from Finland to Russia

Sleep, still elusive, still comes and goes. Helpful to be awake at night for blogging purposes, but then comes the day of regrets as tiredness sets in.

No matter. I'll catch up on rest tomorrow, or the next day.

We meet up for breakfast. (I'm in my pink Polish pants today.)


 



Yes, it's a copious breakfast: egg, salmon (fresh and smoked -- pick one or, like me, help yourself to both), that grainy bread, then perhaps the best part: yogurt, smothered with fresh berries.



(she must be wondering if i'll eat all that. answer: yes!)



And then I take a final walk through the market, just because it's sunny and the colors there really grab me -- all those berries and marimekko prints! Light hair, bright dress, light, bright, yellow and red.









(i'd give a lot to have these back home -- fresh, abundant)

















(sunflowers!)


You can also buy reindeer, mink  and fox furs. And knives. And wooly caps (that probably itch to high heaven). And flowers of course. What blooms here in Finland now? Peonies and roses, sweet peas too.







And now it's time to catch our train. I choose to walk to the station. My case is light, the walk is a brief 20 minutes. I pass more of Finnish humanity, enjoying this sudden onset of sunshine (after a very cold and rainy summer).












And I'm done. Good bye Helsinki, hello train to Russia.






It's a bullet train. Three and a half hours to St. Petersburg (with a handful of stops along the way).

We zip past forests of pines and birches, past the occasional red cottage, a lake, a farm...












And then we cross the border and of course the scenery remains the same. Except when it's different.






The train pulls into Finland Station -- noteworthy historically for the fact that Lenin landed here in 1917, coming back from exile in Switzerland.






Not surprisingly, the square in front is called Lenin Square. You see his likeness there, behind the fountains. Me, I'm paying attention to the people. Specifically -- the children.






There is something about the hair, the clothes, the manner of being that puts me straight back to the Poland of my childhood.












My friends cab it to the hotel, but I insist on walking, even if it means dragging my case behind. In every new place, I have this deep excitement to feel the pulse of my new environment.

In my broken Russian (there are some words and sentences that will be forever in my head and I try to make do with those), I ask to be pointed toward the street I need to follow. Reactions vary, but uniformly friendly. The last gentleman I ask answers me in perfect English. No one will ever mistake me for a native daughter, even though in at least one sense, I am of these parts. (Perhaps many of us are.)

I am surprised, in fact, how much this uninteresting set of blocks  by the railway station also reminds me of certain sets of blocks in Poland (though from many, many years ago). But that impression does not hold. As I cross over the Neva River, I know I am in St Petersburg.






We're staying at the newly opened Indigo. It's a beautiful hotel in an old building just to the edge of the historic foundry district. Tchaikovsky lived just a few doors down and the street is named after him. Here's my stunning room, with sketches of the Summer Garden on the wallpaper (with breakfast, taxes, service included -- a little over $100 per night):






And now is the time to go for a walk. Diane is my co-conspirator in this. We make our way to the heart of the historic district. It is a Saturday and the streets and parks are full of Russians. What would you do on a bright and sunny summer day? Get out, go for a walk, visit St. Petersburg parks and palaces. Of course you would!

I'll just give you highlights of our meanderings -- I'm less of a travel writer than you think! First, a few people shots.



(we all scream for ice cream)





(I love the fact that you're not allowed to smoke in this park. In 2014, Russia passed pretty tough laws banning smoking in public places.)


Did I tell you how different and how strong the sun feels here, up north?



(so many weddings!)





(so many!)



And now the iconic duo: the Church on the Spilled Blood (referencing the assassination attempt on Tsar Alexander II in 1881):






...and the Winter Palace (home to tsars from 1762 to 1917 and now home to the paintings of the Hermitage).






Looking back at the gates opening to it:






St. Petersburg was designed to imitate (to an extent) Venice. The canals are stunning, if a little over used on this warm weekend day (so unusual for this northern city!) by the countless boat tours.






