Getting ready to leave

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Tomorrow I visit the Russian Consulate, and if the visa is ready as expected, I will board a flight for Perm in the evening.

Back when I was at the Stadion hostel -- which was until Thursday -- I developed a routine of sorts. I breakfasted on bread and cheese, before heading off to the library. I learned a little Finnish history, a little Russian history and some grammar. At some point in the afternoon I would pack up my bag and wander into the city - to the University, or the central square where the Czars still stand (in statue form), or Sibelius Park with its molten image of the composer. The museums I found by accident, or rather because the buildings were big or appealing and excited my curiosity. The Finnish National Museum is an old and giant church with a friendly stone bear out front. The Contemporary Art museum takes after the Guggenheim in Bilboa, and resembles a shiny sea monster. Eventually I would get hungry and stop at the store. I rarely deviated from my food formula: sausage, a couple pickles, bread, cheese, and cucumber, pepper, onion, and tomato for the salad. Back at the hostel, in the dining room an international social order of sorts, usually in English, prevailed. When the Australian guy was the leader, the dining room had a slight political edge to it. When the Hong Kong student took his place, the conversation turned to education and photos were shared. But the dining room society was always in flux -- new hostellers arrived and old ones departured. But the certain constants remained: there was always a discussion of Helsinki sights, and there was always a roundtable on national eccentricities. At its most dynamic, the dining room society produced a game of Monopoly. It was what it was. But I like Monopoly. By ten or eleven, I would be exhausted and would return to my dorm room and its rows of bunk beds, usually (hopefully) before the snorers arrived en masse.

My routine was first broken on Monday when, feeling unusually energetic, I made my way into a Helsinki bar. I sat by the window, people watching and sampling a Finnish beer called “Karhu.” There was a commotion on the street. Two teenagers were fighting. It was a strange, slow-motion battle marked by frequent interruptions, awkward pauses, and brief truces - sealed with hugs - that were inevitably followed by sneak attacks. The fighting style evidenced video game or professional wrestling influences, as it featured an endless series of weak jump kicks. As they spilled onto the street and into pedestrians, the two produced expressions of varying degrees of reproach or bewilderment- one poor woman ran away. Like me, the Finns find conflict disturbing and try and avoid it. Eventually, the fight came in through the door. There was a lot of noise, as heads and knees hit tables and chairs crashed to the ground. The bar maid, no longer able to look the other way, ran right into the middle of the fray and wailed “CHARLIE!” A Charlie quickly emerged from some back room, and aided by a helpful drunk shoved the kids outside. Moments later, following an unsuccessful hugging truce, the battlers, roundhouses and all, were back. After the second booting, the helpful drunk decided to remain outside and preempt any future monkey business. I watched him out there muttering to himself, nodding, staring menacingly at his charges. The boys, now sullen and probably bored, hugged, yelled at each other, hugged again, and then walked their own separate ways. I crossed the street to another bar.

There a young Finn asked what I was drinking. He said it in Finnish, so I had no idea what to do except apologize in English. He repeated the question in heavily accented English, and after learning that I was American and drinking Guinness, he invited me to his table. There Aaron introduced himself and a dread locked companion, whose name I can neither pronounce nor remember - they would be my unofficial guides and ambassadors to Helsinki. We quickly fell conversations about the consequences of the Crimean War - Aaron was a history student - and the origins of Finnish melancholy. Though far from Crimea, Finland was a Grand Duchy in the Russian Empire for most of the nineteenth century, and so Russia’s century fight with Britain and France involved Finland directly. Finland remained loyal to its - back then - tolerant imperial overlord, and for that the British and Swedes bombarded the Finnish coast and sunk almost every boat in the Grand Duchy. Finns, Aaron explained, live in a cold and damp climate. In the winter months, the sun hardly appears at all. Understandably, this can get one down. Occasionally, Aaron or the dread locked fellow would inquire about life in the United States. They were especially interested whether I thought America was as violent as it appears on television and in the movies. Violence, wealth, and obesity - these themes I return to again and again in discussions about America. I cannot escape them, no matter how hard I try. Maybe the Finns feel the same way when telling foreigners about their alleged “melancholy.” After another round we switched bars.

