it

* a dog - bookmark "dogs for adoption" website
* clothes in delicious shades of chocolate, russet and copper - raid second-hand shops (again)
* novels celebrating New York life - check Amazon lists
* downshifting - pray to God for a miracle in boss' attitude
* freedom from my mother's influence - grow up ( but how? )
* perfect boots - keep looking
* White Collar, season 5 - wait. And wait some more.

the happy highways where I went

For four blissful years, I drifted around Ireland.

Well, I worked hard. But work was fun too, more often than not. And when it wasn't, it was still intense, dramatic, volatile. Tempers flared and tears flowed and I seemed to be always madly in love or mad with rage.

No wonder that I was content, during my free time, to have quiet drinks in the pub with friends. Or take leisurely strolls in the beautiful valley. Or hole up in my attic room on wintry nights and watch science fiction on TV. And a boyfriend got me hooked on reading good novels - something not even my years of university studies in literature had managed to do.

Oh, the freedom. To hop on a bus or train ( or even rent a car ) on my days off and take off to the other side of the island with a friend or two. Killarney, or Donegal, or Belfast. Stay overnight in a cosy Bed & Breakfast, or talk our way to a cheap rate at a castle hotel. Do some sightseeing, have a nice dinner, maybe go dancing. Back in time for work on Monday morning. Money never seemed to be a problem those days.

I didn't even have to go far to have a good time. The thing about living in a foreign country is that even your most boring Monday morning at work is spent - in a foreign country. There are strange people, of a strange culture and with strange customs, surrounding your daily life. There is a new horizon behind every corner of the road, and marvellous things to discover even when you are just shopping for groceries in the supermarket. I felt as if I was on a continuous, four-year holiday. When I got tired of the valley, I treated myself to a really good meal at a local restaurant, a cosy picnic all by myself in the mountains, or a whole day exploring Dublin - and coming back always seemed like a fresh start.

Leaving, after those four years, was the most difficult thing to do. It was necessary, because life goes on. But I still hear the siren call of those green hills.

caterpillars, raspberries and other office items

Waiting for emails.

That's what I do at work. In high summer they are few and far between, because our customers in Finland are soaking up the sun on some beach and our suppliers in China are being hospitalized for heatstroke.

In the meantime, I have taken up tea-drinking ( but only in the mornings, afternoons are still dedicated to coffee ), and raspberry-picking behind the office.

Marvels to study in the workplace:
* A customer who has ordered 700 pairs of jeans in a size only a Barbie-lookalike could wear
* My desk neighbour's tales of strange Chinese customs
* A huge caterpillar in the parking lot
* The boss, who sometimes makes phone calls when he's in the toilet. Today I could hear him through the door, calling his teenage daughter to ask: "How much do you weigh?"

Music on the radio, Facebook, green tea with mint, practicing languages, news headlines, speculating what the new season of White Collar might contain, leisurely lunches in the sun, Pinterest, counselling my desk neighbour, online shopping, waiting for 4 pm.

I know what I did last August

Russian smoke and angel dreams (2006)
Endless corridors and meaningful dust (2007)
Black holes and trade secrets (2008)
Old enemies and an even older dollhouse (2009)
Hot players and a sleepy museum (2010)
A cute guitarist and job applications (2011)
White laundry and a blinking cursor (2012)

the no-love curse

I am single and I meet one perfect man after the other.

They are: Single, handsome, strong, smart, funny, caring. Everything that I like. AND then they have some other attribute that I find enchanting - like a talent for music, a love of dogs, the skills to fix anything, a taste for adventure and travel. Some of them even seem to like me.

And then I just, simply, fail to fall in love. Maybe I'm cursed.

on white denim and dead fathers

Things that seemed very significant today:

Being dressed in white lace and white denim, making the most of summer with a trendy terrace lunch on a workday.

Sharing an evening cider with someone who knew exactly what I meant when I said, with tears in my eyes, "there is never a right time for a father to die".

Longing for someone to say, "I'm stronger than you. You can't ruin me."

glittering days

I grumble a lot over my home town. But I must admit, in the summer it has its bright spots. Mainly the  seaside cafés.

You can have a salad lunch by a trendy art museum and follow it up with a pavlova outside the ancient pavilion and a drink on the deck of an old ship. All without ever losing sight of the sunlit sea, the tanned people and the happy smiles.

Your company should be giggling friends or a mysterious man who is telling you his darkest secrets. Everything works when the summer sun is shining over this town.

after all that, I became English

( Another lost tale from my wasted youth coming up. If you can't bear it, go away. But be advised that there may be a mention of Johnny Depp in there somewhere. )

Finally, the relative quiet of a B & B room in Oxford city centre after a very, very long day. A day when I moved from one life into another.

The morning had involved a quiet, chilly walk in the most peaceful of places, the magic valley between the mountains, and saying goodbye - maybe forever - to some of my dearest friends. Two of them took me to the airport and chose the scenic route across the mountains to entice me to come back soon. The rest of the day consisted of sobbing on an awful flight, being nasty to a screaming toddler in the next seat, feeling lost and confused in airports and bus terminals, and lugging around a suitcase as heavy as my heart.

I moved to a foreign country that day ( for the second time ). With no job and nowhere to stay, only the ghost of a promise of a job interview. I got off the bus in the beautiful city of Oxford and dragged myself to the nearest guesthouse I could find.

Later that mild February evening, a slow walk through the city centre and the lively but intimate atmosphere of a university town - birds singing, a bright evening sky, students cycling past along cobbled streets, normal people shopping at Sainsbury's. Yes, there were some of those "dreaming spires" I had fantasised about, but at this particular moment I was more cheered by the sight of a real Starbucks. Compared to the previous two countries I had lived in, England seemed filled to bursting with cities, roads and people - of so many races and looks and accents.

