I launch my upper-body-workout-in-a-suitcase into the back of our extended VW and chump in with squister. We rock out hard to the Juno soundtrack, playing the first twangy number every other song until we learn the words. “If you were a wink, then I’d be a nod. If you were a seed then I’d be a pod…!” Ah, so romantic. We also listen to Regina Spektor, whom always dishes out advice I’d love to accept… “Maaaybe you should kiss someone nice, or lick a rock, or both!”
We arrive latish at a hotel halfway to our destination, Viraat, where we’ve rented a cabin on a little inland lake in order to do the same thing we do at home… swim, sauna, walk and sit. Hotelli Urku used to be a factory where they built pipe organs, and the layout and decor speak to that fact tastefully. Leah and I wake up early and go for a power walk, during which we require ourselves to skip frantically every time we cross a muddy bridge on the trail (a significant amount of skippage). We find a playground and proceed to perform erotic Finish pole dancing on the kid’s jungle gym, just to spice things up Soumi style. Miraculously I do NOT fall on my head as I slide the wrong way down the pole, and we move onto frolicking in the fields of wildflowers surrounding the park.
Again we pack up the car and head north. We arrive at a quaint camp just outside of Viraat and promptly make our reservation for an evening sauna and Papa Kurtz regresses to his boyish self and jumps around on the trampoline before renting out a little wooden rowboat in which to bob around the lake. Too much time in the car makes Lucy a dull girl, so I snap on my gogglies and freestyle (rap) out to McFeelee and Dad halfway across el lago. My ever-supportive father points out a rock on the other end of the lake as my goal and I begin (unbeknownst to me) my triathlon summer training.
It’s now 8:00 and time for our first fab Finn sauna. The building is set on the bank and surrounded by pines and white birch trees, giving it the woodsy privacy we cherish as Yooper-Finns. The dock floats out over the cool water and the sun is set low in the sky, though by now we know this is just a tease, and even at midnight we’ll see the top of Ra’s bald head shining like a fuzzy peach. 1! 2! 3! 4 Kurtz cannon balls with enthusiasm! The sauna has an electric stove and isn’t nearly scalding enough for my hot-blooded mama, so we’ve been hitting that baby with ladle after ladle of sweet-water, cooking ourselves like steamed veggies.
Dad: “Hey Leah, the bottom is nice. Can you touch?”
Leah: “AAAAAaaaaaaaaaagh! Ewwww, gross!!!”
Nice work Padre, the muck bottom trick always works on the squeamish squeester. Aaaah hahaha.
We venture into Viraat to find some food and come across our first Pizza and Kebab shop… an interesting combination that is apparently the cats meow in old Finlandia. We eat our fill and we girlies go back to el campo and our adventuring parents move onto Viraat exploration. My great grandfather Koivunen was from Viraat, and the town center on Saturday night is hoppin with people. A Lovely night for my momma to acquaint herself with her Finnish roots.
Onward and upward in the morn, we push forth to Oulu where we’ve rented another cabin, this time minutes from the seashore. The beach is long and lovely. Bikers, runners, and swimmers sprinkle the sand and sidewalks and windmills swing their heads towards the breeze, standing like watchful giants along the distant shore and out at sea. There is a lookout tower at the end of a pier, and we walk the stairs to “patiently” wait for the sun to set. Since we don’t actually have the attention span to wait longer than fifteen minutes, we give up at about quarter past twelve and head down to our cozy cabin, Leah and it banished to the “kid loft” as it were.
We wake and mosey off in our separate directions, Mom and Dad up 40 minutes north to Kuivanimi to take in the lovely little town of her great grandmother, and Leah and I to downtown Oulu, a short walk made much longer by Leah’s foolish trust in my sense of direction. “Of course this leads to the downtown… its heading in relatively the same direction I ran yesterday.”
“You mean you didn’t take this route?!”
“Well no, but you like me and you like walking so what does it matter?”
“SISTERRRRRR!”
After posing on some statues of a mountain with tits and a worm alien (Leah also managed to fall off the worm alien while riding it… perhaps she needs to read the Dune series) we came across the outdoor market. I ate some whole fried minnows, the look of which made Leah vomit in her mouth twice, and we bought some superb Finn strawberries. After feasting we set out to find the cheapest cellular device in Oulu, failing miserably as each shop sold equally expensive phonage. We are finally directed to a store that had not only mobiles, but ICE CREAM! Nice combo once again Finland. The cute boy at the counter was more than helpful. He outfits me with a cheap-ass Samsung and a SIM card, and surely as a gesture of goodwill to foreign ambassadors, gives us FREE ICE CREAM!!! Thanks Jonas. You da bomb. I ever so boldly invite him and the lovely girl working behind the counter to hang out with us and be out tour guides, but he gets super shy, says he’s busy and using my acute skillz of people reading I understand he has a gf that would not approve... though as consolation for our rejection he says if we come back again we’ll get more free ice cream. We didn’t go back. Why Leah, WHY?
The rest of our stay in Oulu we spend walking the beautiful and abundant trails and parks woven all through the city. Sampling coffee, food and desserts in addition to creating mythical monster creatures (Leah says my monsters are shit) we take pictures lying in wildflowers (also known as THORNS) and following the blue dots to our destiny. That was my technique… but dashes painted on the sidewalk most OBVIOUSLY lead back to our cabin. Somehow I convince Leah to follow them with me, until her better judgment takes hold and she leads the way home.
