it's a class thing

I like  evening classes,  the kind you take at adult education centres or community colleges.

Every now and then I join one. I'm doing one right now. I gravitate towards computer classes since they are so useful and so quickly forgotten. ( I have taken a beginner's course in Microsoft Excel about three times. I still don't know how to use it. )

 

The teacher is invariably some middle-aged or elderly man who is used to teaching computer skills to middle-aged and elderly women. He takes us through things slowly, carefully answers also rather irrelevant questions by the more talkative students, while I drum my fingers against the keyboard impatiently. Usually the course content is spread out over maybe five lessons when it could be easily condensed into two.

But the atmosphere is always so gentle and warm. There is no pressure to actually learn anything unless you want to, since there is never an exam. The students are mature, uncompetitive and friendly - attending out of a genuine interest towards the subject.

And the best part, there is usually a coffee break. Even an introvert like myself finds it strangely enjoyable to sip bad coffee ( when you know you shouldn't, because it's evening ) and chat with complete strangers. Because the evening class type of stranger is always so nice.

I also do language courses sometimes, French or Finnish ( my mother tongue is Swedish ). Although this kind of course requires you to actually study between lessons. They are also more unpleasant since you are often asked to make conversation in the foreign language. I employ my usual tactics for these situations, attack is the best form of defence, and take the lead so I can monopolise the easiest phrases.

Then there are sports classes of course. I took one in zumba because I had no idea what it was and was scared to try it at a regular fitness club - it was less frightening to try it out in the company of grannies. A badminton class became my salvation one winter in a very remote village when I suffered from cabin fever - it would never have occurred to me to take up that particular sport, but the only alternative was soccer so it was a question of the lesser of two evils. Turned out badminton is a lot of fun.

Once I also tried wirework, where my proudest achievement was a rather horrible basket that I lugged unfinished through city streets one late night after the last class. ( Too embarrassed to take it on the bus so had to call my dad to come and pick me up. )

My most memorable evening class was in self-defence, taught by a female expert on martial arts. It was awesome. We got to sit on each other and try to gouge each other's eyes out.

Mostly I like my evening classes because of the feeling I get on dark winter evenings when I make my way through cold streets to get there and spread out my notebooks on the desk. It's a very rare feeling of community. Of belonging.


( If you are still not convinced to try this feeling of community, read Maeve Binchy's Evening Class. )

the anti-depressant was shining today

One day you walk through a pretty forest and feel depressed because there has been  no sun for a month.  It's like living underneath a wet grey wool blanket.

A few days later, you trudge down a dusty city street. Joyfully, because the sun is shining again.

time to turn at Beauty's glance

Monday morning and I try to work out what to do with my day now that there's no job to go to.

The plan for today includes picking up a parcel containing my new boots, eagerly anticipated. Have coffee with my mother and sister. Stop by the unemployment office to get some more forms to fill out ( necessary evil ). Maybe indulge my guilty pleasure and do another round hunting for treasures at the flea market. Be out on the town and do some people-watching. All these things I never seemed to have energy for when working full-time.

Before that, I will stay on my sofa for a few minutes more, finishing my mug of coffee and watching the first migrating birds returning to the bay.

One part of me, usually cowering behind the anxiety, is happy to finally have time to watch the birds and the bay.


( Title from W.H.Davies' poem "Leisure" )

pop some tags

When you are down on your luck, you should get yourself a faux shearling coat from that thrift shop down the road. Only got twenty euro in my pocket but it was enough.

first day on the dole

The worst happened ( employment-wise ) and I was told yesterday that it was my last day at work. And I had just begun to feel fairly confident that my job was safe after all.

My plans for  dealing with a crisis  like this usually involves getting ( moderately ) drunk the first evening. Instead, I went to a computer course I had signed up for earlier and sat there trying to concentrate on rectangle frame tools and on being sociable with my coursemates during the coffee break. Coming home, I was too exhausted to even contemplate alcohol.

My plans for the following days looked like this: get up early, get showered and dressed and breakfasted, make sure the house is tidy - in short, make sure all circumstances are optimal when I then sit down at the computer to start the whole business of job searching, CV writing and unemployment benefit application.

I should know by now that I never do that. I got up this morning and despair drove me straight to the computer. By noon I was still in my PJs, hair looking like a rain forest, stomach growling for breakfast. But most of the bureaucracy was done and despair had settled into something almost resembling optimism.

Or at least I was chasing the dog around the house, singing "Have You Ever Really Loved A Woman". That must be the same thing.

ponies and Proust

* Reading Donald Duck comics or pony stories at my parents' kitchen table as a child - forgetting to eat and making my meal last for hours, until my mother had to outlaw reading at mealtimes.
* During university days, sneaking away from studies and lectures in order to escape reality in a café with a magazine or a cheap thriller.
* As an overworked receptionist, hunching over a Proust or Rushdie novel during short lunch breaks in the hotel kitchen ( attracting ridicule from coworkers ).
* Browsing fanfiction on the internet while enjoying a drawn-out weekend brunch at home.

My history of combining food with literature is long and pleasant. They say it's not good for your food experience. But it sure is good for my literature experience.

the java is lava

Scientific observation of the day:

If you forget to turn off the coffee-maker overnight and there is coffee left in the pot, in the morning it will look like solidified bubbly lava and make an impressive hissing sound when you try to rinse the pot out with water.

when in doubt, don't ask a poodle

The good thing with Finland is that the wilderness is never far away.

Two minutes walk from my suburban residence, you will find yourself seeing nothing but wide, flat fields and the occasional old farmhouse. And the ancient barns for storing hay, so typical for this region and so beautiful.