Buying a few groceries in the nearest store, I was struck by a moment of fear again: What had I done? What if there were no jobs? Shouldn't I really buy a cheaper loaf of bread than the one I had just picked out?

Still, to be HERE. In Oxford, in a new country.  In a new life.  Texting a few friends from the privacy of my room later, I felt comforted.

The next day I breakfasted on cheese and the cheap bread and went out to buy a British SIM card for my phone. My first call a few minutes later, made in the relative quiet of a back alley near the Sheldonian Theatre, went to a local hotel that I had emailed a couple of weeks earlier and which had tentatively offered me a job interview if I ever came to Oxford.

"Well, sure, come and see me", said the assistant manager on the phone. OK, that was vaguely promising at least. When he heard that I was staying at a B & B he offered me a room in staff accommodation for the next night, as his hotel was outside the city, in the picturesque Cotswolds area. So I took my suitcase to a storage facility, packed a smaller bag and headed to the bus stop. The logistics of setting up a new life are very complicated. At the hotel I expected to get my interview but was just shown to a room, and the next day the manager drifted past once and only asked me one question: "Can you start tomorrow?"

Well, the strange and wonderful world of hotel work has never been much bothered with things like employment contracts, salary negotiations or compliance with regulations on working conditions. The general rule is: start working, and you'll find out. ( Sometimes even things like your salary, or your boss' last name. )

So that was the beginning of my stay in a cute Cotswolds town. A place where I used walkie-talkies, was bit by a parrot, took long walks in spooky palace gardens and had the worst ( and almost only ) hangover of my life ( which also unfortunately happened to coincide with a fire drill ). It was also the place where I felt very lonely and spent many, admittedly cosy, evenings in bed in my tiny room with thick English novels and trying out various English delicacies. Haunted all the old-fashioned tea houses in town ( one of them had been an inn ever since the 12th century ). And then finally made many lovely and weird friends.

I lived in an attic room in the hotel - a gorgeous labyrinth of hidden rooms, creaking narrow stairs and forgotten passageways. I became an unlikely expert at beating the receptionists' computer back to life, having whistling competitions with the resident parrot and avoiding the weird manager. I also roamed around Oxford and became an authority on its history and where to find its cutest pubs and most bountiful second-hand bookshops.

My workplace also turned out to be a good place to meet celebrities - if by meeting you mean sorting John Malkovich's laundry or accidentally snarling at Johnny Depp for getting in your way in the hotel lobby. ( And yes, he apologised very politely. After that, I was the envy of every woman in town. )

That turbulent and wonderful spring in a medieval English village ended three months later when I got on a bus again, irresistibly drawn to another new life in another new city. I cried all the way there.

* * *

( PS. For all the weirdoes out there who believe in serendipity - I count myself among them: Much later, reading through old diaries, I surprisingly discovered two earlier mentions of this same little Cotswolds town. On my first and only trip to England, thirteen years before, I had travelled through it and even made a brief stop. And forgotten all about it. And about four years before, when I first started applying for hotel jobs all over Ireland and the UK, I had received three job offers - one was at the Irish hotel where I ended up staying for four years, and one of the others was in the Cotswolds town. I forgot all about that too, but by complete chance I ended up there anyway. Coincidence? )

( Maybe my destiny was to settle down there with the parrot and Johnny Depp? Huh. I blew it. Is it too late now? )

the year I lost control

Flashback to the year 2000: My first days in the  Magic Valley,  a quirky hotel in a historic and intensely beautiful valley in the Irish mountains, surrounded by the sweet fragrance of spring. I'm overwhelmed by the strangeness and intensity of everything. I have never met so many weird people in my entire life. They are so unFinnish: they shout, they laugh loudly, they are openly rude, they are intensely alive.

One of my first days at work, I'm standing next to my coworker in the hotel reception as she is being yelled at by the assistant manager. "Around here, we are not allowed mistakes," is her sarcastic comment to me when he's done. The manager fixes steely eyes on me and says calmly, "Don't make mistakes. Ever."

With this in mind, I take a walk later that evening. A winding path takes me high up on a mountainside, through a fairytale setting of crooked trees, bubbling brooks and wild flowers. Unused to the wilderness, I belatedly realise I really should get back to civilisation before nightfall, and it's already getting dark under the canopy of trees. I stumble back along the uneven path, getting nervous. Looking back along the valley, I see dark clouds rolling towards me, the wind picks up and there is the roar of approaching rain.

Maybe it is in that moment that I understand what a sheltered life I have led so far. As an urban girl, I have never experienced the danger in being out in the wilderness at night, chased by a storm. Raised among the polite and coolly friendly Finns who never raise their voices, I have never been yelled at or threatened during my first week at work (or any other week ).

( Although I did realise later that with the Irish, the bark is worse than the bite and you shouldn't take them too seriously ).

As the storm finally catches up with me there on the path I turn around and face it, heart beating wildly from fear and ... exhilaration? The rain and heavy winds sweep over me and threaten to knock me over. I throw my arms out, breathe in the world. This coolly polite Finn laughs out loud and feels, down to her very bones, threatened and unsafe and gloriously ALIVE.

who can be lonely when you're loved by grass?

To leave this, last Sunday evening, to return to the city and a new work week, felt impossible:

This piece of land is home and I've been coming back every summer since I was born. It consists mainly of a lot of grass, lodged between a dark forest and a quiet, beautiful bay. Two tiny and very primitive cabins, plus the mandatory Finnish sauna, house the family in the summer. It seems to me a miracle that this paradise has not yet been ruined - by pollution or noisy neighbours or, even worse, the vague feeling of unsafety that often disturbs a woman when she is alone in the middle of nowhere.

