Only in the strange and wonderful land of Fin can you slam a fisu with your boss and colleagues, mingle with an opera/theater star like you’re the best of pals,and stumble unknowingly into an erotic costume party, all in one evening. And tonight was supposed to be my chill evening, tomorrow,well, actually now, today was supposed to be the big night I was saving my energy for.

My work had planned a nice evening out: dinner at Loiste, (which was divine-lovely wine, reindeer salad, and a fresh and innovative take on salmon) and then to Kaupungiin Teatteri for “Rebecca.”

http://www.hkt.fi/ohjelmisto/play.php?name=rebe

http://www.hkt.fi/ohjelmisto/kuvat.php?name=rebe

Rebecca, a novel by Daphne du Maurier, and also adapted successfully to film by Alfred Hitchcock, is meant to be a suspenseful and melodramatic tale, and with Sanna Majuri as the lead, Rebecca delivered, as the powerful, intriguing period piece that it is. I was surprised to see Sanna, as I wasn’t expecting to see her-but her voice, energy, and beauty are a real treat, and unmatched throughout the play. Her petite frame and childlike physique suit the role of the naive unnamed main character perfectly. The character of Mrs. Danvers, the Pikku-My like evil housekeeper, and of Mrs. Van Hopper, are both deliciously noteworthy and provide comic relief.  The set was melancholy, gloomy but stunning, a bit like Finland can be when the shadows of darkness and the brilliant spring light are competing with each other.  The gloominess and raw emotion made it not your typical singing and jazz hands bubble gum musical.  If singing and dancing bother you, chances are it might not during this musical, though the singing and musical compilations are quite good.   Even if your Finnish isn’t great, I would really recommend going.  It is clear, and easy to understand what is going on, even if you miss a few small details.  Not to get all dramatic on you, but it reminded me that as frustrated as I get sometimes, that it can be a really beautiful language.  During the intermission, I sent Sanna a text (in this small country, everyone seems to know everyone, and Sanna is my ex-fiance’s cousin, and most likely is the person who gave me my first salmari about 5 years ago). She agreed to meet us all at Juututupa, where we had a nice time, but I was slightly embarrassed of the extra attention that was suddenly coming my way and to put Sanna in a situation where she felt obliged to sign autographs in between sips of tea. Nonetheless, my colleagues enjoyed talking to her after the show, and she was gracious as ever until she had to leave, as she has two shows today, and is also in Spring Awakening.  With 4 to 6 shows a week, she is a true artist that remains faithful to her craft.   We stayed until the last round of fisu before last call and all stumbled onto the last tram together. The evening probably should have ended there.

But I have a friend, T., who is moving to Kokkola on Wednesday, and had promised to stop by her goodbye party.
“Where?” I practically shouted into my phone.
“KAARLE! Just come.”
“Ville? Like, Storyville?”
“NO, KAARLE, by Cantina West!!”
“Is there a cover?”
“FYRA!! MEN VITSI DU MÅST KOMMAR HIT NUUUUU.”

Guilt. Trip. T. was one of my first friends I made in Finland. Of course I have to stop by and say hi. I already got out of helping her move boxes on Wednesday cause I have class after work. So why was I fantasizing about my soft feather perfect IKEA peitto?

Now, it wasn’t exactly the front entrance of Kaarle, it was the side. My first red flag should have been how the bouncer, who we’ll refer to as Snuggles, asked me for my student i.d.
“No, I’m not going to a student party,” I explained.
A half naked boy of about 18 started sliding head first down the spiral staircase. Snuggles shrugged his shoulders, and if he were on a Burger King Commercial, he would have said, “Have it your way, lady,” but with attitude.

Now, the last time I was a real student, the kind that gets a discount and carries a student i.d. around, was about 7 years ago. As I stepped over more unconscious bodies to get up the stairs just to say hi to T., a lump started growing in my throat. What the hell was I doing? I turned around. This couldn’t be it. Two girls as soft porn dominatrix princesses with whips and swords pushed me out of the way. T. called me halfway down the long ass spiral staircase.