“We will show you the real Helsinki now,” Aaron assured me. It took some time to do this, however, as it seems that the dread locked fellow’s brother was the person to turn to when searching for the real Helsinki. The dread locked fellow furiously engaged his cell phone, here texting, now talking. All of this was in Finnish, and I was again struck with the impression that the young Finn accent sounds really nasty. But the brother/Helsinki expert was busy - even the lure of an American abroad could not lure him out. We ended up getting on the metro, which took us to a less trendy neighborhood. The bar was big and dark, heavy metal music blared on the loudspeakers - a typical Finnish place according to my guides.

Men there either had very long hair or no hair at all. At the table next to us was a man wearing a black cowboy hat festooned with metal spikes. The jukebox consisted almost entirely of metal, much of it the progressive kind. Progressive when it precedes the word “metal” has nothing to do with early 20th century the Meat Inspection Act or Woodrow Wilson, but rather concerns song length, time structure, and an overall feeling of sonic gloom. If a metal band, like Opeth for example, is progressive, it will have 10 minute long epics that feature strange time signatures and chord progressions along with lots of anguished yelling. The long songs also feature quieter moments. This is when the band broods. My jukebox pick were safe, not at all progressive -Motorhead. But the back to the metal basics got the cowboy hatted guy up on his feet. He spun like a dervish for a while and yelled a bit before, tiring I guess, sitting back down.

Aaron and the dread locked fellow told me that Finns weren't always so nice. In the 1980s and early 90s, were times of economic depression and gangs of young, idle hoodlums roamed the streets, fighting over territory. The gangs were not only defined by street geography but by music -- there were the "heavies" who listened to metal, there were punks, and there were the rappers. By the early 90s, the heavies were older and feeling put upon by young upstarts -- especially the rappers, and there was always tension between the two. The "heavies," however, were OK guys according to my guides. Most loathsome were the skinheads. These miscreants combined punk and metal leanings with racist and xenophobic attacks. Vicious battles erupted, killings even. But things got better -- MTV came to Finland, and as the dread locked fellow told me -- everyone loves everyone now.

At the metal bar, one of the long-haired guys from another table, perhaps an aging "heavie,", approached me to talk about music and the United States. We had a pleasant conversation before he and his friends left for a bar across the street. The wanted us to meet them there. Aaron, however, did not believe that the real Helsinki was across the street. Apparently it was in a dance club back at the city center. The club was an even bigger bar but with less people and was totally devoid of any dancing. Aaron was deflated. He apologized profusely for his compatriots’ lack of enthusiasm. But I was grateful. It was long past 10 and Aaron and the dread locked guy had been very kind and had filled me up with more than a few beers. I was nearly asleep by the time the taxi Aaron called dropped me off.

My routine continued, library, bread, cheese, meat, until Thursday when the Stadion hostel’s one-week stay-rule sent me packing. Since then, life has become less orderly (though the two places I’ve stayed at have both given me free breakfast) and I have grown increasingly tired of drifting and anxious to get home and see Sveta again. Pleasant towns on little rivers are ok, but I want my industrial metropolis on the giant Kama.

Friday I made an overnight trip to Turku. It was a nice little city - and the art museum let me in for free - but I had had enough touring and was happiest when I boarded the train back to Helsinki.

Today I’ve made some desultory attempts at studying today (Sunday), and one trip into town, only to discover that Finland shuts down on Sunday. Blue laws are not just an American eccentricity.

I’m leaving tomorrow - I’ll get in Tuesday morning. It can’t come soon enough.

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Photos

That bear
He stands guard over the Finnish National Museum in Helsinki. I don't know if you can see, but he's smiling

The young captains?
I don't know the meaning of it, but young Finns get what appear to me to be senior pictures, wearing these white sailor's hats. Once I encountered a group of about 50 in a shopping center singing, "Moi-Moi-Moi-Moi-Moi" at different octaves.

Turku web
Spiders in Finland guard all the caves

A familiar face
The citizens of then-Leningrad gave this bust of their city's namesake to Turku as a gesture of friendship. Like me, Lenin hid out in Helsinki in September of 1917. He returned to then-Petrograd in October.
I was glad to see VI -- He's a Perm fixture and his bust reminded me of home.

#1
You wouldn't know it by this photo, but the Turku library is the most beautiful, most inviting library in the world. Only flaw: you have to ask to be allowed to use the restroom and then you're "buzzed in."

Comments

[Matt Stone]

Stone Family
hahaha. I see you met my family, I thought they would at least be smiling for the camera.