Leave the fields and go into the forest and you can really get lost. I used to wander here as a teenager, for miles and hours. Even with my good sense of direction, I often found myself not sure of the way back. But my faithful companion, a Labrador, only needed to hear the command "go home!" and in the middle of whatever unknown part of this vast forest, he would unerringly set a straight course and lead me home.

My present companion, the poodle, just gives me a confused look in the same situation, and brings me a stick to throw instead.

the accidental resident

"Thank God this is not my real life" is a thought that goes through my head often as I, the temporary resident, walk through suburbia. The pastel-coloured houses all have a matching pastel-coloured garage and a pastel-coloured little shed to hide the garbage bins.

I seem much better suited to take up  temporary residence  in other people's houses, preferably small flats with views over rooftops or other beautiful landscapes. A house with many rooms seems too vast. I shiver with cold and vulnerability when I have to walk through the kitchen to get from the guest room to the bathroom in the morning. I retreat to that particular corner of the sofa, that particular chair at the large kitchen table, and the rest is part of the outside world to me. I make my home in these tiny spots, venture out to explore the world around and then come back to read and write. Alone. With few possessions - the fewer the better - and  plenty of freedom.  A good life, in its unique way, but how did it become mine?

Trying out the little luxuries that are not part of my usual life feels oddly risky and I have to tackle them one at a time. Today I made espresso for the first time in my life. Yesterday I lit a fire in the fireplace. There is joy in each new exploit.

Even in clearing snow off the driveway this morning. The poodle was barking at me, my mittens got wet, I was a little out of breath. And I was happy.

dictionary of aniseed, odour and zagreb

The owners of the house and the poodle that I'm babysitting for the next couple of weeks wrote me a  manual  from A to Z to cover any information I might require to operate the boiler, flatscreen, poodle etc. A lot of useful information, certainly. But apparently there wasn't enough information for every letter of the alphabet, so they added some.

A is for Aniseed ( where to find ), a spice I have never had any need for in my entire life ( a fact they know very well ).

A is also for Axe: "Wait a second now! Ask yourself first, why do I need an axe? A can opener is found in the top drawer. An axe is found in the garage but we're not telling you where...."

C is for Candy: "See 'Craving'."

C is also for Craving: "See 'Candy'."

I is for Irresponsible: "If you suddenly start feeling irresponsible and wild, no cause for panic! It's the wilderness of the 'burbs getting to you. Put the TV and Facebook on, and you should feel an immediate relief."

O is for Odour: "The shower is for your use. Please wipe the floor afterwards ( we said afterwards! )"

S is for Stubbornness: "A frequent occurrence in the poodle. Can be cured by cuddling, and additional cuddling."

W is for Water: "If water is coming out of places it's not supposed to, don't act out 'Singing In The Rain' but TURN OFF THE MAIN VALVE."

X is for Xantippa ( followed by facts about Socrates' wife ). Cross-referenced with the name of a mutual acquaintance.

Z is for Zagreb, Archdiocese of ( followed by an excerpt from Wikipedia ). Apparently in case I have a sudden urge to go to Croatia and find religion.

mud and espresso in the 'burbs

Curled up in a red sofa. I'm in an empty, rather chilly house on a dark winter evening so I chose the room that has the sofa and a flatscreen and gathered around me my laptop, a novel, my diary, my phone, a glass of wine, a dog, and the remote to the flatscreen.

I seem to have acquired a reputation as the go-to woman for people who need someone to babysit their pets and house when they go on holiday. Last time it was the quaint cottage and the sheepdog in a summer village, before that a messy house with two indifferent cats. This time it's midwinter and I'm stationed in a suburb of pastel-coloured houses, in a house that feels much too large for me and shows the wear and tear and clutter of a family with several children. My companion is a high-strung but ultra-cute poodle.

I claim a couple of spots in the house for myself - the kitchen table, the guest bedroom, a shelf in the bathroom for my stuff, and this red sofa. It's a bit like camping ( including a rather uncomfortable bed ) but there are things to enjoy here. Like the espresso maker, a real fireplace, the sauna, and a garage door that can be remotely opened as you pull up in the driveway. ( This last detail I enjoy with childish pleasure. My car, which has always had to endure winter storms and summer heat parked out in the street, probably thinks it has died and gone to Citroën heaven ).

And someone else's extensive CD collection, an unexplored bookshelf and even a miniature pool table.

I love having a daily life that is all new to me. Even the most boring morning routine seems like an opportunity to reinvent yourself into the person you always wanted to be. And there is a new neighbourhood to explore.

So today's tasks included negotiating a pot-holed road to work, wiping mud off poodle paws and listening to Sigur Rós.

change and dog bite

The end has not yet arrived. I still go to the office every day to watch the boss try to save the company.

I pretend to be like everyone else, silently chewing nails, trying to not go into hysterics about unemployment and money problems. But inside, I secretly cherish the thought of change in almost any form. Am I odd? Just a symptom of a boring life?

In the meantime, this February is a diluted version of winter. No bright sunshine on white snow, so cold it burns your skin. Instead, the occasional wet blanket of slush that quickly melts into a thick grey soup of mud and water.

Yesterday I moved furniture around my tiny flat and was bitten by the dog that I hug so often. Talked to a friend who probably thought I was distracted and incoherent. Today I will dye my hair brighter, make oven sandwiches, play volleyball and prepare myself for a week of temporary and maybe permanent change.

( Photo by Linda Strömberg-Yucak for Vasabladet )

the hostile time of day

I wish I liked mornings. Mornings are beautiful, fresh, the promise of new possibilities.

But I'm always so tired - or, even when I'm not tired, during that time of the day I'm weak and vulnerable. And mornings are also hostile, always out to get me.