“Where are you?”
“I don’t know, I’m lost. I think I might just head home. There are all these crazy costumes everywhere.” I had been teaching first grade all day, and gone straight to the dinner and theater from work. I felt how Martha Stewart must feel if she were ever hanging out at a party in the Playboy Mansion.
“I’m coming to get you. Stay there.”
T. appeared, and I asked her what the hell was going on upstairs.
“Yeah, well, I kind of wanted to find some young easy boy tonight.”
“Is this a student party?”
“Um, hello, this IS NYLE.”
“ANTEEKS, MITÄ!?”
Nylands Nation, as in the Swedish speaking organization that I had been invited to numerous parties, but had never bothered going, and now, felt like it was definitely an experience I could miss.
We climbed over bodies, and T. swatted 18 year old boys who appeared to be 12 off of her, and had to kick them off when they would start humping dancing on her leg.
ABBA’s “Gimme gimme gimme a man after midnight” song came on, and I lost T immediately. She was on the prowl. I felt like a teacher on lunch or recess duty. Half of them looked like they were under 15. It felt like something really foul was happening as I watched the older women hunting for the little boys.  I felt like I was 40 when I saw some of the young boys, dressed as Musketeers carrying off some of the even younger girls like cavemen.  One little girl was having a Hiltonesque wardrobe malfunction with everything from the hips down exposed.   From the second I had a black permanent ink heart drawn on my hand to even a juvenile hitting on me, (10 years older! Are they blind?) 500 slurred jäääääte skooooooooj greetings, to the second I was back on the street, with Snuggles waving goodbye and wishing me a nice weekend, the whole last part of the evening was a bit bizarre. But it was just another night in Funland.

I just got home from the gulag,  otherwise known as Motivus, the mild gag reflex inducing, but economic gym with several locations in Helsinki.  I find the gym to be quite boring, but I do enjoy aerobics classes, especially anything with good music and kind of a dance theme going on.  I did ballet for about 10 years until I got these horrible things called hips and breasts, and height-wise, stopped growing at about 14, and that was the end of my dream of being a tall, graceful ballerina.  But I digress. Spinning is ok, pretty boring after the first 30 minutes, but also my least embarrassing choice, where I am least likely to assault someone.

If I knew more about winter sports, maybe I wouldn’t be so limited to the gym, and it’s not like I’m just a gym junkie or something, but I really need to go a few times a week for 1) stress, and 2) to help keep my thyroid in check along with medication and balanced diet.

Now, today, I thought I was being clever and outsmarting the system after a disastrous day at Motivus yesterday.

Yesterday, I was accused of abusing the reservation system, and now am not allowed to reserve a course for the next 60 days.  That means I just have to try my luck at getting a place in the next 10 classes that I’ve already paid for, because I wasn´t totally sure of the rules or the way the reservation system works after repeatedly asking how to manage my sometimes 4 reservations a week just for a chance to get a spot in one of the aerobics classes.  And if you’ve been to Motivus, you know that sardines have more luxury and space in their tins than people do in a friggin gym class. So that was my first black mark of the day yesterday.

Then, in the Body Pump class, my first time in a long time due to past embarassing incidents, between the Finnish, weights, changing weights, steps, handweights, bars, and rapid machine gun fire commands, I ended up assaulting the gorgeous man in front of me, by not attaching my weight correctly, and it fell off, and didn’t manage to completely smash his face, as we were all lying on our backs, but it hit his shoulder and rolled off and knocked over his water bottle.  Three minutes later, while doing lunges, I step on the girl behind me, and I mean, I stomped her foot off, and when I did my lame little Finglish, ¨sorri!¨ she just muttered a ¨VOI  perkele,¨ and gave me the look, which I imagine to mean, ¨Bitch, I hope you choke on your smoothie after class, your boyfriend dumps you and your ass turns into raejuusto,¨ but luckily I don´t have a boyfriend and my ass already feels a little raejuusto, and I had my smoothie before class so, whatever, she had nothing on me.

All of these accusations piled neatly at my feet, and all I can do is give the blank deer in headlights stare, and say, “Anteeksi, oli mun ensimainen kertoa!” which doesn’t quite explain my ridiculous antics.

It’s not that I don’t understand: yksi, kaksi, kolme, nelja, TUPLA!, ylös, alas, SUPERPUMPPI!!!,  oikealla, TAAS! vasemalla, y, ka, ko, SPORTTI!

But somehow, listening to that, while doing the grape-vine, tupla A ja V, jumping jacks, and these flying, clapping, side leaps that somewhat resemble a grand jete, means that at least 5 people are going to sustain an injury, and most likely they are going to be the people in my immediate surroundings.

But anyway, I was going to outsmart the system.  I picked a class I had never been to, on a Sunday before 1 pm, and I figured I would have the whole class to myself.  It would practically be a private lesson.