And here, we veer off the well trodden paths to pick up on the more quiet parks and alleys. You need that respite after the noise of the streets. Ah, to make the historic heart of this city into one pedestrian zone!






We're back at the hotel, but not for long. We pick up Ernest and head out again. I'd done my reading on food in St Petersburg and my pick for tonight is a pelmeny place (pelmeny are Russian dumplings, typically filled with meat or cheese). There are many, but this one (Pelmenya -- read about it here) stands out. It's worth the walk. Besides, it's a pretty walk.






We over order. The smaller dumplings are easy to devour. The bigger ones become more of a challenge (they're big!).



(the big ones)





(the cheese ones)



Oh, and did I tell you we also ordered two plates of Baltic herring with potatoes? Delicious!



(the little pelmeny and the herring)


All this, with a half liter of wine -- $20 for the three of us.

As we walk back to the hotel and reflect on the day, I can't help but recall the countless ways in which our questions, stumblings and awkward maneuverings through the city provoked half smiles with a smattering of words, always graciously delivered. We all just go about our daily lives. You forget that when you live oceans away from another country. We're really in the same game. All of us.

in Helsinki

Finnish Story

This is a story that dates back to 1973. I am, therefore, 20 years old. I've come to the States as an au pair for a family with a little girl. Except, after a year of living with them (and studying at a NY college), I tell the parents that their little girl is getting too old for a nanny. She is nine and already has a tutor, a cook, a maid (well, several maids), a chauffer, a seamstress and various other people in their employ providing nanny type assistance. In the placement office on campus, I flip through a help wanted folder, looking for some other interesting summer work.

I come across a hand scrawled request for help from Finland. (To this day I don't know how this ever made its way to my college placement office, but there you have it -- one of those mysteries of life.)

A farm family with five children wants a student to come live with them for six weeks in June and July. The student would help with routine farm work and also speak English with the children. (The oldest is in high school and is modestly able to slap together some English sentences but the rest of the family knows no English.)

Perfect! I apply for and I get the job.

Well, almost perfect. Three weeks before I'm to go, I get an acute gall bladder attack (most likely related to the fact that my diet, since coming to the States, has been awful -- heavy in fatty and processed food, not at all like what I ate back home in Poland). I have a rupture and so go in for extensive surgery. My huge scar rivals that of LBJ's (an inside joke for those who were alive and following the news in those years). I wail to the surgeon -- but I'm supposed to go to Finland and work on a farm!
He's a doc ahead of his time. Eh, you're young, you're strong, you'll heal. Go to Finland.

I am at the farm. On the first evening, the girls ask me to come down to the sauna with them. In the little hut by the lake, as we strip down and get ready to slap birch branches on our bodies (it intensifies the experience), they note in horror my stitched up stomach. I tell them I'm fine, but they insist that at least I should sleep in a more comfortable situation: in the grandmother's room, on a couch, rather than in the attic, with the kids on the floor.

One night with the grandma (she had the loudest snore in all of Hirvivuori!) and I beg to join the kids upstairs. After that, my surgery is forgotten. I have a fine old time learning to work the tractor, we do the daily sauna and jump in the cold lake after, and I teach the kids the basics of conversational English.

That is my introduction to Finland.


Your Introduction to Finland


Before I tell you about my brief time now in this very northern European country, let me say a few things  (that you may or may not know) about Finland:

It's nearly impossible for us to earn Finnish: it doesn't follow the patterns of other European languages. Like Estonian and Hungarian, it belongs to the Uralic family of languages.

Meaning, I never learned much Finnish in the time I was here so many decades ago.

At the hotel breakfast, there are place mats with printed phrases for you to learn. For example, they instruct you how to say "that damn sea gull took my meat pie!" (Tuo pahuksen lokki vei lihapiirakkani!) and "God, it's do dark here!" (Onpa taalla pimeaa) and "Do you have elk?" (Onko teilla hirvea?) and "Do you have anything cheaper?" (Onko teilla mitaan halvempaa?)