Today, the morning was giving me a break. Out earlier than I usually would be on a Saturday, walking a borrowed poodle, there was  a cessation of hostilities.  The morning, the poodle and I walked in peaceful silence. 

tea, then the end

Statistics and tea of fragrant spices.
The murmur of the radio in the other room.
The peace of an almost empty office and snow falling outside.

The strange harmony in not knowing whether all this is coming to an end on Friday. On Monday, I might be collecting unemployment. Until then, I create pie charts and drink more tea.

let's cancel Sundays

I'm sick of Sundays.

They are supposed to be so good. You know, sleep in, lazy brunch, big mugs of good coffee. So far, usually so good. But then comes the afternoon and I'm browsing my favourite websites, reading a novel, looking out over the sea, enjoying my solitude. And I want to write something. And I can't.

And I'm painfully aware of the fact that in a few hours, my precious weekend is over and it's back to work. I sit here, wanting to be creative and not capable of it. Going for a walk puts me in a worse mood, at least when the weather is bad ( as it always is in February ). Meeting a friend ruins the rare me-time that I so desperately need. Nothing entertains me, I just want to MAKE SOMETHING.

Suddenly, the wonderful Sunday is just an empty, dull stretch of time. The clock ticking down towards Monday morning.

olympics and reeks

Watching the Olympic opening ceremony and wondering, once again, how anyone can accept that their country goes by the name of Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia.

It sounds very pretty in French, though.

Someone reminded me today that there is a mountain range in Ireland named Macgillycuddy's Reeks. Now that's a name I can fully stand behind. Put me in a good mood instantly.

you shall love your crooked neighbour with your crooked heart

In deep midwinter, the little old lady next door to me died.

I suspected it had happened but couldn't find anyone who could confirm it or tell me how it happened. At last, there was a death notice in the paper. The funeral was already done.

Now I can spend summer evenings on the balcony without anyone peeking in from the next balcony to coax me into a chat I don't feel like having. Now I won't be late for appointments because I was held up by the elevator by a lonely little lady talking about her aches and pains.

I feel a little colder, a little more lonely, a bit like bursting into tears.

glitter zipper comfort

When you are losing your job and are really scared, you should go and buy yourself a glitter skirt with a golden zipper. On your lunch break. So I did.

( But only if you need it. And it's on massive sale. I'm an anti-consumerist. )

( And I'm a woman. In need of comfort. )

only lasting thing

“The unreal is more powerful than the real. Because nothing is as perfect as you can imagine it. Because it’s only intangible ideas, concepts, beliefs, fantasies that last. Stone crumbles. Wood rots. People, well, they die. But things as fragile as a thought, a dream, a legend, they can go on and on. If you can change the way people think, the way they see themselves, the way they see the world — you can change the way people live their lives. That’s the only lasting thing you can create.”

( Chuck Palahniuk: Choke )

the lazy, lovely weekend of doom

After a year of long working weeks and of weekends that always ended too soon, this weekend is endless.

I slouch on the sofa, eat pizza slices and read fanfic. Dragged myself out of the house twice, for zumba and volleyball, then went back to the sofa and the pizza. I have slept in, pondered the meaning of life and made some progress reading a difficult novel. And somewhere among all this even found the time to hoover the flat and do laundry. This is more than I usually accomplish in an entire week. And the weekend is not even over yet.

Fascinating, the new perspective you get on weekends, on everything, when you know that on Monday morning, your safe and slightly boring job may no longer exist.

waiting for Godot was much more fun

In the office. I'm celebrating - with berry tea - the one-year anniversary of the day I was told I had got this job. A big day for me.

My coworker Butterfly is worried over the fact that business is slow. She saunters over to the boss for a little chat. He confirms what we have been silently dreading but too afraid to ask about: layoffs ( temporary or not, he doesn't say ) may be on the horizon. As soon as the other boss comes in to the office, we will all sit down for a meeting to discuss it.

Butterfly and I spend the day whispering about it. She finds it difficult to concentrate on her task of clearing out old files and I stare distractedly at the business quality plan I'm incompetently trying to put together. At last, the other boss arrives, but there is no sign of that meeting about to take place. We wait, biting our nails. "They probably want to have it at the end of the work day," Butterfly whispers. "In case we run home crying," I agree, grinning.

The boss walks past a few times, getting his coffee refill. The other boss comes over to discuss the quality plan. And then, it's 4 pm. Butterfly and I put our coats on, shout "see you tomorrow" towards the boss' room and go home.

None the wiser. What a day.

my liege

I am being controlled by one person. If not for that person I would feel less guilty, take more road trips, go live in another country, be true to myself, not worry, love freely.

But how do I break free? When that person has given me everything and keeps giving? When I owe my loyalty, my love, my whole life to someone who would not survive without it?

2013: the year of crooked seams, introverted dates and a cucumber candy cactus

"I'm a hopeless wanderer and I will learn, 
I will learn to love the skies I'm under"
(Mumford & Sons)

The year 2013:

* The New Year: eating Sacher Torte in front of a roaring fire after an eleven-course Chinese dinner, saying "I have no illusions that my life will change at all this year".
* Not three days later, a big change in the form of zumba.
* Not four weeks later, a massive change in the form of a new job. Now emailing China about high-visibility fabric and heat transfer prints, sorting out button holes for prison guards and sleeve badges for firemen.
* Other changes included: not feeling like a nerd anymore, spending 40 hours a week with complete strangers, spending too much time at work, having too little to do, studying languages out of sheer boredom, witnessing one disastrous crisis after the other.
* Not being dirt poor anymore: the happiness of buying a bottle of raspberry sparkling water and having delicious lunches all over town.
* Claiming my own ground: now I know how to register new land risen from the sea.