M & D are back from Kuivanimi and have found Great Grandma Koivunen’s old house! The neighbor confirmed this fact in broken English. They visit a local church graveyard and take photographs of the stones there. My great grandparents met in Ripley only after their families immigrated to the United States. It’s something of a marvel to think about people’s fates, their paths crossing only after they have made a thousand decisions and experienced a million things that finally lead them to find a person to share their life journey. And everything my ancestors did for themselves they did for me as well. I could be Finnish, Slovenian, English, French, German, Scottish etc, etc. Instead I’m a Yooper and I’ve been gifted a happy life, a loving family, an education and more privileges and comforts than I rightly deserve. Jumping too far forward, at a restaurant in Tartu Estonia we discussed beggars asking for something for nothing. Matt said he always gives something if he can. When his student responded saying “I don’t want to give money because I don’t know what they’ll use it for,” his response was “who cares.” When the frustrated student said “Well why don’t these people help themselves? I have had a worse life by comparison to many of them.” And he responded with “Why not ask for something for nothing. We ALL get something for nothing.” Anyway, I seriously diverge. That conversation stuck with me and seemed appropriate now, as I think of all of the people in my lineage blazing trails of opportunity, or at least circumstance for me to do with what I will. And I suppose that is exactly what I’m doing over here across the pond… I have been granted A LOT for nothing, and I try not to forget it.
Driving south of Oulu we call out for a pit stop and roll into another pizza/kebab joint (weird). Eating our pizza and chatting with the friendly Turkish owner my dad asks him what brought him up this far north. “Did you move here and fall in love with a Finish girl and decide to stay?’ “Ha!! FUCK Finish girls,” was his response. Wooooah buddy. Those little blonde bombshells must’ve done a number on his heart/ego to evoke a response like that to a perfect stranger. Still, the man was nice enough. An hour and a half down the road I receive a call on my cell and his friend in broken English tells me that my mother’s purse is still at the restaurant! Momma Jeanne’s eyes just about pop out of her head in panic, but after some frantic flailing we decide to find a place for the night so that Leah and I are spared the extra 3 hours in the car required to retrieve her ever important wallet/passport/credit card/checkbook carrier.
We pull into an airplane museum with pre-WWII bombers on display on the lawn next to the parking lot. We walk inside and suddenly it occurs to me that EVERY plane has a swastika painted proudly on its side or tail. I can’t read any of he accompanying literature, but again NAZI was all that came through. I started to feel uncomfortable and said as much to my mom… “Mom!” I whispered. “Are these people all white supremacists?” She laughed at me and told me that Finland had a complicated history with Germany and the Nazi’s. The Germans came to Finland’s assistance when Russia tried to invade, so the Nazi’s actually helped to save Finland from the “Reds.” Then of course there was that whole killing of millions of innocent people and trying to conquer Europe and the world so that the supreme race might reign… Finns aren’t so much into that and later found themselves fighting their saviors. Phew. I was worried they’d see through me and find out I’m just a yogurt covered pretzel. No joke, I’m terrified of skinheads even if I fall into their “approved” category. Yes.
The NON-Nazis directed us down the road to an old farmstead turned bed and breakfast. It was cutely picturesque and rested on a little inland lake, with a sauna, a smoke sauna, a barn with ponies and other furry creatures, and a main hall where they feed the guests. Leah and I walk in and burst into giggles, because somehow my parents seemed to have dropped us off at a Finish retirement home. The cafeteria was packed with 65+, all gorging themselves with fish salads and hot meats. Combined with the suffocating smell of old people wearing perfume and cologne it was hardly bearable. We asked sweet Fanni, our sixteen-year-old guide why there was this inordinate number of over-the-hill patrons and she explained that there is an outdoor theatre that’s putting on an original Finish production tonight, so they are hosting dinner and a show. COOL! If only we spoke Finish. When the crowd thins out Leah and I ask how much the buffet costs… 20 Euros each! Woah! Fanni says we can probably just eat the “salads” for 10 a piece and we agreed, only to find that most of them are raw fish swimming in cream sauces and goo. Yummm. Once again giggling with lack of maturity we plopped down at a bench and began slurping our meal. Most of the salads, I’ll admit, are not my favorite, but it is really nice because much of the food is apparently very traditional. What luck to stumble across with no planning! We fill ourselves up and go for a little jog. Our parents return with Mom’s purse and all its components and Dad and I do a triangle swim around the lake, he in his rowboat, me with my gogglies. Before bed we toast in the easy electric sauna and melt into little puddles of American mush. Sooo relaxing.