This reveals a lot about the country: it has an extensive relationship with the sea, the winter days are ridiculously short, elk is more common here than say in Wisconsin, everything is very expensive, and Finnish people have a sharp wit and a dry sense of humor.

Other things to know: if you live in a place that has more cool days than warm days (a quarter of Finalnd lies above the Arctic Circle), you're going to appreciate all that August has to offer. Today was sunny and (at 70F) relatively warm. People were out enjoying the weather.















(by evening, bottles of wine and cans of hard cider were popped open on city strips of grass)





(If you live in a country with lots of dark days, you don't skimp on color)
 


You should know, too, that it is a country of many wild blueberries (and berries in general -- just walk through a market).






And in August -- many, many chanterelle mushrooms.





(Lingonberries don't come around until September)

There. Now let's proceed to my day here.



A Day in Helsinki

At breakfast I finally meet up with my friends. (Some of you may know Diane from her loyal comments here, on Ocean and from her own blog.)






It is a lovely and very long meal. There is so much to talk about!

We part ways after it: they're visiting friends who live outside the city and I'm hell bent on exploring this town. I have memories of a somber city and I want to improve on those images with a new perspective. And I do. Helsinki is a beautiful and inspiring place. (A young woman I encounter in the course of an evening meal tells me it has changed a lot -- even in the last half dozen years. You notice this most in the proliferation of art and music, but also in the vibe out on the streets.)

I don't really follow the list of must sees, so forgive me for leaving things out (a ferry trip to the fortress island comes to mind -- everyone should do that. I just ran out of steam. I'm still going on way too little sleep).

Here's my long and somewhat quirky walk through town:



(a beautiful shoreline)





(morning: tables made ready...)





(...for the afternoon sunshine)





(sunflowers!)





(sunflowers!)



I spend a while at the market. Apart from the numerous stalls of berries and chanterelles and new potatoes, you'll find items crafted in Finland. I purchased just one such thing (you'll have to guess which one).













The market square is right at the water's edge. In Helsinki, you're never too far from the Baltic Sea.






After, I crisscross one of the islands (Katajanokka) linked by numerous bridges. It's where you'll find Uspenskin Orthodox Cathedral.






...and old warehouses, converted to modern venues.






Back on the mainland, I should not neglect the second (many would say the first) of Helsinki's famous cathedrals: the Lutheran Tuomiokirkko:






My walk then takes me also to the Kiasma Museum of modern art. The building itself is remarkable -- designed by the American architect Steven Holl and finished just at the cusp of the 21st century, it tells you something about the way Helsinki has reinvented itself.






(Inside, a moment with mirrors.)






I cross over and make my way to Sibelius Park. A monument to the great Finnish composer:





There. My day in a nutshell.

Oh, but let's not neglect dinner. Since I only have one meal (apart from breakfasts here), I want to make it a good one -- something that picks up on the themes of the new Nordic cuisine. Something that makes use of local produce. I go to the tiny, tiny and wonderful Spis, where you can only select one of two tasting menus. Feeling frugal, I choose the shorter one.

Many beautifully crafted small plates later...



(this was just a nibble)


...I walk away thinking that there is a lot to discover and enjoy here. I am also reminded that Scandinavians drink more French white wine than the French themselves. The dinner was paired with wines -- all French, all memorable. But the dish that made me smile the most was the dessert: it's a play on rhubarb and oatmeal (the ice cream is oatmeal, as is the cookie crumb and the tiny bit of warm cereal at the side). If nothing else, I am a fan of oatmeal!






I take a stroll afterwards, just to people watch. Even now, in August, it does not get dark until after 10. Plenty of people take advantage of this.





But it's cool once the sun dips closer to the horizon. I take out my fleece jacket. And I walk briskly back to my lovely, very modern room at the Fabian Hotel.

Tomorrow we leave for Russia.

in Warsaw

What would you do with eighteen hours in Warsaw (some of them falling into the dark hours of the night)? What's the point of having such a brief stopover?