* The feeling of pulling open a heavy door and enter a deathly silent church: the funeral of my very first and very special childhood friend.
* Smashing a computer to very pretty pieces.
* Pinterest: source of overwhelming inspiration and beauty.
* Slipping even further into  minimalism and the American dream.
* Another Irish adventure: a cold and glorious spring, chasing cats, driving criminally, feeling loved, dancing with a Spaniard,  walking into a glitzy Citibank building in dirty denim, going through every second-hand book shop... and enjoying haunted houses, an indie film premiere in a dark basement, tall stories from Polynesia, bubble tea, heart-breaking people and places.
* Death of my first night-club friend, with whom I once got life-threateningly lost in a Russian slum.
* Accused of being an anti-fur activist, by 82-year-old lady who threw her fur coat at me.
* Life crisis: haven't accomplished a family or anything memorable, think happiness isn't for me - but that isn't going to stop me from sucking out all the marrow of life.
* Celebrating on a pink moon day, deciding what music is to be played on the radio in the future, and going on a date that included red roses.
* Throwing a party, with more than a little help from my friends. Presents included hot stone massage and a cucumber candy cactus.
* Traditional May Day hike on the Island to look for perch and have a picnic with sun and the fragrance of ice.

* Best friend's wedding, proudly seated at the weird table, co-presenting the most entertaining entertainment.
* Hysterical photo shoot with best friends, with instructions from long-suffering photographer: "Kiss her on the cheek! Give us some girl power! Boy power, then? Was that it, was that your moment?!"
* A summer night's dream, barefoot in a red dress and wild hair at midnight, smiled at by strangers.
* Planting potatoes (10 pcs).
* Midsummer weekend with family and some very loud volleyball.
* One measly week of summer vacation - managed to squeeze in as many diseases and thunderstorms as possible but also some peace of mind.
* The usual, lovely city summer life with beachvolley, lattes in the sun and cannelloni bought with "grazie mille" from a real Italian.
* The usual, lovely country summer life with beachvolley, instant coffee in the sun and glow-worm hunting at midnight.
* Watching a vintage boat race and having waffles with a pathologist and a politician.
* A night in the emergency room with an ailing mother, The Shadow of the Wind and rather fascinating patients.
* A blissful evening by the sea, for once alone in paradise and feeling at home.
* Hot stone massage, luxury lunch in the sun and wine evening with the giggle girls.
* Date on a deserted island with an introvert.  With the same man on other occasions: cider at seafront cafés, take-out pizza in the park, burger meals, a delicious Mexican dinner to celebrate an excavator.

* Nostalgia, chocolate cake and some really incomprehensible academic terminology.
* A hot autumn day in the great forests of the east where my father was born - a funeral and a family feeling.
* IT consulting and various other consulting for my old job, realised my old job was much more demanding than my new one.
* Lessons on how to treat a fur coat.
* All Saints' Day multi-religious cemetery tour with friends, including a bit of geo-caching and cheesecake.
* Under-stimulated at work, over-stimulated at home.
* Winning in volleyball with the town's biggest, baddest and biceps'est men.
* Making a film documentary about a Shell jacket, in Chinese.
* Making an ex-boyfriend jealous for no reason ( and feeling rather good about it ).
* Sick leave: Three days with a fever on the sofa and howling with laughter while watching old episodes of QI.
* Christmas with bucketloads of mulled wine, rain, The Elegance of the Hedgehog and being put in a headlock by my brother.
* New Year's Eve with the Spinster Club, Hopeless Cases Division. Included a long drive in my White Witch coat, a new constellation of friends, fireworks and green tea.

Marvels I have beheld this year:
* A genuine London cab in a small Finnish town.
* A dog in a bag on a picnic table. Not for eating and very much alive.
* My new life: zumba, salad and statistics
* A supernova reflected in a quiet sea
* Moon cakes straight from Shanghai
* Exhaustion, over-interpretation and a break from church
* Random fact learned: An IRA terrorist wanted in connection with a bombing is now teaching religion in a Catholic school in Gambia

Parties:
* A hen party in a charming cottage next to an airport runway.
* Midnight trampoline bouncing with maniacal laughter.
* A night of Mexican food, airhockey, jiving with a Romanian among pub tables, dancing all night.
* Sangria and Glee with a pathologist who doesn't want to watch CSI because "cutting up people myself is more fun than watching others do it".
* Dinner, a rom com and chocolate-dipped popcorn with family.
* Pub evening with my weirdest Cockney friend and tales of stabbings, prison and heartbreak.
* Pie with volleyball friends and talk about starting a cocoa farm.
* Discussions of dreams and Downton Abbey in a blizzard on the Island.

Mutant from the Garment District

Phenomena in the Garment District (a.k.a. my workplace):
* Learning the Chinese sign for "wool".
* Pondering the fact that the Finnish Army might have to wear asymmetrical shirts with crooked seams.
* Coworker taking foot soaks in the sink.
* Quoting Shakespeare to win an argument with a supplier.
* Screaming in rage down the phone to China.
* Eating moon cakes with ice sand egg yolk filling - can my Chinese friend really not find a better translation for the ingredients or is she having me on?
* Not receiving the promised garment samples because someone has constipation.
* Rating couriers according to their social skills, ability to lift heavy parcels and choice of the music that is blaring from their van.
* Studying the teachings of Nietsche and playing a Dr. Who game.
* Chasing a bird through the office.

just another day at the office

I have a coworker who enjoys  footbaths  in the sink at the office, takes notes when I quote Shakespeare, and reads aloud to me about the tragic life of the fig wasp.

the nights of Psalm 91

If on an evening, just before the turn of the year, you feel anxious about the future, even terrified of going to bed in an hour because of the mind monsters that whisper horrible truths out of the darkness...

Just let it be. Accept that these are the evenings that must happen to you, as they happen to everybody else. Let the whispers slide past you and away into the walls. Their truth is not the whole truth because you are not alone and someone is fighting for you. If it becomes too much to bear, get up and make yourself some hot chocolate and read a book that makes you smile in the middle of the night. It's OK. You will lose some sleep, but there will be other, better nights.