Next stop Helsinki! After some fine dining (Dad orders pizza for the third time in two days), Leah and I venture out on our own to a café for some lattes and internet action. Tomas calls me and tells me his friend is playing music at a club called “Jenny Woo” and I should go. Because I am a complete idiot, somehow it did not come through to me that HE would be there. We ask the barista if she knows where the club is, and she starts laughing… hmmm to what kind of joint is he sending us? She points her finger kitty-corner to the café and says, “It’s right there on the left side of the street.” Leah and I walk up to the door and sheepishly crane our necks to see past the bouncers. No live music. Huh. Wrong place? There is a cover charge and we’re about to walk away when Tomas emerges, gives me a hug, says a few words to the doorman and waves us on through. We grab a beer (more for something to do than anything else) and wait for Tomas to come back inside. He introduces us to a table of his friends in the corner and we all shoot the shit for an hour or two. Tomas’s friend Antti, a big guy with a Donald Trump comb over, a suit and twinkling eyes, offers to walk Leah and I back to our hotel on his way to his apartment. He is so friendly, like the rest of them, and I’ll see him with Tomas again in a few weeks. I’m so grateful that Tomas has gone out of his way to pick me up from the airport and introduce me to his friends, and I tell Antti as much. “Why wouldn’t he?” He says. “Some hot American girl writes him and asks to be picked up from the airport. What else would he say?” Ha! Oooh Antti. Turns out this bit of blunt was just the tiniest tip of the iceberg. Antti has no filter, and I’m happy to call him my friend, but we’ll get to that. On to Estonia.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
So SOUMI! Part Yksi
So SOUMI! (Not just a greasy spoon in H-town… it’s an entire COUNTRY! Wah.)
Part Yksi: The Helsinki Chronicles
I’m here. I’M HERE! Greasy, frazzled and jet-lagged having slept approximately 3 hours in the past two days, I’m ready to charm and dazzle Tomas, giving him my very best impression of a good impression. I stare down the crowd, willing him to appear, and he does. Smiling warmly he shakes my hand and leads me to his frickin SWEET Audi. Well, I think so, and I tell him as much but he doesn’t seem particularly prideful of his smashing vehicle, and as I gaze around the parking lot it occurs to me that most all of the cars are 12.376 times nicer than the rickety Dodge Neon I was so attached to back home. Apparently Helsinkians drive nice cars. And so my education begins.
We go to coffee and I can feel the fertilization of hair follicles on my chest. Finns drink their mud with their biceps fully flexed. I clenched my butt and sucked it down… Aaaaah. Good stuff. Tomas drops me at the hotel and I wander down to the center of the city to purchase some cheap fuel (the fruit and yogurt variety) and buy a European adaptor. Mission accomplished. Everyone under the age of 50 speaks fluent English, the weather is perfect, the people or gorgeous, the city is rolling with bikes and paths and art fills the gardens. Yeah, I think I can tough this place out for a few more days. I arrive back at the hotel and black out before my head hits the pillow.
I wake up and give Tomas a jingle. He invites me for dinner and we drive to a little Italian joint on the water, complete with sailboats, yachts, swans and a lovely view of the city. He’s dressed in a nicer shirt than most of my male friends in the U.S. even own and some clean dark jeans. Very chic. I managed to throw on a clean t-shirt so at least I don’t smell. I have a sneaking suspicion that being “out-fashioned” by Europeans will be an amusingly common experience in the next 6 months. Tomas and Wickipedia provide educational entertainment with these following fun facts:
The Baltic is only 0.7% salt while the Ocean is 3%--- doesn’t hurt your eyes as much!
Finland declared independence from Russia in 1917
Had a brief and bitter civil war in 1918
Had some wars against the Soviet Union (Germans helped them)
Had a war against Nazi Germany (Ever heard of WWII?)
Is currently ranked the second most stable country in the world (its because they’re all chilaxed from taking so many saunas in addition to never fighting because they’re too shy to speak to strangers)
Okay, maybe they’re not fun facts by Joe Mama’s standards, but I was undeniably impressed with his memory for dates, and eager not to appear too pathetic in history buffology. I attempt to pull a nugget of knowledge out of my historical grab bag, and all I come up with is “Columbus sailed the ocean blue in the year of 1492!” I decide this little treasure is too valuable to waste, so I put it in my panic pocket and save it for when he starts asking me for information about MY homeland. That’s all I need to ruin my ambassadorial status as an American, a history lesson on my own country from a European. Ay caramba!
Post food consumption Tomas delivers me to my recently arrived kin. Leelee McPheelee, Mamasita-bonita-chikita-banana, and Doodles-Bo-diddy-Dude have survived the long flight from Hancock to Helsinki, only to get lost on the way to the Hotelli and wonder “Where the Helsinki are we?” I only laugh a little at their misfortune. We spin around the city on foot and try our best to crash for the night, which is much more difficult than anticipated. I’m officially nocturnal in Finland, and after a fitful night I wake up and go for a 5:30 run around the central park, through the trees and gardens lacing the sea that has crept into the center of the city by means of sparkling canals reflecting the pinks, oranges, and reds of a sun already low in the sky for its refusal to set more than a few winks each night. I follow this up with some Pilates in the park, enjoying that I’m relatively unnoticed with my legs spread wide over my head, booty in the air breathing rhythmically to a beat I’m jamming in my head. Aaaaand spent. Nice move Luc… now I’m so whipped during the day a nap is inescapable. My sleep schedule is officially F@#$ed and unbeknownst to me will continue to be totally moop for the rest of the week. I walk back to the apartment, repack my junket, and head out to view the city with my family and a touristy flare.
We visit the church in the rock, a giant underground chapel with a grandiose pipe organ and a ceiling made of glass, the Russian Orthodox Dieses, a marvel seemingly picked up out of St. Petersburg and dropped haughtily into Lutheran dominated Finland, and the port where we see an enormous pirate ship docked next to a cruise whose booty they are most certainly looting as we stand slack jawed and gawking at its sheer shipliness.