And I was alone, last Sunday evening. This happens so rarely in this particular place that I expected to feel lonely. Instead, I was wrapped in a feeling of warmth, as if the very air and grass and water were breathing love over me. This is not something a pragmatist like me usually expects. It was enough to make me understand what the Celts mean when they talk about  thin places.

the dragon vs. the silver jeans

I know I'm bored at work when I'm cheered up by the prospect of compiling statistics in a spreadsheet.

But: things are looking up! A coworker has gone on maternity leave, earlier than intended, and her most difficult and complicated project has been dumped on me. As much as I've been dreading this, I feel the same way I used to do when I worked in hotels and for the first time was entrusted to take a shift unsupervised: it's proof that I'm no longer the newbie. That I'm capable of doing the job for real. It's scary but you know that once you've  slain your first dragon,  nothing is really difficult anymore.

So now I'm sitting down to work through a list of all the difficult and complicated details of this project. And I'm wearing silver jeans so nothing can go wrong today.

on the courage of men

I'm fascinated - from a strictly socio-anthropological point of view - with the two men in the office, the boss and his brother. The boss is a macho guy, the Alpha male. He is generally well liked but all the employees cower a little when he walks into the room, just because of his assertive body language and don't-talk-back-to-me voice. His younger brother cowers most of us all because he is at the receiving end of a lot of unfiltered older-brother rudeness. He quietly obeys the bossy instructions, and the rest of us pretend we haven't witnessed his humiliation. Even though it's hard to miss anything that happens in our tiny office.

And yet, I have to conclude that the younger brother is  the braver one  of the two. When I was new in the office, he made an effort. He made small talk, asked about my weekend, tried to get to know me. The macho boss displayed the typical behaviour of a shy man hiding behind a tough facade: avoiding situations where he might have to make small talk to a stranger like me, because he doesn't know what to say.

Most women like strong men. I like macho men, but I admire even more the quiet, genuine strength of men who dare to be themselves.

stringing up my Julys

The month of July, as experienced the last few years:

Sipping espresso in French seaside towns and lying to myself (2006)
Smiling at tourists and longing for a blanket in the sun (2007)
Singing bitter songs and fleeing the city (2008)
Strolling on quiet streets and plugging my ears (2009)
Sizzling in the sand and snarling at married people (2010)
Staring at fighter jets and rejecting novels (2011)
Spinning around and running scared (2012)
Seething over snake's beard and living slowly in an office (2013)

poetry in motion (and icecream)

Another slow day in a cool, quiet office...

At the strike of 4 pm I will be out of here. This evening will be spent in the stands watching the beachvolley championships. There will be a hot sun and loud music. There will also be exciting action and some really good icecream.

Not to mention some incredibly beautiful and inspiring people.

self-pity and snake's beard

FaceBook, these days, is chock-full of status updates with exclamation marks. They are all on the same theme:

"Happy days! Four weeks of summer vacation starting now!"
"Last day at work - for the next six weeks, nothing to do except eat strawberries and read novels!"
"An eternal summer holiday ahead!"


A normal Finn gets four weeks of summer holidays, some even more (not to mention my teacher friends, who have something like eight weeks). A normal Finn, having suffered through a freezing winter and a rainy spring, needs every single minute of it, now that glorious, joyful summer has finally arrived.


Choking on rage, I shut down FaceBook and vow to never log in again ( a couple of hours later, I'm back, reading more of the same updates ). Having recently changed jobs, I haven't earned more than one week of holidays, despite having worked as hard as everybody else the entire winter. Even that one week I had to squeeze out of my employer.

And having spent most of that week sniffling from a summer cold and feeling miserable, I feel entitled to more than a little self-pity. I returned to the office this morning, hating everything in sight. Most of my coworkers were on vacation, anyway, so I was free to seethe to my heart's content.

I spent yesterday, the last day of my meagre holiday, dreading the return to work. Went cycling around some back streets near the railroad tracks and found some strange and marvellous things, like a mountain of sand and the place where household appliances come to die.

But my mind finally found rest when I wandered into a garden centre to breathe the scent of flowers and stare at snake's beard and the vivid colours of pygmy paprikas.

I didn't know there existed such things as pygmy paprikas or snake's beard.* So, not an entirely wasted holiday week after all.


* ( Actually, snake's beard doesn't exist, not as a name anyway. Ophiopogon planiscapus nigrescens is called black lilyturf or black mondo grass. But its Swedish and Finnish names both translate as snake's beard and I like it that way. And I get to decide, since I only got one week of holidays. )

by the seaside with strawberries

Coffee, wild strawberries, waffles with jam and cream, a cheeseburger.

The day in a menu, on  the Island.

The entertainment consisted of a vintage boat race of the type that is popular around here, with traditional old fishing boats being sailed or rowed, the crews dressed in vintage fishing garb. We only witnessed the start of the race, as the finishing line is across the pond, in Sweden.

 But the sight of twenty-odd wooden boats setting sail towards the horizon is awe-inspiring. Even when the day is grey and overcast.

The company consisted of a pathologist who handles corpses for a living ( no pun intended ), a politician on his way to Brussels to do some lobbying in EU headquarters, and true Islanders: chatty, motherly women who always try to feed you and men of the strong and silent type.

secrets and sense-making

Seven years and seven hundred entries in this blog.

I'm celebrating with hot honey water.

You may not know it, but this is  a secret blog.  None of the people I spend my real life with know I even have one. I can't explain why I haven't even told my best friend - I just know that I couldn't write as freely as I do if I knew that she (however unjudgmental and supportive) was reading it.

Why not? Most of the things I write are no secrets to her anyway. And why the need for a public blog, as opposed to keeping a normal diary (which I do too) or letting my writings just sit on my hard drive? I like getting comments from strangers but I write even when I don't get any.

I use this blog to catalogue my life and try to make sense of it. To reassure myself that there are patterns and reasons and meaning in it. To be able to look back and see that interesting and funny things have happened, even though I doubt it sometimes. To remember the days of my life in Finland. To encourage someone. To leave something behind (if the internet doesn't die before I do). To have a creative outlet.