Not only was every girl from Punavuori to Hyvinkää there, even though half of them looked like they had giant krapulas and had just rolled out of the bar, there were so many old milfy ladies that made Barbie look like the cheap plastic whore that she is!  They were all fierce, and while I was moaning on the floor, dying from measly girl style push ups, the 6o something year old in front of me was doing them with one hand.  You feel even more ridiculous when the music changes from trance-rave music to ABBA to Ramstein, and back to Britney Spears, yes, in that kind of order.  I decided a more appropriate name for the RVP-Muokkaus class would be “Guantanamo style non-consensual sodomy,” both for me and the people who are kicked, trampled, slapped, and have weights thrown at them, on account of me being a kielitaidaton.

And yet, I keep going back for more.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L_fCqg92qks

At least for the past year, I have been fairly strict about a self-imposed rule that I follow. You see, I don’t often get many chances to practice my Finnish anymore, so besides the hour and a half of my weekly “textbook” Finnish class, (a different language entirely from spoken language, I might add) I really don’t ever use it. That is why, when I go to a store, the bank, a restaurant, etc., I have to speak Finnish. If they switch over to English, then whatever, I tried, and sometimes I continue in Finnish. This works fairly well most of the time, even when I know I am making errors; maybe my scrappiness is seen as some strange form of sisu, struggling onwards, in spite of my lack of awareness of the distinctly different sounds produced by double consonants vs. single consonants. I still cannot differentiate my own speech with words like “kukka” and “kuka.”

Something strange  happens when you are constantly surrounded by a language that you don’t understand. Sometimes you become overly defensive, relying too heavily on body language, and you may become paranoid, imagining everyone is laughing at you or reveling in the stupidity of the inept “kielitaidaton.” Even when you are in sticky or important situations where you insist you don’t understand or speak Finnish, the sometimes stubborn persistence you encounter, of people continuing to speak Finnish, almost willing you to, (it’s so easy if you just listen, idiot,) can sometimes be maddening and calls for desperate measures. I have had too many extreme experiences to always be open minded that people are going to consistently be patient and understanding with you as a person learning a language, and it leaves me a little weary when every time I speak Finnish I feel like I am about to step in a huge pile of dog, well, you get the idea.

Recently, at a birthday party, I asked the bar tender, “Hei. Saisinko yks Lonkero, ja yks cokis, kiitos.”

“Yeah, let’s just do this in English, okay. It’s easier for everyone,” the guy said, a little too gruffly.

Astonished at how rude he was, I asked him if he was the only bartender.

“Yep, you have to deal with me,” he said, laughing.

“Right, that’s okay, I think I’m not really thirsty tonight anyway.” I said, refusing to support jackass behavior.

I puffed off, ready to either scream or cry. I told my astonished friends, who were ready to rip this guy a new one, when I saw him leave the bar and head over towards me.

(Step in dogsh*t feeling, insert here, mixed with sheer panic.) Now what, I thought.

“Hey did I offend you or something?” he asked, with the concern of a robot.

Honesty is the best policy, so here goes, I thought.

“Yeah, you did.” I started. “Look, I’m trying, and I’m sorry if I made a mistake or if my accent is off or whatever, but I am trying to speak your language and you didn’t have to be so rude!”

“Ah, the Finnish?” he asked.

“Yeah, my Finnish,” I answered.

“You see, I don’t speak Finnish, I am French, and I speak French, and English, is it a problem?”

(Dogsh*t feeling times ten. A mountain of it.)

“OH! I’m so sorry,” I said, my face a beetroot now. “I didn’t realize, I thought you were making fun of me!”

“No I’m sorry,” he says, and offers, “ Hey, what do you want to drink? Whatever you like, on the house,” he insists.

“I’m really, really, sorry,” I continue.

“It’s okay,” he says. “Those Finnish guys can be real assholes when you don’t speak the language, eh?”

Pretty rich coming from a French guy, I think, I can’t help erupting into laughter, the tension of embarrassment is just too much now.

Check out the pictures that go with this story!  Apparently, a new Lapland Christmas theme park in the U.K. opened to dismal reviews, and hundreds of complainers are demanding a refund for their £25 per ticket.  How much would you be willing to pay to experience the pristine white Christmas that we naturally have in our very own beautiful Lapland?   I suppose 25 quid is a lot cheaper than a VR ticket or flight up to Kittilä, but, would you sell out and settle for something like this for the kiddies if you didn’t live in Finland?  Lapland is still on my to-do list, but you can be sure that there is no substitute for the real thing.   I wonder what the Sami think of this!