Its time to go and we snag a cab back to our rented car and prepare to hit the road ahead of Helsinki. This city is fabulous. Water, trees, art, science, politics, bicycles, really hot Finish guys… I’ll be returning to take in the “view” again in another week. Good start!
Part Yksi: The Helsinki Chronicles
I’m here. I’M HERE! Greasy, frazzled and jet-lagged having slept approximately 3 hours in the past two days, I’m ready to charm and dazzle Tomas, giving him my very best impression of a good impression. I stare down the crowd, willing him to appear, and he does. Smiling warmly he shakes my hand and leads me to his frickin SWEET Audi. Well, I think so, and I tell him as much but he doesn’t seem particularly prideful of his smashing vehicle, and as I gaze around the parking lot it occurs to me that most all of the cars are 12.376 times nicer than the rickety Dodge Neon I was so attached to back home. Apparently Helsinkians drive nice cars. And so my education begins.
We go to coffee and I can feel the fertilization of hair follicles on my chest. Finns drink their mud with their biceps fully flexed. I clenched my butt and sucked it down… Aaaaah. Good stuff. Tomas drops me at the hotel and I wander down to the center of the city to purchase some cheap fuel (the fruit and yogurt variety) and buy a European adaptor. Mission accomplished. Everyone under the age of 50 speaks fluent English, the weather is perfect, the people or gorgeous, the city is rolling with bikes and paths and art fills the gardens. Yeah, I think I can tough this place out for a few more days. I arrive back at the hotel and black out before my head hits the pillow.
I wake up and give Tomas a jingle. He invites me for dinner and we drive to a little Italian joint on the water, complete with sailboats, yachts, swans and a lovely view of the city. He’s dressed in a nicer shirt than most of my male friends in the U.S. even own and some clean dark jeans. Very chic. I managed to throw on a clean t-shirt so at least I don’t smell. I have a sneaking suspicion that being “out-fashioned” by Europeans will be an amusingly common experience in the next 6 months. Tomas and Wickipedia provide educational entertainment with these following fun facts:
The Baltic is only 0.7% salt while the Ocean is 3%--- doesn’t hurt your eyes as much!
Finland declared independence from Russia in 1917
Had a brief and bitter civil war in 1918
Had some wars against the Soviet Union (Germans helped them)
Had a war against Nazi Germany (Ever heard of WWII?)
Is currently ranked the second most stable country in the world (its because they’re all chilaxed from taking so many saunas in addition to never fighting because they’re too shy to speak to strangers)
Okay, maybe they’re not fun facts by Joe Mama’s standards, but I was undeniably impressed with his memory for dates, and eager not to appear too pathetic in history buffology. I attempt to pull a nugget of knowledge out of my historical grab bag, and all I come up with is “Columbus sailed the ocean blue in the year of 1492!” I decide this little treasure is too valuable to waste, so I put it in my panic pocket and save it for when he starts asking me for information about MY homeland. That’s all I need to ruin my ambassadorial status as an American, a history lesson on my own country from a European. Ay caramba!
Post food consumption Tomas delivers me to my recently arrived kin. Leelee McPheelee, Mamasita-bonita-chikita-banana, and Doodles-Bo-diddy-Dude have survived the long flight from Hancock to Helsinki, only to get lost on the way to the Hotelli and wonder “Where the Helsinki are we?” I only laugh a little at their misfortune. We spin around the city on foot and try our best to crash for the night, which is much more difficult than anticipated. I’m officially nocturnal in Finland, and after a fitful night I wake up and go for a 5:30 run around the central park, through the trees and gardens lacing the sea that has crept into the center of the city by means of sparkling canals reflecting the pinks, oranges, and reds of a sun already low in the sky for its refusal to set more than a few winks each night. I follow this up with some Pilates in the park, enjoying that I’m relatively unnoticed with my legs spread wide over my head, booty in the air breathing rhythmically to a beat I’m jamming in my head. Aaaaand spent. Nice move Luc… now I’m so whipped during the day a nap is inescapable. My sleep schedule is officially F@#$ed and unbeknownst to me will continue to be totally moop for the rest of the week. I walk back to the apartment, repack my junket, and head out to view the city with my family and a touristy flare.
We visit the church in the rock, a giant underground chapel with a grandiose pipe organ and a ceiling made of glass, the Russian Orthodox Dieses, a marvel seemingly picked up out of St. Petersburg and dropped haughtily into Lutheran dominated Finland, and the port where we see an enormous pirate ship docked next to a cruise whose booty they are most certainly looting as we stand slack jawed and gawking at its sheer shipliness.
Its time to go and we snag a cab back to our rented car and prepare to hit the road ahead of Helsinki. This city is fabulous. Water, trees, art, science, politics, bicycles, really hot Finish guys… I’ll be returning to take in the “view” again in another week. Good start!
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Aaaaand Me Off!
AAAAND ME OFF!