You don't always have to be the hero who slays the monsters. It's OK to be weak tonight. Just trust, and rest, and know that you are loved and that morning is on its way.

covered

Waking up, well rested. Knowing it's late in the morning by the muted grey light. There won't be any real daylight today - the ever-present blanket of clouds is thicker and darker than usual.

Forcing myself out on a run, the first in a long time. The rain starts falling - it's unusually warm for December - but as soon as I come home, exhausted, wet and with freezing toes, the rain is turning into snow.

I had been planning to go into town. But it's becoming clear to me that I don't want to go shopping, don't even want to see friends. I want to stay in my warm flat, light the candles, make some vanilla coffee, watch the snow fall over the bay as the darkness grows thicker.

I want woollen socks and dreams of the future.

christmas in the rain

It's that time of the year, according to Facebook:

Pictures of babies in Santa hats. "Standing in the queue at the fish seller's for some X-mas delicacies." Blurry, proud snapshots of Christmas trees or homemade chocolates. "Traditional pies now in the oven, holidays can start!"

My friends and peers are all busy cooking for in-laws, wrapping presents and decking the halls. I cleaned my flat, put up one string of fairy lights and brought out more candles. Tried some Christmas music but couldn't stand it and went back to One Republic. Maybe I'll take a stroll around town, avoid all queues and instead sit in the coffee shop and watch the seasonal stress around me. And alone at home, sipping mulled wine and reading a novel, I wouldn't wish for anything else.

Except you to share it with me, and a puppy playing at our feet.

coffee and zoology

Bookshop staff are interesting people. Where else do seemingly normal, non-academic people have conversations like this around the coffee table:

Staff member #1: "The Latin name of the lynx is Lynx Lynx."
Staff member #2: "And the common crane is Grus Grus."
Staff member #3: "And magpie is Pica Pica."

the restaurant at the trend of the universe

My workmate Butterfly and I have found a new favourite place for lunch.

The kind that does a nice salad ( chèvre with pomegranate, anyone? ), tasty soups with lots of black bread, and a complimentary homemade cookie with the coffee. The kind that is slightly overpriced for slightly too small servings. The kind whose clientele are the successful, the trendy and the ones who like to hang around the successful and trendy (I and Butterfly fall into the third category ). The kind with beautiful décor and original art by a local artist on the walls. The kind where you have to squeeze yourself in at a far too small table and sit in your neighbour's personal space. And, fascinatingly, the kind where the staff seems to consist entirely of male models.

It is also the kind of place where a gang of musicians can be overheard discussing their next tour, a student is talking to a friend on Skype, office workers are divulging details about their businesses and a man in a Gant sweater is asking his adult daughter whether she needs money ( she doesn't ). It IS difficult not to eavesdrop when you're sipping your soup in their personal space, after all.

Butterfly and I usually eat without talking to each other much. There are far more interesting discussions going on around us. People say things like "That's a Burberry over there" and "She thought I was crazy when I suggested a trip to Baku, Azerbaijan". And then there are other distractions - did I mention the staff?

open your mouth and change a country

"It's not fair, how is anyone supposed to resist chocolate?"

Three strangers, all women, bond over the chocolate bars on sale at the grocery store check-out - in two different languages. I feel strangely elated when I walk out of there ( yes, with chocolate ). I like laughing with strangers.

I'm going to talk to people more. Strangers in the grocery store, the people at the next table in the café, my neighbours. It is not often done in this silent country of reserved Finns, but I'll do what I can to change that. And become more like my father in the process. He was a shy Finn who dared to overcome his nature and bond with strangers. Over chocolate, if nothing else was available.

days of malady and menace

Sore throat, headache and a stubborn fever. A small price to pay when I get to stay home for days and do the following:

* Eat tons of Dennis the Menace icecream ( good for the throat )
* Watch everything good, and not so good, that's been made for television ... White Collar, House, Arrow, Hotel Hell, The Nobel Prize Banquet, Solsidan ... and some daytime Finnish television I could have done without
* Overdose on tea with honey
* Grow pleasantly forgetful
* Instead of staring at a computer screen, study the brief December daylight play across the ice on the bay
* Stare at a computer screen anyway but for good reasons, like Pinterest
* Make myself a finger food plate of avocado, cucumber and cheese - options are limited when the shop is an exhausting 300 meters walk away
* Text with friends and bask in their sympathy for my condition
* Cry with laughter while watching old episodes of QI. ( Not sure how beneficial such laughter is to my recovery. )
* Have a man bring me pizza
* Follow, at a safe distance, various workplace crises by occasionally checking email - and not worry about them
* Snooze under a blanket while a winter storm is howling outside
* Feel sorry for myself
* Feel extremely privileged

pieces

I see so many lost souls when I look around. Wounded people desperate for a father or a mother, or both. Where did all the fathers and mothers go? Or was it the children who ran away and now bitterly regret it?

My heart aches for them. All these strong and capable souls, the crying and pitiful ones, and the hard-hearted and ruined ones. All broken-hearted.

And I'm helpless to help them. I, the strongest, most pitiful and ruined one, the soul of a thousand broken shards.

feeling more blue than white

Day of Independence, and Finns bravely try to celebrate.

Try to have solemn parades, try to honour war veterans, try to light the blue-white candles in their windows, try to throw parties. The tradition that actually seems best suited to the season is snuggling up on the sofa and watching TV - the endlessly long, black-and-white film classic The Unknown Soldier and the annual President's Ball ( for celebrity spotting and outfit mocking ).

Because snow is falling and the cold and darkness press heavily on everybody today. The 6th of December is exactly at the junction between autumn storms and the first winter freeze.

