Paavo and Me

When I wrote about Helsinki's Keskuspuisto (aka, Central Park) last month, the response was overwhelming.  "Tell us more!"  "Give us pictures!"  "What about the statue of Paavo Nurmi in front of the Olympic Stadium?"  "Are there any signs on the trails giving mysterious warnings in Finnish and Swedish?"

If, because of some tragic character flaw, you were not asking one of these questions, do not despair.  I do not hold it against you that you are misguided and/or deluded into believing that your life deserves your attention more than being fixated on the crazed ramblings of some crackpot living in a foreign country (or, if you are Finnish, "some crackpot from a foreign country").  I will now provide you with a report on my running experiences in Keskuspuisto so detailed and extensive that no court in either my former country or my new country would have any hesitancy in declaring me mentally incompetent.

 

Let me start with the question that uppermost in your mind--which is, of course, "what was Paavo Nurmi's secret that let him win 9 Olympic gold metals and to simultaneously hold world records in the 1500 meters, 5000 meters and 10000 meters?" 

 

I have learned the answer to that question through my running in Keskuspuisto, but rather than merely telling you Nurmi's secret, I will "go the extra 1500 meters", as we cosmopolitan track-and-field buffs say, and I will show you his secret.  All is revealed in the statue of Paavo Nurmi located in the park by the Olympic Stadium, as shown here:

 

 

When I say that "all is revealed", I--of course--mean that the secret to Nurmi's success is clearly shown by a close examination of the statue.  That secret, for those of you not as perceptive as I am:  Paavo Nurmi is running NAKED! 

 

It is obvious to an eminent scientist like me that "no clothes" is less weight to carry than "some clothes."  Giving Nurmi an insurmountable advantage. 

 

I need hardly say that every time I run past this statue, I feel great inspiration for my own running efforts.  Inspiration to, too, take off my clothes and stand in one place.  Luckily, I live only a 10 minute run from the statue, so I have--so far--always been able to get back home before I let my inspiration take charge.

 

On those few occasions when I continue running past the statue, I go almost directly into heavily forested trails.  This next picture is a 5-minute run for me from the Nurmi statue.  Or, for any normally fit person, a 5-minute walk.  Nay, a 5-minute stroll, or perhaps a 5-minute meander; possibly even a 5-minute dawdle or frolic.

 

 

 

 If this looks to you like a dirt trail through an old growth forest, then it is accurate.  Or if this looks to you like a major highway through the best land for miles around, and you are from the Deep South (meaning southern Indiana, southern Ohio or southern Illinois), then it is also accurate.

 

This truly is like a major highway.  People bike to work on it every work day, as well as walking, walking with children, walking with dogs (like walking with children, but with less screaming involved), walking with trekking poles, and jogging.

 

Of course, there are also real trails for those that believe that "trail running" should not involve dodging baby strollers.

 

I avoid this sort of "sissy running" myself, living by Immanuel Kant's doctrine of the Categorical Imperative.  Which can be translated into English as saying, "If you are not running somewhere that you risk being smashed into by someone zooming along on 'cross-country practice skis' (short metal skis on wheels), then it doesn't really count as running." 

 

 

 

[This is certainly not an accurate translation of the Categorical Imperative, but rather is proof that a person with an extremely limited knowledge of German--such as the writer of this blog--CAN make such a poor translation.]

 

In case you are doubting my account of the high usage of this trail in the Central Park, based in all probability on the fact that I generally make up sh*t at every juncture in my life, let me point out that, in this case, it was simply too much work to try to come up with anything more dubious than the truth.  If you look at the following picture, you will see "two roads diverge in a yellow wood" [thank you, Robert Frost].

 

 

 

Actually, it's two roads diverging in a green wood with a yellow sign, but I'm willing to give Robert Frost a break--I'm sure it was just his trying out that "poetic license" technique.

 

Anyway, that sign proclaims, in Finnish, "EI TALVISKUNNOSSAPITOA."  Not that that means anything to any of us who speak the One True World Language (American).  Luckily, the sign also has a translation below the Finnish announcement, namely: "EJ VINTERUNDERHALL".  (Actually, there is a little circle over the "A", but my keyboard only types real letters, not those silly, made-up Scandinavian letters.)  It's a good thing that my Swedish is almost as fluent as my German, so that I can translate the Swedish announcement as follows:  "This land belonged to King Gustav Vaasa in 1550, and it still belongs to Sweden.  And we will come back to claim it.  As soon as we can do so without having to have a fight.  Because we are a big bunch of pussies."