3 a.m. the same morning I embark on my great European adventure and I’m stumbling over the clothes, books and trivial nick-nackeries I’ve strewn about my brothers old room in an attempt to relieve myself of the useless crap I insist on crushing myself with at the starting line of every trip abroad. No doubt in less than a week I’ll be tempted to burn half of it, and the other half will be so smelly and smudged I’ll give myself away as the ragamuffin yooper child that I am. Heaving a sigh and a giant “mini” printer into my overstuffed pack I look at the clock and give it the saddest puppy-dog eyes I can muster, only unlike my parents or the poor boys blind enough to mistake my grimace for something cute, the hands don’t give way to my pouting lip and just keep on ticking. Screw this. I’m going to bed. An hour of sleep is better and nothing, and with my well honed skills of procrastination and justification of general poor decision making its inevitable that I will be over packed and under prepared. Lucky for me my middle-class Midwestern familia are accompanying me in Finland a few hours after I arrive. I’m counting on their similarly too large suitcases to bear the burden of my materialism by the end of our three weeks together, so that I might enjoy a less Sherpa-esque trek across the motherland Europe.
An hour later I’m bear-hugging my load and forcing it into the backseat of our Toyota. My dad asks “Okay, do you have your passport?” Of course I do. Duh. How stupid do you think I am. I flop in the seat next to him and as we round the corning it occurs to me, no, I do not have my credit card, drivers license or passport. They are sitting in the copier, right where I left them. I did however have the copies, as useful as that is… “STOP! Turn around. I was just kidding and I don’t have my passport.” He of course is not phased by this having lived with my for my first 18 years and , more recently, the past 6 months. Some things never change, and one of them is my desperate need for a full Velcro bodysuit to which I can attach everything necessary to function in life.
My arrival and departure from the Houghton airport was simple and unceremonious. I hugged and kissed my dude goodbye (that’s dad in Lucy-speak), got in line and started chatting with Pete, a local chap who works with my Uncle Al. Pete’s cool. Smiley and warm he talks about how he knows my parents, where he’s going, and what he likes to do. He’s a climber and a surfer, the outdoorsy type that the U.P. attracts as transplants. A different breed from a lot of the locals, but easy going in a way that compliments the slow pace of life in a small town. I can relate to that. A little adventure to make a splash in the calm. We parted ways on the plane, but chatted again in the Minneapolis airport. He was on his way to meet his girlfriend and catch a flight to San Francisco for some surf and sun. Sounds fun. Sounds romantic. Have a good time Pete! See you when I get back!
I make my way to the gate and onto the plane. Scoping out the seating I have my proverbial fingers crossed in hopes of sitting next to someone interesting to talk to. I spot my seat and an old gentleman in the same row. I wiggle passed the sea of passengers and plunk down into familiarly cramped quarters. We say hi and exchange pleasantries, but I have little hope of connecting with this seemingly solemn old dude in this adjoining seat. Ten minutes into the flight he asks where I’m heading. “Helsinki.” *smile*… I love saying that. Every time I do I picture my little pocket Lucy doing exactly what I feel inside; eyes cast down, kicking the dirt, wringing her hands behind her back shyly and then jumping up and down inappropriately thrash-dancing and doing high kicks. Yep! If only public spazz-attacks were socially acceptable. “Ah, Helsinki!” he says. “What brings you there?” I told him of my planoodles to gallivant around Europe with and without my family, and his big dyke sprung a leak. He unloads on me stories of his own family adventures; his kids, his ex-wife, traveling for jobs, traveling for heritage… basically his legacy in a nutshell. Bill Paris would have been Parisi if they hadn’t dropped the “eeeee” sound on Elis Island. He has two adorable grand-chickies, little blonde boys with shit-eating grins and crust in their noses I’m sure. His daughters were smart and he was SO proud. His boys did construction like their pappy. They work hard and they’re successful, but partied in school and dropped the heck out. We sat marveling at the variety of individuals that can result from similarly provided circumstance (aka growing up together).
I’ve often wondered at how my siblings and I came about. Me, the ever-loving flake, endlessly daydreaming and losing myself in music, dancing, theatre and love; Leah with all her logic, her sharp edge cutting my balloon string and bringing me back to this world, keeping me from getting lost with her proverbial leash but afraid to venture out (completely) on her own, and Graham, quirky sweet and lonely, swinging, singing and bustin-a-move to a musical dance number that someone special has yet to hear. I am the doctor who forgets the scalpel inside her patient, Leah is the stylist that would have been an engineer if machines were prettier and math didn’t suck, and Graham is the artist who’s life would be much simpler if the rest of us just weren’t so oblivious. Duh. The thing is I WILL be a great doctor, Leah WILL venture out and find herself and her confidence, and Graham WILL find love and his place in joy and art. There’s my familial analysis in a Kinder-egg… tasty outer shell but just cheap plastic crap at the center. Who comes up with this shit anyway? Oh yeah, me. If I’m crucified for these simplified soliloquies by my sibs, remember all my valuables are to be distributed to the needy. I have a semi-automatic vibrator named Dexter that goes to the person hasn’t gotten any for the longest period of time.
Forgive my wandering thought bubbles, we’re back to Bill Paris. After an hour and a half of the kind of conversation that turns strangers into good friends, we bumped and glided onto the DTW landing strip. “Goodbye Lucy, and good luck. It was sincerely a pleasure to talk with you.” Goodbye Bill. Thanks for the preview into what has clearly been a wonderful and satisfying life, if not for anything but your attitude. It really has been a pleasure.
