Two Geezers Go To St. Pete

This past Monday, Cory and I took a boat trip to St. Petersburg.  It was an overnight trip, followed by a day in St. Petersburg, then an overnight trip back to Helsinki.  Well, I am no hoity-toity Mercator-Projection, global-positioning-satellite scholar, so it never occurred to me that there might be a second St. Petersburg on the globe in addition to the place where the TV stations run the same episode of "Golden Girls" every night, and nobody notices.

 

Not that St. Petersburg, Russia is very different from St. Petersburg, Florida.  Our boat trip began with a rousing game of shuffleboard, followed by dinner at 4:00 pm, followed by falling asleep in an easy chair in front of the TV at 6:12 pm.   

 

Seriously, though, we had a comfortable and safe trip from Helsinki to St. Petersburg.  The boat docked as scheduled at 9:00 am and we smoothly and effortlessly made our way through the friendly, efficient and welcoming passport control at the harbor.  Meaning that we spent an hour and a half inching our way forward in a sea of Russians obeying the first rule of Russian etiquette--the only thing better than pushing yourself in front of someone who is already in a line is to then jump to another line 50 feet away because it seemed to have moved two millimeters forward.

 

Cory amused himself during our wait by taking pictures of all of the confusion and crowding.  I amused myself trying to guess how long it would take Cory to learn the Russian for "keep your hands off of me; I belong to Boris" while serving his time in a Russian prison--it being expressly forbidden to take photos in the passport control area.  Luckily for us, that rule was not enforced any better than the rules about which lines were for Russians and which lines were for foreigners. 

 

When I reached the passport control officer, I thought that some courtesy might be wise (in case Cory continued his scofflaw ways and I ended up needing a friend in uniform).  I said "Good morning" in both Russian and English.  Which got me the fish-eyed stare.  Over and over.  Finally, she stamped my passport and pushed it at me like a cup of curdled milk.  Nonetheless, I said, "Thank you" in Russian and English.  And got no response.

 

In contrast, when we were exiting passport control to get back on the ship that evening, the gal at passport control was quite friendly.  Certainly much friendlier than any US passport control officer I have encountered in the past decade.

 

In retrospect, I think I should have anticipated the treatment I received.  If you are a Russian and you encounter a Westerner who is voluntarily going from Western Europe into Russia, you can reasonably assume that either (1) they are involved in some nefarious scheme; or (2) they are insane.  In either case, you do not want to make eye contact.  On the other hand, if someone is going to Western Europe and you're a Russian, then you're wanting to imply, "Hey, guy, I'm a fun girl!  Take me with you!" 

 

Anyway, once we got into St. Petersburg proper, we were able to see some spectacular sights.  And by "spectacular", I mean "if you were a peasant when the aristocracy was building these places, you'd be singing 'killed the czar and his ministers' right along with Mick."

 

 

 

 We started at St. Isaac's Cathedral.  If you think of Russian Orthodox as gloomy guys in black clothes, long black beards, and funny hats, you might want to add "and more gold than King Midas" to that image.  At least if you are ministering to the czar and his buddies from the altar at St. Isaac's.

Of course, this is just a small portion of the cathedral, since it takes a huge amount of gold, malachite, lazurite, paintings of Jesus holding a gerbil wheel, and stained glass to assure that several hundred million serfs and peasants are living in abject poverty.  And, of course, because there are those crackpots who think that "religion is the opiate of the people" (or in this case, looking at pictures of the general health and dental hygiene of Russian peasants of that time period, "the methamphetamine of the people"), there were cast bronze doors to keep out the "undesirable element".

As you can see, those doors no longer fulfill their purpose.  (However, in the event that I am ever asked to explain the meaning of the word "furtive" to a non-English-speaker, I will just show them this picture.  Mission accomplished.)

