in-love-fallings, part one

When I first fell in love with ...
 
* clothes: When I was in my early twenties - for some reason didn't really care much before then - and found a catalogue with the romantic autumn collection of a certain Danish clothes brand. I had just returned from a summer of adventure in a foreign country and a brown-eyed boy who looked at me as if I was beautiful - and then broke my heart. I sat in a student apartment with my friends, leafed through the catalogue, felt excited about another year at university and more adventures, felt a delicious chill in the air and envisioned a whole new identity for me in those beautiful clothes.

* coffee: That teenage summer when I had my first real summer job, cutting grass in the cemetery. The permanent staff, two middle-aged ladies, asked me the first day if I drink coffee and I didn't dare to say no. So every day for a month, on our twice-daily coffee breaks, I choked down a cup. Strong, black, unsweetened. It almost put hair on my chest and certainly was a very Finnish thing to do. Only later I learned that most people start with lots of milk or cream and sugar in it. If they start at all. But my coffee-loving family seemed so proud of me that I never looked back.

* writing: When I was 11 years old and had two great friends, a new bike, pretend dogs, a real dog and felt as if I owned the world (or at least the neighbourhood). My friends and I decided to write a story. It was a fictional account of three girls with cool bikes and dogs and a neighbourhood just like ours. Names were changed to protect anonymity (mine became Pam, which I felt was the coolest name ever invented). After less than one page, the story was abandoned - by everyone except me, who went home to write a sequel. And another one. And another one.

* TV: Watching Lassie at a tender age, understanding nothing.

the art of rain dressing

I may lament the fact that the  whirlwind bliss  that is the Nordic summer is over already, but I also delight in digging out glitzy leggings, wonderfully soft, long-sleeved henleys and bohemian legwarmers.

Today the rain was lashing down, which is quite rare in these parts. I went to have lunch with friends at a place where all the business people go ( why I and my friends go there is unclear ) and enjoyed the challenge of dressing in a crisp business skirt, grunge-style boots and a rain coat with the National Geographic logo. The overall effect was confusing and wonderful.

The umbrella ( a charity shop find ) withstood the test of the rain and the strong wind but I was soaked from the thighs down. Somewhere along the five-minute walk to the restaurant I managed to step ankle-deep into a puddle. The golden boots did NOT withstand the test.

But the water was not cold. Over lunch, I ogled the handsome business men, laughed with my friends, had a tasty fish fillet with salad, and did not mind in the least that my left foot was soaking wet. Maybe summer is not quite over.

strong true manifesto

What is this nonsense?

I will no longer be sucked down in the bog of my own self-accusations.

I will thank God for the miracle of every new day that I get to see. I will shine because I can. I will lower my voice, be at peace and remember, "wherever you are, be all there". I will plan my days, work on my language skills and my physical strength. I will divulge my dark secrets to my closest friends.

And God is somewhere out there, waiting. How close do I dare to go?

sentenced

I didn't actually buy a rose yesterday. I was going to, but the weight of people's gaze on me as I walked alone down the street made my knees buckle and I went home instead.

It may not have been the people's fault. It may have been the weight of my own unmerciful thoughts.

Why is self-judgment so relentless? Found guilty, lifetime imprisonment, throw away the key?

today's secret ingredient: garlic

* Watched a triathlon
* Got depressed by a long walk
* Was cheered up by a garlic pizza
* Bought a rose

when I was a kama'aina - a child of the land

I'm hitch-hiking with a couple of friends. Nothing to it. People always stop, and usually they have a pickup truck and you get to ride in the back, wind in your hair, beautiful views over lava fields and sea, and a feeling of complete freedom.

Hawaii, I'm 23 and impossibly lucky.  I travel around most of the Big Island. Black lava fields and white beaches, green beaches, black beaches and normal sandy-coloured beaches. The fragrance of the lovely plumeria flower everywhere.

Also some lusher landscapes. The fairytale Waipio valley, with black sand and pretty waterfall, which you can only reach if you have a 4-wheel drive (we don't but hitch-hiking works here too). Sleeping under the stars on an active volcano - half the night it rains and I'm colder than I ever thought possible on a tropical island, but then the stars come out and it's all worth it. Seeing rainforests as well as eerie landscapes of lava-burned forests, lava tunnels, black lava deserts where rotten-smelling sulfur is hissing out of vents in the ground. Visiting a Hilton luxury resort just to pretend we're millionaires and marvel at its own little world with marble halls, dolphin pools and channel boats taking you wherever you want to go.