Once again crossing my fingers for another amiable flying companion, I slipped down the isle and tucked my junk-filled overflow carry-on into the treacherous overhead compartments that threaten to drop briefcase style luggage bombs on any passenger fool enough to need their nose wipes mid-flight. Two young guys are sitting next to me and I crack a joke about the foggy air pouring into the cabin from above the windows. “it’s a bit creepy, the smoke rolling in. Ya think its dry ice?” One guy laughs and says
“It feels more like we’re going on a ride than on a plane.” Good. Nice guys. I’m ready.
The fellow next to me is tall and his knees are just about touching the seat in front of him He is wearing a dew rag and 20s style mobster cap. His braids are poking out the bottom over the top of this denim jacket. He looks to me like he’s part of the hip-hop scene in Boston. I ask him where he’s going and he says Cambridge. Well I’m not all that well edumacated, so I immediately assumed he meant Cambridge England. I still didn’t make the connection when he said he was going to Harvard for a semester. I grew up where we go mudding in our free time. You can’t fault me for it. Anyway, the dude’s got an accent and so Europeans fly to Europe right? Nope, I’m just and idiot. So TOBI is from Germany. I tell him I’m going to Mannheim and he just about jumps out of his shoes. He’s from HEIDELBERG and goes to school in MANNHEIM. WOW! His excitement is pretty contagious so we promptly exchange face book info (of course) and delve into some details about our travels. He goes to one of the top business schools in the world in Mannheim and plays basketball A LOT. A German jock! How fun! He has no place to go when he gets to Harvard so together we decide he is going to live under a bridge with the trolls, ducks and bums, and wake up every morning to the Harvard crew team rowing past. Sounds nice. We get off the plane and I go with him to get his luggage. As he walks me to my terminal every other sentence out of our mouths is sarcastic or absurd. “How do you say ‘You are sooo pretty’ in German?”
“Du bist soooooo shun.”
“Thaaaank youuuuuuu!”
“What?! Ooohhh.”
I’m hilarious. I think I’ll do that in every language.
We say our goodbyes and I pass through security unscathed and un-groped. Fabulous! Things are swell. My stomach is eating itself. I buy some Sbarro pizza and the first thing I do is pop a brilliantly uncooked, untempered, painfully strong piece of garlic into my mouth thinking its onion. On an empty stomach that’s like swallowing a puke grenade. And I almost do, puke that is. Oooh I can taste that metallic gastric juice burning my throat DARING me to try to talk to the lady at the register. I scope out my closest safety can and prepare for the embarrassing dash and blow but it doesn’t come. PHEW! I gingerly pick apart my crust until my stomach is settled, then inhale the za like it’s my personal last supper. I’m going to FINLAND!
After 9 hours on an uneventful flight where I sat with a Finish woman so shy I’m sure she didn’t utter a word to me the entire time, I prepare myself for customs. “How long will you be here?” He says.
“Ummmm, in Finland only a few weeks, but I fly out from here again in 5 and a half months.”
“Do you have a Visa?”
“… No?”
“You will need one.”
“Can’t I just leave and come back?”
“You must be gone for six months.”
“Oh, okay, I’ll get one. Thank you. Bye!"
*Thought bubble* …. SHIT BALLS!
I’m NERVOUS! Waiting by the carousel for my pack to ride by I’m wondering what to say to Tomas, my Finish face book compadre. I don’t really KNOW him… I left my passport in the jungle in Guatemala (unfortunately I’m afraid many of my stories will begin with “I forgot my… I left my… my head is in my…”) and stayed a few extra days to visit the capitol, grovel, kiss feet, cry and give myself up to the mercy of the U.S. embassy. With a copy of my passport (a faded photo of my seven year old self looking mousy and mischievous) and an expired drivers license (sixteen years old with a bad haircut and an oversized hoop in my nose) I watched as the 20 families in front of me were denied, rejected, turned down, thrown out and all together smote by the sweet/hardened Asian American speaking Spanish in a tired voice brought out most certainly by her utterly depressing job. I rose when my number was called, showed her my crappy expired scanned Ids, and left with a new passport 15 minutes later, no questions asked. All they wanted was my $$$. Ah the American way!
So how I know Tomas… His father Matti was sitting alone drinking wine at a restaurant across the street from my hotel back in Antigua. He invited me to join him and talked to me about his great adventure, a trip around the world, traveling for an entire year. I told him of my Finish heritage, my mother’s maiden name “Koivunen” and my desire to visit Finland. He told me if I ever came to Helsinki that his sons would show me around the city. Fast-forward two years and I’m trying to organize my disaster of a room after moving my painful accumulation of useless crap home from Kalamazoo to be with my mamasita while she faced the ugly ogre called cancer, I, by some miracle, stumbled across Matti’s card and driven by kitty-type curiosity checked his blog from August 2007. Sure enough he wrote that he’d met “Pretty Lucy Kurtz” (minor ego boost) from Michigan with Finnish heritage, and if she ever comes to Helsinki his boys could show her (me) around the city. Conveniently we live in an e-social-Facebook-obsessed-wasteyouryouthonthecomputer time so I took a shot and friended the Ahjopalo boys. After a two hour chat with Tomas I had a hotel booked for my fam and a ride from the airport from my first Finn friend. Lucky for me he’s cute. I don’t take rides from ugly blokes and I told him as much.