I firmly believe that the somber Finns, well-known for secretly being proud of our country but always bad-mouthing it in public, would be a happier people if we could celebrate our country on a sunny summer's day. Having picnics, boat trips, outdoor concerts and barbecues with cold beer, instead of trying to survive its birthday at a time when sunshine is banished and said country seems determined to kill us.

I'm on my way out - to a warm house to bake gingerbread cookies and sip mulled wine. Maybe I will survive after all.

life lessons in black fur

I had a  poodle,  once.

We were babies together, clumsily toddling around a little garden, me squealing joyfully as I grabbed his curly puppy fur. We grew up together and I took him for many a walk, annoyed with his constant tugging on the leash. He also took many unauthorised walks on his own around the neighbourhood whenever he managed to find a way out of the house - this poodle loved his freedom.

Then I had a Labrador.  I was thirteen, a lonely, skinny teenage girl, and he was a stout puppy who grew at an alarming rate and turned into a bulky, headstrong dog. Before long, he almost weighed more than I did. This proved to be a challenge when we were out and he frequently decided to take off - at a run - in a different direction than the one I wanted. I developed some amazing muscles for a teenage girl, along with a strong determination that has taken me far later in life. I trained him myself. We had quite a few battle of wills but in the end, he turned out a very good dog, loyal and loving. And I, the lonely teenager, discovered that I was neither alone nor weak and useless.

And then, I had a  collie.  Technically, she was not mine. I lived in staff accommodation at a hotel where I worked and she turned up out of the blue, a runaway sheepdog. She loved everyone, and everyone in the staff house loved her back, so she moved in. Attempts to find her owner, or a new owner to give her a real home, all failed. She was a great companion on long walks in the wilderness around the hotel, except for the time we were caught in a thunderstorm and she was so scared she tried to walk between my legs all the way home. She was also the centre of conflict, great drama and a few conspiracy theories, as she had to be hidden away from the hotel boss who hated her and more than once tried to get rid of her. He finally succeeded and we never saw her again.

I think it's safe to say I would not be who I am without these dogs. Three great loves, three heartbreaks when I lost them.

hibernation contemplation

Back to my winter existence of huddling under a blanket, hugging my laptop, burning candles, sipping something, watching storms go by, wondering why I'm so tired.

we left our secrets by the Eiffel Tower

Once upon a time, a Finn, a Mexican-American and a Korean drifted around  the streets of Paris ...

They had spent the last few weeks drifting around a tiny French village, working and trying to learn French, watching TV and playing ping-pong in an attic room, eating fruit straight off the trees in the garden, feeding stray cats and taking long walks along the narrow country lanes between wheat fields and hamlets. There had been adventures as well: entering a field guarded by a hostile stallion, hiding in a ditch one dark night and spying on a crazy stranger, hitch-hiking to the next village which was rumoured to have a crêperie.

These were lazy summer days when the definition of happiness was to find a good plum tree, sit underneath it and eat its fruit while discussing typical dog names in different cultures. The Korean was in love with the Finn, the Finn was in love with life, the Mexican was in love with God.

And then, there was Paris, and their last days together. 

It was miles and miles of walking, giggling in the Louvre, having a picnic by Pont Neuf, trying on the most expensive perfumes on Champs d'Elysées, napping on the lawn at Versailles one hot afternoon, making new friends at the youth hostel, sneaking into government buildings just because they looked like palaces, discussing God at the altar of Sacré-Coeur, listening to jazz in Montmartre ...

The last night, a balmy August midnight, they sat in the darkness underneath the Eiffel tower. "Let's tell each other our darkest secrets," the Mexican said. "Because we will never see each other again."

So they did.

in the hall of comfort and joy

A cave of warmth and sugar, the Kauppahalli  - market hall. My refuge on tired winter days when I need to escape the office for a while.

A good place to eat a tasty salad and people-watch, maybe stroll past a few of the stalls. As market halls go, it's tiny, but there are interesting things to see. Weird creatures of the sea in the fish-seller's display. Every kind of cheese known to man in the cheese stall - cranberry camembert, anyone? And oh, the temptation of Belgian truffel chocolates and dried strawberries!

If you venture past the food section, you can find boho clothes and healing crystals, but I'm usually content in a nook of the café. People stroll by at a leisurely pace, anyone from actors to old age pensioners. There is always someone you know and someone you wish you knew.

Just looking at the pink and yellow cupcakes under the golden light of the café counter raises my blood sugar to a pleasant level - I don't even have to eat one. The coffee is good and life is peaceful.

waiting for the right kind of pilot

I walk the streets again, in the early twilight of November.

A sprinkling of snow on the pavement, dangerous patches of ice. The barking of two dogs playing in the park, owners trying to untangle their leashes. Windows lit by ugly lamps or pretty Christmas decorations. The cold biting my cheeks.

Around the market square in the town center, neon lights are shining and people are milling about, finishing up their Saturday shopping or getting ready for a night out. Restaurants are opening their doors to early diners and there is a wonderful smell of hot food everywhere.

In the shopping centre, they're playing Savage Garden:

She can't remember a time when she felt needed
If love was red then she was colour blind
All her friends they've been tried for treason
And crimes that were never defined
She's saying, "Love is like a barren place,
And reaching out for human faith is
Is like a journey I just don't have a map for"
So baby's gonna take a dive and
Push the shift to overdrive
Send a signal that she's hanging
All her hopes on the stars
What a pleasant dream 

Walking past the little pizza place where I go for take-out sometimes, I see the Turkish proprietor sweeping the floor. I imagine him wondering about me sometimes - the lonely woman who always orders just one single pizza to take home to an empty apartment on a Sunday afternoon. The sight of him deftly cutting slices off the kebab meat and giving instructions to his only employee, another middle-aged Turkish man, is always a comfort. He has a fatherly air about him, quiet and confident but unassuming, just doing his job and offering a warm smile to go with the pizza.