From St. Isaac's, we walked to the Winter Palace of the Czars, which houses the Hermitage Museum.  Although this museum bears the same name as Andrew Jackson's home in Nashville, Tennessee, to the best of my knowledge, Andrew Jackson never held the position of Czar of All the Russias.  For one thing, his idea of a settling differences with a political opponent through a duel was not exactly the way the czars preferred to deal with opponents, though gunfire was involved in both methods:

 But why would a czar have any critics?  Surely their top priority was to live a life of simplicity, poverty and service.  As demonstrated by the little shack that they called, tongue-in-cheek, the Winter "Palace."

Though, to be fair to the architect, for a building with such a modest exterior, it is surprisingly roomy on the inside:

As you can see, the Czars were all Ayn Rand Republicans.  In fact, a little-known fact about the founder of St. Petersburg is that Catherine I's pet name for Peter the Great was "Aqua Buddha."  (google this)

Cory and I spent 20 hours in the Hermitage, based on how sore my feet and back were when we finished, although the clock said we were there for 5 hours.  What a liar that clock was!  We only saw a small portion of the items on display there; we didn't even succeed in our primary goal of seeing all the pictures and statues of naked women.  It's hard being a dedicated supporter of the fine arts.

When too exhausted to continue trying to move through the crowds in the Hermitage (see, above, Passport Control), we walked to the Peter and Paul Fortress.  It includes a church in which most of the rulers of Russia from Peter the Great to the Revolution are buried.  And for the interior of this church   .   .   .   you guessed it   .   .   .   more gold than in a Donald Trump bathroom.

If you are interested in Russian history, or if you are a misanthrope and enjoy the thought of other people suffering, (and it is only logical to conclude that you must be the second if you are also the first) then a highlight of the Peter and Paul Fortress is the prison.  This was used as a prison for centuries but the historical records primarily focus on the years leading up to the Russian Revolution and the early years after the Revolution.  The prison was not nearly as horrible as, for example, the "black sites" where the US has sent suspected enemies for "enhanced interrogation."  (As a side note, I understand that the CIA forces prisoners at those black sites to read this blog.  It breaks the prisoner's will much more effectively than waterboarding or electrodes to the testicles.)

The prison rooms were relatively large, and the prisoners got beds and sinks.  On the negative side of the ledger, prisoners did not get any heat or edible food and were kept in solitary confinement.  Back on the positive side, the Russian government was an equal opportunity oppressor, with women as well as men routinely sent to this prison.

I consider myself as much a left-wing nut case as anyone who ever listened to Timothy Leary, but even I found that the trip to the prison furthered my education, because of the following plaque:

I had not know that Lenin had a brother who was hanged by the czarist government.  That may help explain why he wasn't big on the idea of working for change from within the system.

Of even greater importance to me, though, was to discover that Alexander Ulyanov had been a member of a Terrorist Fraction.  I was aware that many anti-government groups have a terrorist faction but this is the first proof I have discovered of the existence of Terrorist Fractions. 

Don't get me wrong.  I'm not naïve.  I have suspected that terrorist fractions existed ever since the fourth grade, when I was forced to find Least Common Denominators.  Now I know that my fears were justified.  And so are yours.  (I know that you secretly view fractions with fear and loathing.)  So if you are ever in line to board a plane and you see 7/8 or, even worse, 11/13 ( a terrorist fraction if I ever saw one) getting on the plane ahead of you, don't take any chances.  Just turn around and book a different flight.  I know that I will.  Because the last thing I want is to end up like this guy:  (actual warning sign below the window of my cabin on the ship to St. Petersburg).

I don't know if he is being attacked by flying eels, sea snakes or electrified water, or all of these things at once.  But I'm sure Terrorist Fractions are behind this torture.

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.

 

 

Health Care in Finland

Yes, it has happened!  I have had a chance to taste the bitter pill of free, universal health care.  Not as a patient.  I still rely for my health care advice on that good old American standby--the privately-compensated personal physician.  Or, in my case, the good new American standby--the uncompensated impersonal physician.  (My own uncompensated, impersonal physician--of apparent Dutch ancestry, judging from his name--is an expert on all matters, medical and otherwise.  Though there is the slight difficulty that he feels absolutely certain, and of the strongest conviction, both for and against everything I ask him about.  I refer, of course, to Dr. N. ter net.)