3 a.m. the same morning I embark on my great European adventure and I’m stumbling over the clothes, books and trivial nick-nackeries I’ve strewn about my brothers old room in an attempt to relieve myself of the useless crap I insist on crushing myself with at the starting line of every trip abroad. No doubt in less than a week I’ll be tempted to burn half of it, and the other half will be so smelly and smudged I’ll give myself away as the ragamuffin yooper child that I am. Heaving a sigh and a giant “mini” printer into my overstuffed pack I look at the clock and give it the saddest puppy-dog eyes I can muster, only unlike my parents or the poor boys blind enough to mistake my grimace for something cute, the hands don’t give way to my pouting lip and just keep on ticking. Screw this. I’m going to bed. An hour of sleep is better and nothing, and with my well honed skills of procrastination and justification of general poor decision making its inevitable that I will be over packed and under prepared. Lucky for me my middle-class Midwestern familia are accompanying me in Finland a few hours after I arrive. I’m counting on their similarly too large suitcases to bear the burden of my materialism by the end of our three weeks together, so that I might enjoy a less Sherpa-esque trek across the motherland Europe.
An hour later I’m bear-hugging my load and forcing it into the backseat of our Toyota. My dad asks “Okay, do you have your passport?” Of course I do. Duh. How stupid do you think I am. I flop in the seat next to him and as we round the corning it occurs to me, no, I do not have my credit card, drivers license or passport. They are sitting in the copier, right where I left them. I did however have the copies, as useful as that is… “STOP! Turn around. I was just kidding and I don’t have my passport.” He of course is not phased by this having lived with my for my first 18 years and , more recently, the past 6 months. Some things never change, and one of them is my desperate need for a full Velcro bodysuit to which I can attach everything necessary to function in life.
My arrival and departure from the Houghton airport was simple and unceremonious. I hugged and kissed my dude goodbye (that’s dad in Lucy-speak), got in line and started chatting with Pete, a local chap who works with my Uncle Al. Pete’s cool. Smiley and warm he talks about how he knows my parents, where he’s going, and what he likes to do. He’s a climber and a surfer, the outdoorsy type that the U.P. attracts as transplants. A different breed from a lot of the locals, but easy going in a way that compliments the slow pace of life in a small town. I can relate to that. A little adventure to make a splash in the calm. We parted ways on the plane, but chatted again in the Minneapolis airport. He was on his way to meet his girlfriend and catch a flight to San Francisco for some surf and sun. Sounds fun. Sounds romantic. Have a good time Pete! See you when I get back!
I make my way to the gate and onto the plane. Scoping out the seating I have my proverbial fingers crossed in hopes of sitting next to someone interesting to talk to. I spot my seat and an old gentleman in the same row. I wiggle passed the sea of passengers and plunk down into familiarly cramped quarters. We say hi and exchange pleasantries, but I have little hope of connecting with this seemingly solemn old dude in this adjoining seat. Ten minutes into the flight he asks where I’m heading. “Helsinki.” *smile*… I love saying that. Every time I do I picture my little pocket Lucy doing exactly what I feel inside; eyes cast down, kicking the dirt, wringing her hands behind her back shyly and then jumping up and down inappropriately thrash-dancing and doing high kicks. Yep! If only public spazz-attacks were socially acceptable. “Ah, Helsinki!” he says. “What brings you there?” I told him of my planoodles to gallivant around Europe with and without my family, and his big dyke sprung a leak. He unloads on me stories of his own family adventures; his kids, his ex-wife, traveling for jobs, traveling for heritage… basically his legacy in a nutshell. Bill Paris would have been Parisi if they hadn’t dropped the “eeeee” sound on Elis Island. He has two adorable grand-chickies, little blonde boys with shit-eating grins and crust in their noses I’m sure. His daughters were smart and he was SO proud. His boys did construction like their pappy. They work hard and they’re successful, but partied in school and dropped the heck out. We sat marveling at the variety of individuals that can result from similarly provided circumstance (aka growing up together).
I’ve often wondered at how my siblings and I came about. Me, the ever-loving flake, endlessly daydreaming and losing myself in music, dancing, theatre and love; Leah with all her logic, her sharp edge cutting my balloon string and bringing me back to this world, keeping me from getting lost with her proverbial leash but afraid to venture out (completely) on her own, and Graham, quirky sweet and lonely, swinging, singing and bustin-a-move to a musical dance number that someone special has yet to hear. I am the doctor who forgets the scalpel inside her patient, Leah is the stylist that would have been an engineer if machines were prettier and math didn’t suck, and Graham is the artist who’s life would be much simpler if the rest of us just weren’t so oblivious. Duh. The thing is I WILL be a great doctor, Leah WILL venture out and find herself and her confidence, and Graham WILL find love and his place in joy and art. There’s my familial analysis in a Kinder-egg… tasty outer shell but just cheap plastic crap at the center. Who comes up with this shit anyway? Oh yeah, me. If I’m crucified for these simplified soliloquies by my sibs, remember all my valuables are to be distributed to the needy. I have a semi-automatic vibrator named Dexter that goes to the person hasn’t gotten any for the longest period of time.
Forgive my wandering thought bubbles, we’re back to Bill Paris. After an hour and a half of the kind of conversation that turns strangers into good friends, we bumped and glided onto the DTW landing strip. “Goodbye Lucy, and good luck. It was sincerely a pleasure to talk with you.” Goodbye Bill. Thanks for the preview into what has clearly been a wonderful and satisfying life, if not for anything but your attitude. It really has been a pleasure.