To survive, even.

time for the magnets

You know you're on vacation when you stop to rearrange your fridge magnets.

won't let the sun go down on me

Finland is gearing up for one of its biggest holidays (second only to Christmas) -  Midsummer.  Only a short holiday, really just a three-day weekend, but it encompasses all of the Finnish people's love for summer. A short and sweet summer that has to fulfill all its promises. These days, the sun never goes down, so the Finns don't either.

In the office, people are impatient and restless, sights already set on Thursday afternoon, when the office door will slam shut behind us as we take off. The ritual is the same for most of us: we will be stuffing our cars or boats full of food to be barbecued, alcohol to be drunk, children, spouses, dogs and/or friends, and then leaving the city for summer cottages, beaches and camp grounds.

We ignore the possibility of our barbecues and boat trips being ruined by rain or mosquito invasions. We know that dozens of people will drown or be hit by drunk drivers this weekend, but never believe it will be us. In our plans for the weekend, the sun always shines, children are happy and the steaks are grilled to perfection.

Midsummer madness, this year aggravated by a super moon, here we come.

the lady of the wigs

Today's feature: character out of my past, namely the awe-inspiring  Saga.

Wig-selling lady of a certain age, of a certain wealth. Owned a city-centre flat that I and two friends wanted to rent when we first arrived in the beautiful city of Turku to study at the university. Suspiciously told us she did not approve of renting out to students and that her husband would be very upset if she did. Agreed at last, after having my friend's mother sign a personal guarantee that we wouldn't wreck the flat.

Abandoned her doubts about us after a while, possibly after we sent her flowers for Christmas. Gave us hair products in return. Took us out in her silver BMW to a second-hand furniture store when we told her we wanted to buy a sofa. Firmly disapproved of the sofa we picked out, so we returned empty-handed. Chewed out the building manager on our behalf when he dared to voice a complaint about us.

Gently refused, after three harmonious years as our landlady, to renew our contract when we told her one of us was moving out and someone else was coming instead. Instead, went flat-hunting on our behalf as the remaining two of us were out of town for the summer. Picked out a flat, which we rented without ever having seen. (When rental agency showed unwillingness to take on us students, she threatened to remove her own business from them, and they caved.) Proved to us that we were right to trust her.

Is fondly remembered still, many years later. Possibly still selling wigs in her dusty backstreet shop.

the nights of deliberate living

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately..."
(H.D. Thoreau)

Every night, around midnight, I took my big black Labrador and walked down the well-lit suburban street and turned into an unlit gravel road that led through a patch of woods. It wasn't a long road - you walked past a few stray houses on one side and a couple of minutes later you reached a little grocery shop sitting right next to a busy highway, and the road ended there.

On the side of the road that had no houses there were only trees. A tiny  patch of woods,  and I loved to hide in there. Even though you could see the road on one side, an abandoned saw-mill on the other and a house on the third, when you stood among the tall pine trees you felt secluded and sheltered. I remembered playing there with my best friend as a kid, mostly pretending to be Indians or wild animals in a vast forest wilderness, climbing on fallen tree trunks and large rocks. Even as a grown-up, I could still feel the magic and fantasy shimmering in the air, making me shiver with delight.

My midnight walks were pitch-black and icy in the winter, and I used to lean against a certain old pine tree - my dream tree, because even in the dead of winter there was the warmth of life in its bark and I felt stronger just for touching it. I could see the stars, which in my Star Trek-fueled dreams symbolized the ultimate adventure. If I was lucky, there were even the Northern Lights. And I could watch the highway from a distance - nearly empty at this hour, but every now and then a lorry broke the stillness, thundering past on its way to marvellous cities and countries I would someday get to see.


In the white nights of summer, I would kick off my shoes and climb barefoot onto a big rock, still warm from the sun. The sky was bright but the dreams were no less present.

These were my teenage night walks, where I planned my future adventures and believed absolutely everything.

( Picture from scenicreflections .com )

different from you and me

An email informs me that I have been given a pay rise of  1.9 percent. At the same time I overhear my boss, on the phone to someone, saying that his daughter turns eighteen in a few months and that he will give her his Porsche.

I should quote Scott F. Fitzgerald to him: "They possess and enjoy early, and it does something to them, makes them soft where we are hard..."

my need to name and shame

I cannot come up with a name for my new workplace.

I need a moniker for every workplace I have, one to mutter under my breath or to make desperate jokes about, to preserve my mental health balance. Perhaps it's only to make my life seem more dramatic. Consequently, I have worked in places known (at least to myself, and maybe to my blog readers) as The Little Shop of Harmony, Heartburn Hotel, The Supermarket  ( a hotel ),  The Chicken Coop  and  Magic Valley.

But the name of this one eludes me. 

It shouldn't be that difficult, considering it's a tiny office with some interesting characters, such as the alpha male boss who just got a new tattoo ( a massive skull and crossbones ) and the tiny Chinese girl who asks me things like "If you say 'Satan', will something terrible come?" while a frustrated coworker is shouting the name of that particular devil over and over in the next room.

a grey day and treasure

A lazy day, and a very grey day. A slow walk along the seafront.

Everything wrapped in fog, dripping trees, the muted murmur of tiny waves lapping at the shore, in the distance voices of other walkers and joggers. The air was almost warm against my skin. And the fragrance of sea and spring was like a caress.

I even found a shipwreck.

stockholm syndrome

Went to the cottage, my summer paradise. Mostly because my mother forced me to.

It was the first time this year. The family spends most of the summer there but in the winter we never go because there is no heating and no running water, and the roads are usually buried in snow. So in the spring, there is a lot to do: clean out a cottage that's been empty and unused for months, not to mention tidy up the enormous garden. My mother is a firm believer in raking up all the old leaves covering the lawn, preferably every single one.