She's taking her time making up the reasons
To justify all the hurt inside
Guess she knows from the smile and the look in their eyes
Everyone's got a theory about the bitter one 

I bypass the pizza this time and instead order spring rolls from a little Vietnamese lady. On my way home I walk extremely slowly, the way I do when I need the world to slow down and give me time to really see it.

And I see so many beautiful things. A dark high-rise building with light in a single window, one on the top floor. Coloured lights. Lovers holding hands over candle-lit dinner tables. So much hope, and a life worth living.

dancing away the oxygen

This year, I have learned to do  zumba  and I love it.

But there comes a moment towards the end of every zumba class when I'm really enjoying myself, life is beautiful and fun and filled with good music, and the zumba instructor puts on a slower song for the stretching session. Around that point in time, the poorly ventilated gym hall runs out of oxygen.

I struggle to do the stretching while battling nausea and dizziness. The song that plays at that moment? Christina Aguilera's "Beautiful", of course: Every day is so wonderful, then suddenly it's hard to breathe...

lunch with the bee-eater

"Bet you don't know the Latin name of the bee-eater."

There is a challenge in my brother-in-law's voice. My sister and I, both language experts, grin at each other. We are having a laugh, making up names for a bird we've never heard of. My nephews roll their eyes and the dog puts his head on my lap as I absently stroke his whiskers. My mother smiles at us all, indulgently.
 
Sunday lunch with family. It wears me out, and it's the best thing that ever happens to me.

should not be forgotten years

The hardest years, the darkest years
The roarin' years, the fallen years
These should not be forgotten years
The hardest years the wildest years
The desperate and divided years ...
Forsaking aching breaking years
The time 'n' tested heartbreak years
These should not be forgotten years 

( Midnight Oil: Forgotten Years )

a sleep so sound

Spent the whole night chasing a song in my dreams.

When I woke up, it was gone. There was only a tired buzz in my ears from having to get up to a grey November morning.

"Yet the Lord will command his lovingkindness in the daytime, 
and in the night his song shall be with me, 
and my prayer unto the God of my life."

(The Bible, Psalm 42:8)

writing between the lines, when you don't know how

Apparently, I'm  a writer of magic books.

These books, a.k.a. my old diaries, are for the most part horrendous and cringe-inducing and the utmost pinnacle of naiveté. But I have faithfully recorded my journey so far - which is lucky, as I seem to have forgotten most of it already ( and I'm not even that old ) - and when I pick up one of these diaries and read it, I am sometimes struck speechless.

I'm not sure if it's disbelief in how much I've forgotten of my adventures or doubts as to whether I've actually done those things or just made them up.

Did I actually, really, find a shop in Paris that sold live peacocks and skunks? Or see all the bicycles from the Tour de France pass by on a lorry? How did I forget these things?

And there is the case of the mysterious village ... I once lived in England for a while. I had ended up living in a particular village, tiny and largely unknown, completely by coincidence and had no recollection of ever having heard of its existence beforehand. Much later, I found that I had mentioned that village in my diaries. Not only once, but twice. Years before I went there. Creepy, yes?

I also seem to have a talent for writing very clearly about things to which I'm completely oblivious. Like the year I was frequently hanging out with an ex-boyfriend and feeling melancholic because I still had a thing for him but kept it to myself because he was not interested. That this was the factual state of affairs, I had no doubt at the time. Yet, in my old diary, where I wrote "he doesn't love me" and wrote about the way he looked at me and talked to me ... now I read the truth more clearly than that faded ink. The truth that he was desperately in love with me. Sad, yes?

No, I'm no writer of magic after all. But I see this as proof that there is more to life than just coincidence and randomness. A beautiful symmetry, the Creator's plan. And yes, it was in that plan that I not end up with that boy - this it also clear to me now.

However, if I read this in five or ten years, a completely different truth may be screaming at me from behind these words.

weekend of the dead

Followed the old Finnish All Saints' Day tradition of lighting candles on family graves. At dusk, the cemetery was an entire universe of burning lights and peace of mind.

Then walked through town and observed the newish, American import tradition of Halloween, which here manifests as people dressing up as monsters or zombies and going to parties. I almost fainted when I encountered a young man drenched in blood. He cheerily wished me a happy Halloween.

Manhattan may be a myth

  'What do I do now?' I asked him, helpless not to turn to the authority before me, the father we dream of in joy and fear.
  'Go back to a city that needs you.'
  'You mean, Manhattan?'
  'No one disputes your place here. You own your apartment outright, don't you? I understand it has a fine view.'
  If I stayed a moment longer Arnheim might describe those birds and that tower, my heart's last sacred quadrant of sky. I fled into the night and snow before I could hear it.

I don't like books that are weird. So I tried to put down Jonathan Lethem's Chronic City. But I couldn't because it mesmerised me. And it is thick and heavy. So now I hobble around with injuries - because I strained my hand and lost my heart.

the seals are waiting

Let's go to the city museum, the one where only tourists go, and learn things we never knew about our city and laugh at taxidermied seals.

Let's go to the flea market and completely lose ourselves among the shelves, see things we never dreamed existed, marvel at the folly of mankind, and find the perfect, perfect knitted sweater.

Let's go to the library and forget time, browsing and drowsy and happy.

Let's go to the animal shelter and take a couple of dogs for a walk, watch them play in the October sun.

Let's go to a café, the one where the vanilla latte is perfect and the barista's smile is joyful, and feel the hot coffee and the sugar rush warm our bodies until our souls find peace.

what he wrote to lillflickan

When I was sorting through my box of old letters, which has been gathering dust under my bed for years, I found letters from my father.