Spending a quiet weekend at somebody's house in the inland hills, where the nights are cool. It's a welcome respite from the constant summer heat by the coast. We cosy up indoors to watch movies and rest, and I get to ride a very old and charming Arabian thoroughbred horse.

So many new, American things. Breakfast on pancakes with maple syrup. Walking the air-conditioned aisles of Walmart and Costco - as a small-town European girl who has never seen supermarkets the size of cathedrals before. Tacos, and that shop that gives you a free seashell necklace just for walking through their front door. A local rodeo with real cowgirls. Coca-Cola of a dozen different flavours. McDonald's breakfast menu. Voicemail. Tipping, and that weird tax they add to everything. Drive-thrus. Late-night shopping. Frappés and frozen yogurt. The Americans - so sociable, so friendly.

So many Hawaiian things, too. The feeling of being on a tiny island in the vast Pacific. A mongoose crossing the road, a school of manta rays coming up to the surface by the pier. Giant turtles on the beach. A local family coming back from a spear-fishing trip and hauling a big, dead squid up on the beach - they let us have a look and we see it bleeding ink. The Kona Nightingales (a gang of wild donkeys). The sun in zenith. The warning signs for falling coconuts and deadly man-of-war jellyfish. Little girls doing the hula. Red-hot lava flowing into the sea under a full moon. Termites and the fumigation of buildings. Trying boogie-board surfing. The sound of tsunami sirens being tested. Guava nectar and shaved ice. Glorious and incredibly speedy, blink-and-you-miss-it sunsets. The awe-inspiring crater of Kilauea Caldera and the exhilaration of standing on the summit of an active volcano.

And my job in the Financial Services office where I get to introduce myself proudly as "Purchaser at the University of the Nations". I have no head for numbers and am mostly relegated to routine paperwork but I get to know people all over campus. My proudest moment is figuring out that the University had paid twice for the flag of Taiwan.

My hitch-hiking advances to motorcycles and even once a taxi (without paying). There is only one weird moment when a gentleman offers me 40 bucks if he can kiss my feet. I politely decline and get out of the car very fast.



(Pictures: gladtravel.com, aloha-hawaii.com)

stirring the air

I have  not been cold  in five weeks.

That must be some kind of record on this west coast of the North. Where even in the heat of high summer there is usually the occasional chilly evening that makes you sweep wool around your shoulder after an evening swim, or a surprisingly cool breeze from open sea.

But I, the queen of shivering, walk around in eternally bare feet. I cannot remember what wool feels like next to the skin. I sit in the shade, wear as little as possible and take cold showers when I'm too far away from a beach. I gasp for air or bask in the summer heat. I look up recipes for ice tea when a hot cuppa is unbearable.

I discard the duvet and throw the door wide open to the night air. I turn the air conditioning to full blast in the car, while the tiny fan in my flat is of no use at all. I pin the letter slot in my front door open in a desperate attempt to create a cool draft. I drink gallons of water even when it tastes funny. I sit outside for hours in the white nights of the North.

I am tanned, wild-haired, sweating rivers and - weirdly enough - feeling sexy.

Finland and the Finns are throwing off their coldness and just loving life for a while.

music played out of doors

Some kind of punk rock music is reaching my ears, through my open window, from an outdoor stage not far away. Heavy metal is supposed to follow soon.

I think I'm the only Finn not fond of heavy metal.

Sometimes, when there's not a rock festival in progress, gentler music may reach my ears from some minstrel playing at the seaside café.

Until such a time, I'll take the punk rock. Soon enough, the deep silence of winter will be here. As John Keats said,

“Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.”

storm day

Sometimes you end up holding the baby while his mother goes out to find a chainsaw.

It was in the middle of the most vicious  thunderstorm  I ever saw and a fallen tree was blocking traffic outside. I was wearing a skirt with pictures of fish skeletons and felt vaguely surreal. The heat was like a heavy blanket, making it hard to breathe. Three older kids were asking anxious questions and a little dog was barking excitedly. I fed the baby his bottle. He just looked at me with blue eyes.

from salty sea to city pee

Took a month off in paradise.