So I went, grumbling, to rake leaves for more than four hours with my mother ( only half the lawn was done by then, hadn't even started on cleaning the house ). On our way there, I thought of a million things I would rather be doing on my precious day off. Maybe I could buy my mother off with this one day of forced labour, and then not have to come back for another month at least.

When we arrived, we started by stretching out on the sunny porch for a leisurely cup of coffee. It was warm, it was definitely spring, birds were singing, the sea was glittering, peace was everywhere, and dreams of a lovely summer ahead were swirling in the air. After all the raking, I was sitting in the sun again, having a lazy picnic, and I felt my normally busy, stressed-out nerves be hypnotized into a calmness never experienced in the city.

I heard myself saying to my mother: "Let's come here next weekend, finish the cleaning and stay overnight. And then every weekend until September."

widows, babies, students and the mysterious Mr. H

It's been seven years since I moved into the  House of the Seven Widows  (described in this post and this one). Unbelievable.

There are not seven widows anymore, only about four or five. But the lovely one next door still smiles brightly at me over the balcony railing on sunny afternoons, and on cold winter days I sometimes invite myself into her flat for coffee. The other chatty one died tragically after a fall in her flat last year, and I miss having to hold the door for her every time I go through the main entrance. The suspicious-minded one on the second floor is still the busybody of the building. The other day I found her staring in disbelief at the board by the entrance door, where all the residents are listed. Somebody had taken great pains to pick out almost all the letters from the names, leaving only a few random ones. The rest lay in a neat pile on the floor. I found it rather funny, but the widow was trying to decide whether the guilty party was the student boys, a non-resident, or perhaps Mr. H on the second floor. At the last suggestion, the widow was hurriedly shushed by one of the lesser-known widows on the first floor, who had come to see what the fuss was about, but I gathered that all is not quite right with Mr. H. 

There are some new residents as well, and two young couples in the building actually agreed to switch flats. There is a baby one floor down, who has screaming fits at night. A strong-willed two-year-old next door who likes to shout in the stairwell because of the nice echo effect. A female student in the flat below mine with an incredibly shrill giggle on Saturday nights when she has her girlfriends over for drinks. A secondary school principal.

The three male students in one of the big flats are still there, only their faces and the names on the door seem to change every couple of years. They are all tall and athletic, go clubbing on the weekends and probably spend the rest of the week in the gym.

But the soft-spoken divorced man on the top floor is still there and shyly discusses the weather with me whenever we run into each other. And the sweet old couple who  "Sunday mornings go for a ride"  in their car, like in the Beatles' song. The mysterious individual/couple/family who owns a luxurious flat on the third floor but doesn't use it or bother renting it out. The chairman of the residents' association who once suspected me of breaking a window. The bearded bohemian who publishes explicit poetry. And the dentist and his wife who smile at me like we are old friends although we have never spoken.

Funny how you get to know people you never say more than "hello" to.

dachshunds, perch and other wildlife

1st of May, and the almost-traditional hike on the Island.

Meaning bright sunshine and icy winds, and the bliss of finding a picnic spot in a sheltered, sunny spot. Add to that the excitement of going to that little creek to watch the spectacle of spawning perch, and the magnificent views from the lookout tower.

The company: a good friend, a guy who dumped me, his new girlfriend, a pregnant Chinese woman, a couple I have never met before, a slightly mad man, a true Islander (strong, silent) and a fat Dachshund.

on the hill of springtime

The intoxication of spring, in Turku.

After the long Finnish winter the evening is glorious in brightness and birdsong. It's chilly still, it always is this time of the year, but we dress in our springtime finest and shiver with cold and delight as we gather in a park on a steep hillside in the middle of the city.

Around us are thousands of people, all lightheaded with the same intoxication. There is the tradition of centuries in the songs being sung to us on that hill. We look around - at the fabulous view over an old city, at the smart and talented people surrounding us, at the dreams and adventures just waiting for us. All the wisdom and ancient history and exquisite culture this beautiful city has to offer and the endless possibilities of the future.

There is nothing that awakens a Finn like springtime. We lift our champagne flutes and toast to our dreams.

( Picture from abounderrattelser.fi )

the end

Tonight I dreamed that the world ended. It was quite spectacular. Afterwards the credits rolled and then there were commercials.

malaria, Ella and the pink moon

By the way, today is Anzac Day, world malaria day, Ella Fitzgerald's birthday and pink moon day with a partial eclipse. In case you thought this was just any old day.

wednesday's child is full of woe

Thai for lunch and Mexican for dinner; work and participation in a music survey - and somewhere in between all this there were three red roses.

The world turns on its axis. I feel the gravity of this ominous shift. But it was a glorious spring day and everybody loves me, so I will dry my tears and with joy on every birthday count my age in friends, not years.

youth is wasted on the young

On the eve of my birthday I watch the April sunset and wonder if I'm happy.

( I don't usually worry about it too much. )

I have another glass of wine and wish for more time to be creative. I feel old and unaccomplished, or is it unloved? Even though I know it to be untrue, I still believe it. At this very moment, somewhere else in the city, friends and family are preparing to celebrate me as if I deserve it.