"Hope that 'all that is different' over there in the middle of the Pacific is a positive experience for you, so that it becomes something you remember with joy all the rest of your life. We live with you and remember you in our prayers. 'Rejoice always.' Write often, we are waiting to hear from you!"

I must have known that they were there, among correspondence from half-forgotten lovers, faraway friends and childhood penpals. Yet somehow, in the three years since he died, the thought of digging them out and reading them never once struck me.

It hadn't even occurred to me now. I took out that old box just as a part of my minimalist campaign to get rid of anything unnecessary in my life. And there they were. Written communication with my parents only happened during those summers and years when I was off volunteering and having adventures in foreign countries. Emailing and internet connections were sparse back then so I wrote long letters by hand and sent them home. Every now and then my mother, not much of a writer, would put down a few paragraphs on a piece of paper or a card and then ask my father to finish the letter.

Lovely letters! My mother filled me in on news about their daily life, the dog, projects at our summer cottage, the weather, even church meetings they had attended. A newspaper clipping was occasionally enclosed. My father was entrusted to pay my bills and deal with other issues that arose in my absence and, as usual, handled all such things diligently and efficiently. During that summer when I needed to go apartment-hunting but couldn't because I was away working on a tropical island, he did it for me ( over the phone, as he lived in another city ). He sorted out administrative and bureaucratic issues for me, sent me money, forwarded my mail, took my dog to the vet. And in these letters, he explained all the details that I needed to know and assured me that everything was taken care of.

If there was nothing to report, he wrote things like this:

"Hope you are enjoying the exclusive atmosphere over there, and that you find your job also a positive and informative experience. Take good care of yourself and no surfing the waves! Hugs from mom and dad!"

men who feed birds

I like my men manly.

Yet, I find it irresistible and sexy when a manly man takes on a role or attribute that is ( at least in my world ) more typical for women. Like cooking for me while I'm slouching on the couch. Or loving dogs, or feeding birds, or playing with friends' children whom I only spare a disinterested glance. Writing poetry. Or taking pictures, not to post on Instagram for the entertainment of others but for the purpose of having memories later.

And, of course, cleaning the house.

orphan

I'm hungry.

For purpose, for adventure, for peace of mind. For someone to see me, for unconditional love, but most of all for my father.

just add ice to injury

Ingredients in my recent life:

* A book that injured my hand. It goes on and on, and it's weird, and it weighs a ton and my hand continues to hurt because I can't put it down (Chronic City by J. Lethem).
* Rumours of a fox in the city.
* Skidding on ice with a Citroën that insists all the lights are broken.
* Statistics.
* The two Marias, who converge in a busy urban lunchplace like rarely seen angels and ply me with memories of another life.
* The Pillars of the Earth on DVD - how (not) to build a cathedral, always a good thing to know.
* ( Although I play a lot of volleyball but don't hang out much with volleyball people ) I had a weekend like this: Friday night party with volleyball gang, Saturday night girls' night in with volleyball girls ( and a bizarre combination of strong green booze and non-alcoholic Blue Nun, hard to say which one was worse ), Sunday afternoon drive with volleyball man, Sunday night volleyball game with crowds of volleyball people.
* Exhaustion. I just want to be quiet and alone.

tactile, tangible - and tunics

It started with an ache in my heart.

Something to do with being more real, more me, and feeling and tasting the real world. It continued with mental images of a woman wandering the streets and living intensely. I read a story. And I started to wander the streets and making my fantasies real - with limited success, I must admit, but just the fact that I started to dream again was a mind-boggling step.

My fascination with clothes, and looks, was a help. It's been decades since the first time I looked at a piece of clothing in a shop and saw a whole new life, a much more exciting personality - saw the fantastic woman I might become. But now I started to choose my outfits with even more care, started to feel the texture of the wool in my sleeve and the denim against my knee. I painted my eyes dark and felt exotic.

My change was sealed when I found myself in a new environment. Faced with the terror, very real and far away from my useless dream worlds, of learning a new job among complete strangers who expected me to prove myself useful, I desperately turned to my fantasy world of beautiful, fictional people for inspiration. I forced myself to go against my fearful instinct to blend in. I put on shorter skirts and higher heels and looked people in the eye with a smile. If a fictional character could look gorgeous and get the job done and even slay some dragons in the process, then so could I. No matter that my job, at least in the beginning, involved less dragons and more yawning and watching the clock. Being scared and bored was a challenge that required heroism too, in my opinion. My red tunics and my pretty bracelets were my armour.

Time slowed, that winter-spring when I sat at a desk or cleared out stuff in the storage room, having too much time to think and feel. So I felt my muscles move in my body and watched my polished nails tap on the keyboard. I saw the afternoon light fade outside the window and heard faint music from the radio in the next room. I stroked with fascination the fur sample pieces I was supposed to archive. I listened intentely to everything that was said in the office, even when it was not addressed to me, even when my coworkers were just discussing what they had had for lunch. And I watched how they moved, where they parked their cars, what they wore. I wanted to learn everything about them, besides learning about the job itself - because it was the key to survival.

Dyed fur - from animals who died for you. I don't have to like it in order to like the feel of it.

I did survive, at least the first few months. I still withdraw into my dream world all too often. But now, I see more. I see weeds growing out of the asphalt when I walk the streets. I hear faraway trains. I know more about people than they think I do. I know that you can survive terror or boredom by wearing a red tunic and pretend that there are dragons to slay ( there usually are, in some form ).

And I sometimes have to stop myself from staring at people, or beautiful things. Stop myself from touching them in awe. Because I know there is so much to experience, see, feel, even in a seemingly boring world. Especially in a boring world.

Reach out and touch it.

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? )