Initially, I had intended to be here to sign some documents. But last week, matters clarified themselves (as much in my head as in the solid realm of a Polish bureaucracy) and it became clear that I do not need to sign anything. Not this week, anyway.

I had purchased a round trip ticket from Helsinki to Warsaw (via Paris -- see previous post) and though I would have lost some money, it was refundable.

But I didn't want to refund it. My entire being was set on having those eighteen hours in the city of my childhood (and forays into adulthood).

So what do I do in my time here?

Well, I arrive! That is some sort of miracle in its own right. One late connection and the entire structure may have collapsed. Rarely have I had a trip depend so much on flights being on time. The airlines did not fail me.

My sister meets me at the airport -- she is so sweet that way -- always there, among the faces greeting the arrivals. We take the bus to her place, where we munch on sour cabbage and pickles made by her, and Polish berries, cherries and apricots...






We talk late into the night, all through that daze of no sleep and a terribly out of whack internal clock within me. 

You'd think I would, therefore, sleep well tonight... No, it's never like that.


And then, the next morning -- this Thursday morning now -- we have breakfast together. Oatmeal and fruit! It's in our genes.





With a few free hours in my pocket, we take the metro to the city center.

Warsaw is experiencing a summer heat wave. Temperatures are reaching the nineties, which is so rare here that of course, no one even contemplates air conditioning. Buses, stores, apartments are warm, but it's a nice warm -- in northern Europe, it is a rare treat to leave the sweater behind.

I don't much pay attention to my camera. Something happens to me here -- I get hyper critical of what I convey through my camera work. What I see through the lens isn't what I want to convey from my heart and so I mostly opt for the conventional postcard shots or no shots at all. But a longtime resident of Warsaw would recognize the changes that even these few pics convey: for example, Constitution Square, without the clutter of ads, with cleaned up buildings ...






The Palace of Culture, still standing, though no longer as the tallest of them all...






Our walk takes us through block after block of rather new cafes and eateries. So many eateries! Poles were not known for taking their meals in restaurants when I was growing up here. But they surely must have changed their ways.






If you walk through Warsaw in August, unlike in most European cities, you wont be overwhelmed by tourists. Warsaw is a city that will always remain beloved to Varsovians, much more so than to visitors from the outside (who flock to Krakow instead). As if there is a private affection that we all know and share. As if you had to grow up here to understand her beauty.

We detour toward New World Street (a favorite of many, including me)...






...and toward the university, where a girl rides circles around Copernicus.






I stop off at Tatuum -- a clothing store -- sort of like Crew, only Polish. I buy a pair of pink pants. Me who wants to travel light, me who doesn't buy clothing spontaneously, or even not spontaneously, with my sister by my side, I reach for the pink pants.

We walk, walk, past the blocks of our former homes, to the park, the small park, the lesser park that is, in fact, far nicer than any other city park I know on the other side of the ocean.



(a grandma with her grandchild)


And finally, after hours of this, we pause by a cafe, where I part with my sister (well, after I get someone to take our photo)...





... and go inside.

I had written to my closest Polish friend asking if she would meet me for coffee. Caveat: only on this day, at this hour, near that metro stop! She made it happen and we spend a very wonderful hour or two here, talking about all the things I'd talk about on a regular basis, were she my neighbor, as opposed to a friend who happens to live thousands of miles away.



(she's glancing over at the art, on our way out...)


Sort of coincidentally, but maybe not, we had picked a cafe that is within a block of the apartment house of my early childhood and three blocks from the apartment of my adolescence. This, then is my neighborhood, where much of the tumult that takes place in a young head transpired.

In so many ways, it all feels like home, even though tomorrow, it wont feel like home anymore.


It's getting close to my departure time. I take the metro to my sister's place...


 
(reflections on another grandma, with two young ones)


... and she feeds me sour cabbage and brown bread with farmer's cheese and honey. We can't think of any other country where you can get this wonderful farmer's cheese that is known to every Pole who grew up here.





I end my visit with this very Polish meal. I'm tired but satiated. In all ways.