 

 

 

No, my trip to the Emergency Room was in the role of helpful son-in-law.  Did I say "helpful"?  Damn it.  I keep dropping syllables when I write.  It's becoming a real problem.  I meant "unhelpful."  Obviously. 

I like to believe that everyone in this world, no matter where they live or what they have studied in school or which video games have rotted their brains, everyone has some special talent.  Mine happens to be being unhelpful.  (If you have been a student of mine, you know that I am now stating the obvious.  Which is a sure-fire way of being unhelpful.  As I said, I have a talent.)

 

My father-in-law woke up with a cold sweat and dizziness.  On the morning of the Midsummer's Day.  Meaning on the morning after the Midsummer's Eve orgy of parties, dancing, drinking, bonfires.  (And cursing the Swedes and the Russians.  But that happens every night in some Finnish households.)  The only problem with this situation was that my mother-in-law and father-in-law were two of the seven people in Finland who didn't behave on Midsummer's Eve like Silvio Berlusconi at a Bunga Bunga party.

 

 

Anyway, when my father-in-law was having trouble getting out of bed, it was not connected to immoral excess.  (I'm pretty sure this is what bothered him the most about his situation.)  It happening not only on a Saturday, but on one of the biggest holidays in Finland, the only place to have him checked out was the Emergency Room at the main Helsinki hospital.  [When I say that it's a big holiday here, I am understating the situation.  After the ER trip was over and Raija and I went out for a "what a relief" lunch/dinner, we discovered that even Hesburger (the Finnish hamburger chain that competes with McDonald's) had closed all its locations for the entire day.]

 

Our trip to the hospital ended up with a determination that my father-in-law had a bladder infection.  When you are 85 years old and/or when you are a man who has a stinging sensation when you pee [especially in the latter case], learning that you have a bladder infection is about the best possible news a doctor can give you, so this story has an excellent outcome.

 

Also excellent, though, was our experience at the Emergency Room, all things considered.  Without getting into political commentary (or any facts--I know my audience), it is interesting to see what happens when a country does not have uninsured patients or poorly insured (translation: Medicaid) patients, but rather insures all patients at the same level.  For one thing, it means that the "inner-city" hospital, as Americans know it, does not exist in Finland.  (There are other reasons for this as well, I imagine, but that would lead us into the realm of facts.  Shudder.)  Anyway, if you don't send the poor people to one hospital--inevitably, in any city, the last place you would choose to go for care--and the wealthier people to nicer hospitals, it means that people with money and influence get the same level of care, courtesy and service as everybody else.  And, based on a sample size of one, I'd say that those people assure that that level of care, courtesy and service is awfully darned good.

 

And, most importantly, there was football on the telly in the waiting area.  And I do mean real football.  Not American "football"--which all of us know is in reality a series of gang fights where opposing groups of GMO mutants stand around for 3 minutes, while one of the mutants yells nonsense syllables "Omaha" - "Blue Thunder - Blue Thunder", and then these gargoyles hit each other for 10 seconds.  Then they stand around for 3 minutes.

 

No, I mean real football--the game that is played with a foot and a ball.  And much falling down.  And dramatic demonstrations of agony--amazingly cured by the referee allowing play to continue.  It is the "beautiful game." And here are two beautiful people watching it in the waiting room at Hartmann Hospital in Helsinki (in the Alliteration district of town):

 

 

 

Don't get me wrong.  It's not like there weren't depressing aspects to spending several hours in the Emergency Room.  Actually, one depressing aspect.  The only football game on television was Japan vs. Greece.  Which was a 0-0 tie.  And not even an exciting 0-0 tie.  It was really, really depressing that we couldn't switch to France vs. Switzerland.  But that's what all my Republican friends have warned me about:  the Horrors of Socialized Medicine!