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/england/dorset/7758112.stm

Finnish cello metal band, Apocalyptica, which originally was known internationally for playing Metallica covers, has surpassed Metallica, and gone to the top of the U.S. rock radio charts with their new single, “I Don’t Care.” Discuss.

Yesterday in Hufvudstadsbladet, sandwiched between serious international headlines from Bangkok to Seoul, comes news from Motala, Sweden, that little Freddy Karlberg, voted by his classmates to be the Lucia this year, will not be allowed to do so, not due to gender discrimination issues, insists the headmistress, Birgitta Wessman, but because she was not aware of the boy’s candidacy to stop it ahead of time, and that The Södra school is a traditional one, needing a traditional, and female Lucia. The uber modern citizens in Stockholm must have their panties in a twist.

It also seems that Finland scored highest in an international study index when it comes to one-night stands, attitudes to casual sex and the number of sexual partners, it is claimed. The survey was sent to over 14,000 people in over 48 countries and was conducted by Bradley University in Illinois. Well, we didn’t win Eurovision this year, but hey, women are so liberated here. Yay and yawn. However, I can’t find which world sex survey at the moment, as I don’t recall the year, but I do remember my friends at the time teasing me that Finland and Russia were among the least satisfied with the quality of their sex lives among respondents in Western nations. What good is a lot of casual sex if we can’t get no…..SATIS-FACT-ION!!!?

Aside: When I arrived in Finland, almost four years ago, I remember suddenly being terrified in a corner as I awaited my first “white Christmas” and was making the rounds with the fiancé’s relatives who warmly grunted something between approval and tolerance in a way of a cheerful Christmas greeting.

This very tall Viking looking man with squared off shoulders approached me, and, (here’s where the terrifying part starts) he clears his throat, and harrumphs, saying, “You Americans.”

I start batting my eyelashes as my face and chest flush, (which he immediately notices), and I begin thinking of excuses and other heritage 300 years back that I can claim, and think, “Oh God, what have we done now.”

“You know, YOU are getting into lot of trouble in international community. This Guantanamo, this TORTURE. It is big problem.”

He points his finger in my face for emphasis, and maybe notices me squirming by now.

I start thinking of ways to apologize for my countries’ war crimes and abysmal human rights violations that are in the press.

“You force these people to eat pork? You force them to drink alcohol? And you force them to have sexual relations? This is horrible.”

He puffs out his chest a bit more and cracks his knuckles. Now, he pulls his shoulders back, now showing me his full height.

“Here in Finland, we do not call this torture. This is called, Little Christmas, it is THE Pikku Joulu!!!” he claps my back, harrumphing, laughing, and choking on his glögi almond all in one go.

Now I can laugh about it. Then, I think I was close to having a heart attack. But there is something revealing there in that joke that Jari told me so long ago. I have since experienced a few very hedonistic Pikku Joulus myself, and my parents worry that I’m living in a Godless, pagan country when I have tried explaining the concept behind these “parties” that I’ve attended. (For work teambuilding purposes of course.)

As the holiday season approaches, all women between the ages of 18 and 84, beware the wandering “pikku joulu hands” that get a little too friendly with the holiday spirit. They don’t belong to Santa’s helpers, but possibly alcoholic versions of Santa himself, minus the long white beard and the suit of red.

I have a new boss this year, and am not so sure how loose we are really going to let loose next Thursday. I am still not used to the common and completely normal sight of possibly seeing someone who you usually see in a suit in a strictly professional capacity possibly dancing on a conference table with plastic boob earmuffs on his head. We’ll see how it goes, and I’ll keep you posted. Plastic boob earmuffs and all.

Huomenta and howdy!  Just wanted to quickly introduce myself before my first official post.  I’ll be guest-blogging as Megsu, a native old New Orleanian, who has spent a lot of time in the great Lone Star State of Texas, and now have (usually) happily resided in Helsinki for about 4 years.  Helsinki is about as far as you can get culturally from my roots, and I find myself residing somewhere in the middle of the two cultures–but it makes for some interesting and hilarious situations.  I hope to add some spice to Phil’s already wonderful blog, writing with a female perspective, and representing the Southern U.S.  Kippis!