Paradise, somewhere on the Baltic Sea, is off the grid. No electricity, no running water. The Internet connection is so slow on my tiny smartphone screen that I avoid it at all costs.

BUT a private beach on a quiet bay, birdsong, a hot sun and cool waters.

So I spent the month wild-haired, tanned and barefoot. Swimming in impossibly clear water, reading thrillers in the shade, going to the local grocery shop to ask nicely if I could refill water canisters. I was slowly weaned off my addiction to social media, hot showers, city streets and any entertainment that wasn't locally sourced (such as squirrel babies and dramatic volleyball with nephews).

The days stretched out into infinity. I lived on sun and beauty.

Yesterday, it was time to return to the city. Time to air out the flat, gasp in horror when I looked in a mirror for the first time in weeks (tan looked nice but WHAT WAS I WEARING and was it time to get reacquainted with mascara perhaps?) and eat some real, processed food instead of pure potatoes and grilled meat.

The first sight that greeted me when I looked out the window was the epitome of Saturday night in the city: a bunch of wasted guys spilling out of a car with beer cans in every hand, staggering around to find a piece of wall to pee against, accompanied by rock music from the car speakers.

Home, sweet city home.

a red sweetness

A sizzling hot July day. A strawberry day:

Negotiating with a lady selling summer berries in the heat-washed market square, my mother taste-testing and the poodle bouncing on the cobblestones, barking excitedly at seagulls.

Sitting in my mother's kitchen, strawberry juice flowing down my arms as I cut up the berries for jam.

Walking through the city parks in the shade of the linden trees, with strawberry stains on my lacy, white dress.

With perfect moments like these I forget that in between, I was annoyed with my mother for wasting my day trying to find the best berries for sale, I found it hard to breathe in the heat, and some of the berries were rotten. My whole body smells of strawberries and I just forget, happily.

on the eve of a long, long summer

Sat on the balcony, balancing a glass of cheap white wine on a wobbly old stool, and tried to plan. Looked at the clouds and got slightly inebriated. Thought about inviting someone to join me, but nobody suitable immediately came to mind. So I was alone, but not entirely lonely.

Rearranged the gauzy white curtains by the window and looked around the tiny flat. The furniture is old and ratty and I can't afford to renew any of it. I am alone and far from where I would really like to be. But I can look out at the sea and I feel so, so lucky to be here. Blessed, even.

Walked three blocks to the corner shop to get icecream. The evening sun was golden and the air was cold, much too cold for June. Walking felt good. I love the city streets in the evening and the comforting presence of strangers, other evening wanderers going who knows where, at the shop.

Came home, planted myself on the sofa and rented a film online. A slow, down-to-earth one that made me think and feel, while I ate icecream and drank pints of spiced tea.

Beauty is everywhere, all around me. I feel I should be old, frustrated, depressed, cynical. But how can I be, when life is drowning me in beauty?

the void beckons

I work so hard, these days.

I dive into endless texts and endless interviews in the morning (well, morning for me) and emerge with completed translations late in the evening when my brain finally shuts down. I have this previously unknown, desperate URGE to get the work done.

I don't recognise myself.

Of course, this is no great, new-found love for the job in itself. I just realised that I long to get it over with so I can get on with being unemployed.

unbought

Found in the Drafts folder on my blog dashboard this entry, in its entirety:

__________
* buy
__________


What might I have been thinking? Did I write it in my sleep? And why did I not post it? The plot thickens.

the croniz

The cronut has landed in this little Finnish town.

Although they call it a croniz. I tried one, purely as scientific research of course - somebody has to analyze the cultural and societal impact of American products introduced into foreign environments, after all.

The amount of sugar in it sent me on a high that will last until Christmas. So yes, I would definitely say there was an impact.

on minimalism, nostalgia and wet wipes

My mother is going through a cupboard with old stuff that nobody ever touches. I am a minimalist who loves, to the point of being obsessive about it, to get rid of stuff. My mother who has lived through some very rough times hardly ever gets rid of anything, ever. In case it comes in handy later.

Mother: "Here are some wet wipes. I'll hang on to them, might come in handy."
Me: "Mum! Those are 10 years old! They'll be all dried out by now, throw them away."
Mother: "Well, if you wet them a little bit, they will still work. I'll keep them."