And all I really want is my father.

say

Say it's all right.
Say I'm loved.
Say I can go to sleep and you'll watch over me.

me pinned down

What I pin on Pinterest:

* Sunlight or city lights illuminating messy beds.
* Lofts with lots of exposed bricks, whitewashed kitchens, studios with enormous plank tables, fireplaces, cosy nooks with fairylights, balconies overlooking Manhattan.
* Women in woollen sweaters and bare legs, coffee mug in hand, staring out of windows ( preferably windows with magnificent views )
* Women in cars or trains.
* Women reading in cafés.
* Women on midnight city streets.
* Couples kissing in tiny kitchens.
* Women wearing any of the following: boots, knee-high socks, lace, skinny jeans, black leather, velvet, oversized knitted sweaters, floaty long layers, silvery grey, boho jewellery, leg warmers, ridiculously flared trousers, an air of independence, a sad expression.
* Anything suggesting road trips, New York fire-escapes, typical American diners, bohemian tents, beach picnics with wine, creativity, freedom .

the lady of the minks

An 82-year-old lady threw her fur coat in my arms dramatically: "Feel that, how heavy it is!"

I did feel it, as I nearly dropped it. She added, "That's real mink, no second-rate stuff! Are you one of those anti-fur people?"

Funny question to ask of someone at the company that is going to store the lady's fur safely for her over the summer. I smiled my "no" but it was not entirely honest. I would prefer it if the minks had got to keep their fur and not suffer through a life in a cage, but too late to save these particular minks now. Anyway, fur wearers in Finland are a dying breed so I'm not worrying about it.

This lady wasn't anywhere near dying though, despite her age. Agile of mind and body, she questioned me on my life story and told me her own, then complimented me to my boss, had my Chinese colleague teach her a phrase in Chinese and finally departed in a whirlwind.

the storyteller of Dublin (or Better than trying to read Joyce)

"I cried when they told me I was made reduntant - cried, I'm telling ya. From relief!"

This taxi driver ticks all the boxes on the  Dublin Taxi Driver Stereotype Sheet  - round-faced, spewing out incredible stories, maniacal in his driving, harbouring a special hatred towards buses, and adorable. He drives around the city centre, trying to make it to the airport bus stops just before the airport bus and pick up customers there. Today, he has got me, a Swiss gentleman and the Swiss gentleman's son, having talked us into a good deal.

"I just couldn't wait to leave that job, and the supervisor. Some people are pure evil, ya know wha' I mean?"

We hurtle down busy Dublin streets, taking corners on two wheels and barely avoid getting hit by one of the hated buses. Strangely, I'm completely calm. Whatever else you want to say about Dublin taxi drivers, they do know how to avoid collisions. I keep up the conversation just for the pleasure of hearing the Dublin accent and all those tall stories. By the time we have cleared the city centre, we have moved on from the driver's riveting life story to a no less entertaining account of how Bruce Springsteen once paid his friend's restaurant bill. The Swiss gentleman listens with an astonished look on his face. His son, who clearly doesn't understand a word, tries to grab attention by eagerly pointing out Croke Park, but the driver is having none of it.

"See that other taxi over in the next lane? That driver won two mill on the Lottery. Believe it or not, he still gets up at seven every morning to drive his taxi for ten hours a day. Just money-mad, if ya ask me! Ya know wha' I mean?"

We cut in front of a bus and screech to a halt at the main entrance of the airport terminal. I feel as if I heard all of Dublin's collected stories in twenty minutes. Light-headed, a little dizzy. There is no better way to leave Ireland.

no hair to braid

I'm one of those seemingly very rare women who don't need, don't want and don't long for children. One of the reasons I feel like an alien sometimes.

But just once in a while, I'd like to have a little girl beside me, hope and dreams shining in her eyes, and I'd like to braid her hair and know she is mine.

(Picture from Black Horse.)

eggless

Woe to me. I am out of creme eggs.

leaving rationality behind - hello Ireland!

"It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade." (Charles Dickens)

And it is a cold, cold March this year. Despite the heat of the midday sun, there is ice in the air. I hurriedly close the balcony door and curl up on the sofa to eat some more Easter chocolates. Surely I deserve it. I have spent the month trying to learn my new job and adjust to my new life, and now, miracle of miracles: I have twelve days off to forget it all and go to Ireland!

Ireland, my second homeland, so well known and so much changed. I will look at it with eyes wide open, buy the Irish Independent and eat Cadbury Creme Eggs and breathe in the smell of turf fires. I will share drinks and stories with some people I love. I will moan about the lateness of spring in a typical Irish manner. And I, a rational person from a rational, logical country where nothing strange ever happens, will fall helplessly under a spell I didn't even believe existed. I will watch with bafflement the weird things that happen and the even weirder things I do myself under this spell.

There is ice also in the Irish air this March, and there is the smell of turf fire and the blaring of a burglary alarm that nobody bothers to turn off, and there is magic.

love is in the aftershave

My honed sense of smell doesn't only register pancakes in the building. I was walking through the supermarket today, tiredly ignoring everyone around me, intent only on stopping briefly at the cheese section and the yogurt section and then making it out of there as soon as possible.

Then it dawned on me that I was feeling loved.  Safe, comforted and happy. It's definitely not an everyday feeling for me. It was so distracting that I stopped in my tracks and couldn't remember where I was going anymore.

What had happened was that I had walked past a man wearing a lot of aftershave. Not only a very nice aftershave, but one that used to be worn by someone who loved me. I can't even recall who. My father? An ex-boyfriend?

Reeling from the experience, I came home with the wrong kind of cheese and entirely too much comfort icecream.

staircase delights

Pancakes! Was the smell in the staircase today.

I love the smell of food drifting out from flats as I climb the stairs ( if you take the lift you miss out ). As a hopeless cook myself, and with nobody who cooks for me either, I sigh with envy. But it's also a lovely, homely sign of human life.

Sometimes it's beef stew or cabbage rolls. I'm very good at identifying the smells. One day it was something with lemongrass in it.

The smell most likely to drift out of my own flat around dinnertime? Something burnt.

pinned down

My days are filled with work - or at least with loitering in the workplace.


My evenings are filled with a few workout sessions and a lot of Pinterest. I'm inundated with inspiration but it's not much good to me when I can't seem to get offline and actually go do something creative.

on wisdom and nervous breakdowns

I love new places. I love new jobs (and hate them, too). I love having a new life.