The flight is on time. I sit next to a woman with a dog who yaps all the way to Paris.

At the airport there, I have just a few minutes to run, run for my Helsinki flight.

And now I am in the city that was to be my first European stopover, only it wasn't. I take the bus to the center of town. It's nearly midnight. The night it cool -- maybe 40 degrees cooler than Warsaw. What a difference the Baltic Sea makes! (Helsinki is about 550 miles due north of Warsaw.)

I walk the twenty minutes or so to the hotel (Hotel Fabian, very modern, with slick lines -- it definitely has a Finnish feel to it -- that is only my impression, but it is a strong one).





I collapse on the bed and think about the day behind me and the days ahead.

airport hopping

It's not that I did not try to rebook my flights, so that I would have a harmonious, linear progression to my destination tonight (Warsaw). I tried by phone. (Yes you can make the change! It'll cost you $3000.) I tried in Detroit. (We can do nothing.) And I tried again in Amsterdam. (You cannot skip segments: your ticket will be invalidated.) No bananas. I'm stuck crisscrossing Europe today -- east, west, then east again, just so that I can end up spending the night at my sister's place in Warsaw.

The larger question is -- what's my final destination? The immigration agent asked me that just minutes ago as I entered the EU in Amsterdam. I told him -- well, Helsinki, really and I am going there, but not today yet, or rather I am flying there, but then flying right out to be in Warsaw. He looked at me quizzically. I continued -- you know, I've been waiting for someone to ask me that question. Thank you for letting me explain the absurdity of my travel schedule this week. He laughed and stamped my passport (a ritual that I swear will soon fade into history).

But apart from the sudden insert of Warsaw, this trip was supposed to begin with a restful three days in Finland and after, we were to take the train to Russia.

You noticed the "we?" I'm not going alone. I'll be traveling with my friends Diane and Ernest. Longtime Ocean readers may remember that I've taken many a trip with Diane -- sometimes just the two of us, sometimes with her and her husband. This time, the three of us are to meet up in Helsinki and proceed together from there.

I wont even begin to answer the question of why Russia. In fact, it's rather grandiose to say we're going to Russia as Russia is vast and we're just visiting St. Petersburg. If you can experience only one city in Russia it should be, in my opinion, St. Petersburg, even as it is perhaps not very representative of the country, which tends to be rather inward-looking and St. Petersburg is not really like that.

But the truth is, I only know St. Petersburg from the time it was still Leningrad. I have very vivid memories of visiting it in the same weeks that the Soviet Union was invading Czechoslovakia. (Though I think the term used was "entering the country to lend support to its government.") But, I'm steering clear of politics. Not because it's Russia, but because politics and Ocean do not mix, unless it's something grand, like the politics of bringing sheep and royalty to the Royal Highland Show in Edinburgh.

Perhaps this trip is a test to see if memories are worth much, or if they blur into absurd images that have little relation to any reality out there.

But let's stick with this day of airport hopping. Because my longest layover is in Amsterdam, the post comes from there. You want a photo? Eh, it's just an airport -- the fifth busiest in Europe (after London, Paris, Frankfurt and Istanbul). But I will post my breakfast, which has a touch of the Dutch in it (note the dark bread, the slice of yellow cheese and the unceremoniously presented boiled egg).





Next post should be from Warsaw, but you never know!


UPDATE: Yep -- you never know. As it happens, a lunch at the Helsinki airport proved to be an irresistible temptation to open up today's post again. In a city known for modern design, the colors of my midday meal feel so... Scandinavian!





But I ask myself -- is it lunchtime? My computer, set to Madison time, says it's the hour to let the cheepers out. I can excuse the yogurt vegetable soup. The glass of wine, on the other hand, seems aesthetically pleasing, but is it in sync with the clock that still has me feeling awfully like I stayed up all night and now am ready for oatmeal on the porch?

No matter. Lunch at Helsinki airport it is. [I should note that, frequent flyer that I am, all my airport meals, wine included, are free.]