Once again crossing my fingers for another amiable flying companion, I slipped down the isle and tucked my junk-filled overflow carry-on into the treacherous overhead compartments that threaten to drop briefcase style luggage bombs on any passenger fool enough to need their nose wipes mid-flight. Two young guys are sitting next to me and I crack a joke about the foggy air pouring into the cabin from above the windows. “it’s a bit creepy, the smoke rolling in. Ya think its dry ice?” One guy laughs and says
“It feels more like we’re going on a ride than on a plane.” Good. Nice guys. I’m ready.
The fellow next to me is tall and his knees are just about touching the seat in front of him He is wearing a dew rag and 20s style mobster cap. His braids are poking out the bottom over the top of this denim jacket. He looks to me like he’s part of the hip-hop scene in Boston. I ask him where he’s going and he says Cambridge. Well I’m not all that well edumacated, so I immediately assumed he meant Cambridge England. I still didn’t make the connection when he said he was going to Harvard for a semester. I grew up where we go mudding in our free time. You can’t fault me for it. Anyway, the dude’s got an accent and so Europeans fly to Europe right? Nope, I’m just and idiot. So TOBI is from Germany. I tell him I’m going to Mannheim and he just about jumps out of his shoes. He’s from HEIDELBERG and goes to school in MANNHEIM. WOW! His excitement is pretty contagious so we promptly exchange face book info (of course) and delve into some details about our travels. He goes to one of the top business schools in the world in Mannheim and plays basketball A LOT. A German jock! How fun! He has no place to go when he gets to Harvard so together we decide he is going to live under a bridge with the trolls, ducks and bums, and wake up every morning to the Harvard crew team rowing past. Sounds nice. We get off the plane and I go with him to get his luggage. As he walks me to my terminal every other sentence out of our mouths is sarcastic or absurd. “How do you say ‘You are sooo pretty’ in German?”
“Du bist soooooo shun.”
“Thaaaank youuuuuuu!”
“What?! Ooohhh.”
I’m hilarious. I think I’ll do that in every language.
We say our goodbyes and I pass through security unscathed and un-groped. Fabulous! Things are swell. My stomach is eating itself. I buy some Sbarro pizza and the first thing I do is pop a brilliantly uncooked, untempered, painfully strong piece of garlic into my mouth thinking its onion. On an empty stomach that’s like swallowing a puke grenade. And I almost do, puke that is. Oooh I can taste that metallic gastric juice burning my throat DARING me to try to talk to the lady at the register. I scope out my closest safety can and prepare for the embarrassing dash and blow but it doesn’t come. PHEW! I gingerly pick apart my crust until my stomach is settled, then inhale the za like it’s my personal last supper. I’m going to FINLAND!
After 9 hours on an uneventful flight where I sat with a Finish woman so shy I’m sure she didn’t utter a word to me the entire time, I prepare myself for customs. “How long will you be here?” He says.
“Ummmm, in Finland only a few weeks, but I fly out from here again in 5 and a half months.”
“Do you have a Visa?”
“… No?”
“You will need one.”
“Can’t I just leave and come back?”
“You must be gone for six months.”
“Oh, okay, I’ll get one. Thank you. Bye!"
*Thought bubble* …. SHIT BALLS!
I’m NERVOUS! Waiting by the carousel for my pack to ride by I’m wondering what to say to Tomas, my Finish face book compadre. I don’t really KNOW him… I left my passport in the jungle in Guatemala (unfortunately I’m afraid many of my stories will begin with “I forgot my… I left my… my head is in my…”) and stayed a few extra days to visit the capitol, grovel, kiss feet, cry and give myself up to the mercy of the U.S. embassy. With a copy of my passport (a faded photo of my seven year old self looking mousy and mischievous) and an expired drivers license (sixteen years old with a bad haircut and an oversized hoop in my nose) I watched as the 20 families in front of me were denied, rejected, turned down, thrown out and all together smote by the sweet/hardened Asian American speaking Spanish in a tired voice brought out most certainly by her utterly depressing job. I rose when my number was called, showed her my crappy expired scanned Ids, and left with a new passport 15 minutes later, no questions asked. All they wanted was my $$$. Ah the American way!
So how I know Tomas… His father Matti was sitting alone drinking wine at a restaurant across the street from my hotel back in Antigua. He invited me to join him and talked to me about his great adventure, a trip around the world, traveling for an entire year. I told him of my Finish heritage, my mother’s maiden name “Koivunen” and my desire to visit Finland. He told me if I ever came to Helsinki that his sons would show me around the city. Fast-forward two years and I’m trying to organize my disaster of a room after moving my painful accumulation of useless crap home from Kalamazoo to be with my mamasita while she faced the ugly ogre called cancer, I, by some miracle, stumbled across Matti’s card and driven by kitty-type curiosity checked his blog from August 2007. Sure enough he wrote that he’d met “Pretty Lucy Kurtz” (minor ego boost) from Michigan with Finnish heritage, and if she ever comes to Helsinki his boys could show her (me) around the city. Conveniently we live in an e-social-Facebook-obsessed-wasteyouryouthonthecomputer time so I took a shot and friended the Ahjopalo boys. After a two hour chat with Tomas I had a hotel booked for my fam and a ride from the airport from my first Finn friend. Lucky for me he’s cute. I don’t take rides from ugly blokes and I told him as much.
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