Spending 8 hours a day in a new place with new people, learning a trade I know nothing about. Stressful, and exhausting. But I learn something new every time I turn around: through glancing at the file folders I'm asked to archive, through eavesdropping on the boss explaining an invoice to someone on the phone, through listening to my workmates complaining about a difficult customer at the lunch table.

But there is so much more than the business to learn. I try to absorb it all. I learn what the boss is like, just by observing how he interacts with the others. I learn the history of the company by finding in the back of the storage room old products it used to import, rather unsuccessfully.

I have changed jobs quite frequently over the years (staying five years in The Little Shop of Harmony was a personal best). Being  the newbie  in the workplace always makes me feel like an inexperienced, insecure teenager again. But I notice, with joy and pride, that my experience and wisdom are slowly accumulating. I may be a newbie and I may be insecure. But I'm no longer inexperienced.

I learn, and I learn fast.

( And the most useful wisdom I have gathered regarding new jobs: awareness of the emotional dynamics. That the first week is the worst and that it gets better after that, but also that the adrenaline wears off at the same time and I get rather fed up sometime during the second week. It gets better after that, too. And when things finally seem to run smoothly, somewhere around the fifth week, I usually have an unexpected nervous breakdown. )

profane, not profound

Back in the normal world, after a few years in the spiritual and slightly magic air of The Little Shop of Harmony.

It feels like a relief, at the moment. I loved the shop, but I can't take too much spirituality. Right now, I need a workplace where I can hear bland chatter from a mainstream radio station and talk to men in ripped jeans who are not averse to the occasional four-letter word. A place where I'm not seen as a representative of something more lofty or profound and expected to act the part.

I'm not sure what I mean. But I'm enjoying being normal.

at the edge, the cutting one

And so I pack a bag with all the stuff that's been cluttering up my locker, and the little presents received from workmates. Last of all, I throw my own beloved coffee mug into the bag, hand over my keys to my boss and, after a hug and a choked-up "I'll miss you", I leave The Little Shop of Harmony.

I congratulate myself for all the things I leave behind. That smelly customer who always talks a mile a minute (but who is kind of endearing anyway). Always having to smile and be nice to everyone (but what a feeling when a sad face lights up in return). The knowledge that I will never get a raise or a real promotion (but always know that the money feeds a starving child instead).

The evening is cold and clear and there is a beautiful sunset in the western sky. People are heading home after work or hurrying towards the supermarket and I walk quietly among them with my heavy bag. The cold air speaks of winter but the evening light promises springtime. It's already March and today I'm starting a new life. A brand new life. There is so much to look forward to.

But right now, I just want to cry.

page 240 of dullness

At  which point do you give up on a book? One that you read for pleasure?

I usually give it at least a few chapters before I decide to stop reading a novel I find uninspiring. Sometimes I keep going for a while past that point, just to make sure it's not just my restless mind looking for new impulses.

But now I'm on page 240 of a moderately interesting one and my yawns of boredom get increasingly frequent. It seems to me life is too short to spend on the "moderately interesting".

But I only have about 70 pages left to the end. I could skim quickly to the last page. But that seems almost as bad as just leaving it.

What if I reach the last page, number 310, and realize I have wasted many hours with no pleasure and learned nothing? What a dilemma.

walking away from the troubles in my life

There's something about walking home from work on a Saturday afternoon that makes me peaceful inside. Like I'm leaving the world behind.

desk out of service

I dream of having a desk.

My  very own desk,  in an office. With a fancy computer and a large mug of coffee on it, and drawers where I keep my personal stuff like a bar of chocolate, a little notebook for jotting down creative ideas that don't necessarily have anything to do with work, and a novel that I sometimes read on my lunch break.

Around me are fun colleagues whom I sometimes share a joke with, or go for lunch with, but who don't interfere with my work or criticize me if I check Facebook on my break or maybe leave a little early.

A desk that I can leave occasionally to pop out for an errand and a latte or to have delicious sushi at the cute restaurant at the corner.

I see myself sitting there at that desk, wearing high heels because I don't have to run around much and cool, ripped jeans because I don't have to dress up for customers. I'm wearing nail polish in an outrageous colour. No-one can complain if my desk is messy but no-one has the right to mess it up either.

Above all, I can bury myself in my work because no-one can demand that I get up and perform customer service.

love song for Dublin

"I remember that summer in Dublin, 
and the Liffey as it stank like hell..."

I remember other seasons in Dublin  too ( although the river didn't really stink much at all ).

Chilly winter mornings when I came in on the early bus from the countryside and bleary-eyed stumbled down the sidewalk heading for the illustrious Bewley's Cafe for a real breakfast of creamy oatmeal porridge with honey or, more often, the traditional scrambled eggs with toast, fried mushrooms and hashbrowns. Wonderfully fresh, fragrant spring afternoons in the lush St. Stephen's Green park, watching the ducks. Dismal, grey autumn days when I ducked into an old, dark-panelled pub to avoid a surprising rain shower and discovered that a fire was roaring in the fireplace. And yes, hot summer afternoons when I walked for miles along dusty streets, exhausted in my quest for adventure - a good time to seek refuge in the air-conditioned cinema and sink into a comfortable velvet chair with a bag of popcorn.

Dublin is a small city, by comparison, but it has a big-city atmosphere. It has no skyscrapers. Neither is it particularly pretty in the eyes of a foreigner who expects all of Ireland to look like a postcard. It is grey, worn-down in places, eye-poppingly modern in others and sometimes downright ugly ( it does have its picturesque spots, though ). I hated it at first.

But Dublin doesn't allow anyone to hate it. Its raw, abrasive charm got to me pretty fast. Maybe it was the buskers in the streets - incredibly talented musicians, performers, and comedians who had everyone in stitches. Or the mix of trendy coffee shops and ancient pubs. Or it could have been the fact that you can walk into a beautiful old church and discover that it holds the sacred remains of St. Valentine.