 

 

 

(This image actually from the second row of photos--not the second page, the second row--when I Googled "Swedish fashion" images.  Geez, I just hate it when I try to slander an entire nation and I accidentally just tell the truth.)

 

Anyway, back to my Robert Frost poem about two announcements diverging on a yellow sign.  It turns out that both announcements are telling users of the trail to the left that it will not be plowed in the winter.  Which might seem to you, as it seemed to me, to rank up there with the warning on lawn darts not to catch them with your face.  (Some exceptions apply.)  However, a careful examination of the picture, sign, and intellectual level of this author will cause you to realize far sooner than he did that the trail to the right does have the snow plowed all winter.  Because people do ride and walk to work, school and shops all year round.  And jog and run, I guess.  Since the later works of Immanuel Kant acknowledge that having your shin broken by actual cross-country skis is the ethical equal to having it broken by a metal ski on wheels.

 

And, as everyone knows, I am all about The Ethics!

 

The fondue; the Octoberfest; the beret and Gauloises cigarette; the Gouda cheese; the Motown Sound; the Bocce ball in the park.

 

(As you can see, these ancient Bocce ball players were actually aware of Paavo Nurmi's competitive edge even before he was.)

 

Oh, wait!  Did I say that I was all about "The Ethics"?  I meant, I'm all about "The Ethnics."  I never give any thought to The Ethics.

 

 

 

Foreign Tongues--Not Nearly As Interesting As It Sounds

Like 117% of Americans, I know three things: (1) that I am exceptionally good at math; and (2) that I am exceptionally good at language.

How, then, is it possible that learning foreign languages is so difficult for me and my fellow Americans?  Well, as much as I hate to brag, the answer to me is obvious.  As all Americans know, foreign languages are stupid.  But, to be fair, we shouldn't expect anything better from those poor foreigners.

 

And, clearly, some of them are trying to speak English.  With the Germans ("Was ist dass?" "Habst du ein Bier fur mich?") and even more so with the Dutch ("Ik heb pijn.  Waar is het ziekenhuis?"), it is obvious that, if they were only a little smarter, they would actually be speaking English.

 

To a lesser extent, if you listen closely to what people in Great Britain are saying, there may be some vague similarity to the English language.  As long as you don't venture into Scotland.  There, it is quite clear to language experts such as myself, they are not speaking any language at all, but merely engaging in a random series of noises.  Which makes sense.  Since the time of the Roman Empire only two thoughts have been expressed by residents of the land north of Hadrian's Wall:  "This weather sucks."  and "Give me a whisky."

 

Actually, in 1995, the residents of Scotland tried to find sufficient grunts and snorts to express a third thought:  "Who the fick is Mel Gibson to pretend to be a Scottish heroic figure?"

 

Unfortunately, that thought proved to be too complex for the whisky-soaked brain of the greatest living Scottish philosopher:

Rumor has it that the strain of trying to express a new idea has so enervated this great Scottish thinker that now he plans to retire to a farm, where he will have only a pig, a cow, a dog, and three vowels: e, i and o.  We wish him well.

But now it is time--nay, it is past time--to talk about ME.  And how it is my great misfortune to have moved to a country that has followed the misguided notion of creating their own language rather than the much better option of choosing to speak some version of "English lite."

 

To begin with, Finland doesn't even call itself "Finland" but rather gives itself the name "Suomi."  Two different names for the same place?!  Are they trying to keep Americans away?  Even France, which pretends not to wish that it was a territory of America, calls itself "France."  And Holland calls itself "Holland."  And Canada calls itself "Canada, eh?".  Of course, England calls itself "The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland", but we all know they are just a bunch of pompous bastards (excluding good old Prince Harry, of course).