Ten minutes later:

Mother (brings me a little ugly box that is falling apart at the seams, made out of Sixties' plastic-like material): "My father made me this. Should I keep it or throw it away?"
Me (nostalgia creeping into my hardened heart): "Keep it."

coloured pens and a prince

Ideas born in the quiet of a wilderness cottage,

           a.k.a. ideas that will look ridiculous in the light of day tomorrow:

* buy a deluxe set of felt-tip coloured pens
* drive for an hour to get to that particular treasure trove of a flea market, and not bring any of my friends who would love to go with me
* drift around town with eyes and heart wide open and for once really EXPECT to find the love of my life, for once really BELIEVE that there will be love ever after. And find him.

contrasts on a grand scale

In order to have  a Russian adventure,  you must:

* get on a bus in Finland, as a carefree student, with a girl called Annika who has golden curls and a fluent proficiency in Russian.
* for the next 544 kilometres, ignore the other passengers - mostly middle-aged men going to Russia for the cheap booze and starting to drink as soon as they find a seat in the bus, occasionally trying to chat up the two female students.
* find your hotel room, once you arrive exhausted in St. Petersburg, in a box-shaped, Soviet-era building with about a hundred miles of identical, depressing corridors. Gasp as you see the view over the river Neva.
* travel around the city on the metro, feeling completely useless among all those Cyrillic letters that you can't read. This is why you brought Annika (actually, it was Annika who brought you, but never mind). She can actually read the signs and buy the tickets at a much cheaper price that the other tourists do because she can pass as a Russian and get you places.
* get offered moonshine on the metro and feel sorry for a pet bear outside a museum.
* get exhausted and impressed as you wander through the literally endless Hermitage Museum. How can such a large and baffling place exist? Puts things in perspective, doesn't it, especially as you look at a Rembrandt painting that was once destroyed by someone grieving for a father banished to Siberia. The glory and riches of this place, paired with the tragedies of the past.
* endure while Annika the literature-lover browses Dom Knigi, House of Books, for hours (it doesn't help that you're a literature-lover too if you don't read Russian).
* go to the world-famous Mariinsky (Kirov) Ballet, knowing absolutely nothing about ballet and not even recognizing the name of the equally world-famous work Giselle, and be suitably impressed by the glamour (and yes, the performance too).
* look up a night-club that is supposedly the place to be. Find yourself in a dark basement pub where men stare darkly at you. Leave in a hurry and realise you are lost in a very dark and slum-like neighbourhood where someone will surely slit your throat in a minute. Note that you must have exhausted more than your fair share of guardian angels when you finally make it back to civilisation alive.
* comfort yourself with some real Russian pelmeni dumplings and salyanka stew.
* gape at the size and scope of St. Petersburg - its endless (and sometimes eerily empty) avenues of palaces and golden domes, its stark contrasts between rich and poor, old and new, Czar-style and Soviet-style, and its people that are so rude and so fantastically friendly at the same time.
* return home with a ton of delicious chocolates and maybe a bootleg CD.

and for my leisure time: paragorames and elephant dung

Outside the library stood a serious-looking man, saying into his phone: "Paragorames, paragoremas. Paragorames, paragoremas. Paragorames, paragoremas."

Outside the shop stood white-bearded old Jarkko, smoking a strange cigarette. His face lit up when he saw me: "I just read a fascinating book. Did you know there's an animal that makes perfectly round pieces of excrement? And the elephant, let me tell you what he does when he goes to take a dump..."

I borrow a book by David Nicholls, buy honey and frozen bilberries, and go home to write a bizarre blog entry. Can you blame me?

all in a day's work: Tupac and urinals

Woken by very loud sparrows this morning.

Now I'm googling Tupac and U.S. grading systems for work. I insist on sitting on the balcony even though my back is killing me and the chirping of sparrows is drowned by an even louder lawnmower somewhere in the vicinity.

Because here I can ponder questions such as whether that nervous white-collar man going to visit my neighbour, the prison, is a lawyer? And if so, shouldn't he be wearing a tie? Is it better for your car if you drive slowly on uneven cobblestones, or really fast? What about those people over there, are they tourists? Do tourists even come to this city? Ooh, another lawyer! This one looks serious, walking with purpose. Where are all the dog-walkers today? Is a flagpole uncomfortable for a seagull to perch on? Should I have another coffee?

And in the interview I'm translating, a man is describing how he was baptized to Christ in prison, kneeling in front of a stainless steel urinal. The world is full of wonders.