What definitely got to me though, were the intense evenings spent with friends over good food in lively restaurants, followed by a jaunt in the  Temple Bar  area filled with pubs, music and chatty people.

As I lived far outside the city, Dublin was for me the place where I came on a day off and spent the entire day before catching the evening bus back home. Arriving early in the morning after a tiring ninety-minute bus ride, breakfast was always the first priority ( and Dublin does do some marvellous breakfasts ). Afterwards, I strolled through the city, taking my time. It was a heaven filled with great bookshops, pretty clothes and some fantastic traditional markets - like Moore Street with its crowd of fruit stalls where Irish matrons call you "love" and some of them still get their wares in using a horse-drawn cart, or the boho chic George's Street Arcade. In the early days, I did a lot of exploring, sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. Later on, my idea of a perfect Dublin day would include at least an hour in one of the internet cafés that were all the rage at the time ( this was in the days before everyone got their own laptop, smartphone and/or iPad ). Sitting in front of a computer with a latte, the whole world was at my disposal.

Lunch would preferably be had at the Winding Stair ( what could possibly be better than a bookshop-cum-café with great food? ) and after more leisurely strolling and shopping - don't forget another latte - I often went to the cinema.

Dusk often found me walking back through town, enjoying the lively early-evening bustle as people did their after-work shopping and socializing. There was always a great atmosphere in Grafton street, the main shopping street, and many buskers to be admired. And before you go back to your tiny village, you have to visit a grocery store to stock up on the essentials - chocolate, fresh mushroom salad, a bottle of wine, fruits and cheese, The Irish Independent newspaper. If there was still time, a T.G.I.Friday's with lovely milkshakes - made by a juggling bartender, of course - was conveniently located near the bus stop and I could count on finding friends also waiting for the bus there.

Still, there were sides of Dublin I didn't like. The fact that I always felt nervous and insecure after dark, the times I chose to stay over with a friend. The cold, restless nights trying to sleep in a poorly heated spare room in some suburb. The absolute madness of the traffic when I made the mistake of driving a car through the city - and I always got lost.

But Dublin is irresistible. Because there is nothing like going to see the magic library of Trinity College, or the zoo, or the fishing village "suburb" of Howth, with the one you love.

( Pictures: bicyclebandit.deviantart.com, visitdublin.ie, dubhliving.com )

fabric and not-quite-a-helicopter

Cut out pieces of fabric and glue them to a paper.

That was the first task given to me. First day on a new job. At least the pieces had pretty names: aubergine, anthracite, chocolate.

I cannot believe I have moved on to yet another trade. I have to abandon the book shop and the charity work and instead learn the clothing business and how to make money.

Is there a more awful day on earth than your first day at a new job? You don't know anything or anybody. Everybody else in the room knows everything and everybody. It doesn't matter if you are smarter and better educated and more skilled than they are - you feel like a ten-year-old and have to prove all of the above.

You have to be charming all day and get to know dozens of people you've never met before. You have to ask all the right questions and pay attention to everything to find answers to even more questions. There are so many unwritten rules in a workplace, obvious to everyone except the new girl, like where to park your car, who makes the coffee, can you use that shelf in the fridge, how long exactly is a coffee break?

I listened, I watched, I asked questions, I was charming. I didn't learn much about the clothing business. But I learned that the company has expensive computers and a messy storage room. And that the sound of an army helicopter about to land just outside the window is just the boss arriving in his monstrous SUV.

with Marc and the Radio Doctor

Listening to: Marc Cohn
Promise of the week: "I'll take you in to town and let you try out an office chair."
Phrase overheard today: "I would stick my finger in my mouth but the  Radio Doctor  said you shouldn't do that."
Thinking about: How to work full time without dropping dead. And what I'll buy for all the money I'll make.
Waiting for: Spring.

yawn and Valentine's Day

Got up at: 8.50 AM
Breakfast: Muesli with yogurt and honey
Weather while walking to work: Overcast, minus 2 degrees Celsius, snow on the ground
Work: Opened the shop. Sold books and second-hand clothes. Spent hours at the computer entering books into the database.
Mood: Cranky (morning), peaceful (afternoon).
Best things today: Chocolate mousse pastry brought by ex-workmate; the simple, pleasant task of monotonous computer work; taking a break to watch the penkkis tradition of students in fancy dress going around town in open lorries, screaming and throwing sweets to spectators.
Evening activities: Fanfiction and Pinterest browsing, a glass of wine.

And the award goes to: Me, for most boring blog entry of the year. Yawn.

a pile of phrases

What I collect:

( Not much. Usually, I try to get rid of stuff as fast as possible. )

* experiences: everything from trying an electric cigarrette to long journeys.
* personal photos and journals.
* quirky / funny things people say. Example: "You look very oriental today. There's something of the Taj Mahal over you."

And now I have unexpectedly gone back to the habit I had in my student days, cutting out words and phrases I like from magazines. I don't quite know what to do with them.

Just now, as I was brewing a cup of tea, I looked at the teabag and then grabbed the scissors and cut out the words "tea blackcurrant" from the label.

Phrase that caught my eye and my heart today: "When I'm feeling weird or sad, the city looks after me."

someone has to stand up to those green pigs

When the going gets tough ... the tough play Angry Birds.

Instant stress relief. Because how can you keep worrying about work, money and love when there are grunting green pigs to blast to pieces?

Angry Birds is the first - the ONLY - game where the sound effects are part of the entertainment. Nowadays, I can't look at the fat sparrows in the tree outside my window without wondering what cute little "Ow!" noises they would make slamming headfirst (willingly, I should add) into a wall, feathers flying everywhere.

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.