 

 

I trust that I have made my point about foreign languages now.  You youth out there that are suffering under the oppression of a dictatorial teacher, demanding that you research and write an essay on some meaningful topic, I encourage you to submit this document, verbatim.  (Also feel free to copy it word-for-word.)  And do not feel any obligation to mention my name, but rather take full credit for this as your original thoughts.  And, no need to thank me.  As we educators like to say, it is the least I can do to help you learn an important lesson.

 

Ta-ta for now and cheerio!

You Don't Need A Weatherman

I think we can all remember listening to Bob Dylan sing, in "Subterranean Homesick Blues", the oft-quoted words, "Mumble, mumble, screech, [inaudible], twang, slur."  Which the best linguists on the planet have struggled to interpret.  But, after long study, they agree that he was saying "You don't need a weatherman to know when you're in Finland.  At least, not in their so-called summer."

 

Of course, Dylan was late to the party of dumping on Finnish weather, as we can all remember Mark Twain's great line, "The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in Helsinki."

 

Of course, those killjoys at snopes.com insist that Mark Twain never said, wrote or thought his famous "coldest winter" quote.  To which I say, "Of course not!  How dare you suggest that anything approaching factual accuracy has ever appeared in this blog!" 

And then I remind those fact-mongers at snopes of that important observation that Ralph Waldo Emerson never actually wrote in his great essay on Self-Reliance:  "Factual Accuracy is the Hobgoblin of Little Minds."

 

 Anyway, as most of the world experiences temperatures in the 90's ("the world" meaning, as always, "where Americans live"), Helsinki has had a long string of cool and damp days.  I saw in the newspaper that the average temperature for the month of June (Finnish name for June: "Summer Month") was 13.8 degrees C this year.  Applying the standard ratio of Centipedes to Fairy Tales and then adding 32 Guggenheims, I conclude that the average temperature for June in Finland was 13.8 degrees F.  Or thereabouts.  All I know for sure is that I have been pelted with snow and sleet while out running.  [TF--i.e., the never-before-seen "true fact" in this blog]. 

But, lest you think that I am unhappy about this situation, let me point out: (1) I can break a sweat while watching an ice hockey game  .  .  .  encased in the ice; (2) I run 40 - 50 miles per week (65 - 80 kilotons) and hence am a veritable eternal fountain of salty water if the temperature is above 50 degrees (10 degrees centrifuge); and (3) my dog has more hair than "A Chewbacca Family Christmas" [ABC Family, 8:00PM Eastern, check local listings].

 

 Interestingly, many of Raija's friends have expressed concern that my dog Scooter and I will be having trouble adjusting to the cool summer here.  I guess they figure that, because we lived for so many years in Indiana during its summers of brutal heat, humidity, dust, pollen, and State and county fairs, that we must really enjoy living in the anteroom of Hell.  (Or, when at the Indiana State Fair, actually living in the inner circle of Hell [TF #2].)   The reality is that both Scooter and I have found this escape from summer to be wonderful.

As for the Finnish people--they see so little sun for 6 months out of the year that they honestly believe that there cannot be too much sun or too much hot weather.  In my latest Finnish language textbook, in the chapter on weather (Chapter 3--right after the chapter where we learn to answer the questions "Where are you from?" and "Why the f*ck did you leave there to come to Finland?") we have a paragraph where the dialogue is

 "How is the weather in Delhi?"
"It has good weather.  The sun is shining and it is 102 degrees F."
This is the actual dialogue. 

And on the weather page in the Helsinki paper, the 3-day forecast includes, in addition to the major European and international cities, Athens, Berlin, New York, San Francisco, Tokyo, Jakutsk, Anchorage, Buenos Aires, etc. [Jakutsk?!  Anchorage?!  Yes.  Also, Nuuk, Greenland and Perth, Australia], those places that you would only go to bake in the sun.  Or to catch unmentionable social diseases.  All I can say to you, my devoted reader, is that if you actually know where on the map you would find Hania, Chennai, Eilat, Fortaleza, Goa, Phuket, Tashkent or Antalya, then I salute you!

Or, at least, I would salute you, if only you would stop scratching that festering boil.

As for the unfortunate Finnish people who can't take their summer holiday on some pleasure-filled, sun-soaked island because they made the mistake of becoming engaged to a sun-hating grouch  .  .  .
Well   .   .   .   Thank god for beer.