 

 

 

 

Gosh, I can't tell you how much I miss having private health insurance, especially the part of having it not covering things that it did cover because I got treatment from the wrong doctor or with the wrong permission slip. 

But on the other hand, I was able to buy a number of Ford automobiles while living in the US.  Life doesn't get much better than that, does it?

 

As for you doubters who believe in such fictions as "the well-made General Motors vehicle", let me feature just one example of Ford superiority, taken from across half the globe, in India.  The following is an actual advertisement for Fords from India.  It highlights the roomy cargo space in a Ford hatchback.  As you can see, Silvio Berlusconi has made optimal use of this cargo space.  One of many things that Ford gets right--allowing you to commit multiple felony violations while still having room left in the car for a co-conspirator.

 

Italy may be about to be eliminated from the 2014 World Cup soccer championship, but it still leads the world in the Corrupt Politician competition--and that's a much harder award to win.  Viva Italia!

 

 

(Translation:  "In the world, there are 2 kinds of people: The Italians; and those who dream of being Italian."  And this is written in French.  High praise, indeed!)

An American Outpost

I know how some of you picture Finland--as a Scandinavian haven of socialists, pacifists, braless blonde women, sexual liberation, and strange movies about wild strawberries. 

Well, that just shows how ill-informed you are, my friend.  Finland, technically speaking, is "Nordic" rather than "Scandinavian."  And that is more than a semantic difference.  I will have you know that no Finnish movie director has made a movie about a human playing chess with Death.

 

(Of course, there are several Finnish movies about humans playing ice hockey with Death.  But these are upbeat, light-hearted films, where Death always loses, since it is so damn difficult to get off a decent slap shot with a scythe.)

 

 

However, back to my crucial and fascinating main point. 

 

I have exaggerated, of course, in highlighting the differences between Finland and the US.  But it gave me an arguable justification for putting a picture of women in bikinis into my blog, so my distortion of truth served a higher, nobler purpose.

But now I must acknowledge a fact that is well-known  among Europeans--namely, that Finland is the most American of all of the European countries.  This is not something I have made up, but rather a commonly held belief in Europe.  Some of the bases for this belief include:

 

1.  On a per capita basis, Finland has the most guns of any country in the EU.  And, needless to say, the US has the most guns per person of any country in the world.  Once again, American Exceptionalism is on display!  So, one could say that being in Finland--Look out!--is just like--BAAM!--being in America.  Except that Finland has only one-third the number of privately owned guns on a per capita basis as in the US.  Apparently, its citizens actually believe that the reasons for private ownership of firearms are hunting, recreational marksmanship, and as part of a "well regulated Militia."  Coincidentally, Finland has 15 gun-related homicides in per year (in a country of 5.5 million people).  Pretty pathetic for "The European America", I'll admit.  More like "the European Canada."  Bleck.  Okay, so maybe this isn't my best argument.  I think we should move on.  Right away. 

2.  Finns are as likely to walk into speeding traffic because they are texting as Americans are.  Actually, much more likely.  Because Finns (1) are much more likely than Americans to be walking; and (2) Finns are more likely to be holding a cell phone.  As amazing as it is to any of us who spend time on a college campus--or high school campus--or a grade school campus, Finns use 70% more cell phones than we do on a per capita basis.   This is best explained by the fact that for the past 149 years, a major employer and business success story in Finland has been Nokia.  (No, Nokia is not a Japanese company.  Though for the past year it has been a wholly-owned subsidiary of Microsoft.  But, then again, haven't we all been?  Just remember, if your Windows operating system is not working right, the solution is not to question the wisdom of buying a Windows operating system in the first place, but rather to buy another Windows operating system.  Or as Will Rodgers said, "If stupidity got us into this mess, why can't it get us out?")

So, not that center-right governments (such as they have in Finland now) are willing to do the bidding of big business, but Finland's Pakollinenmatkapuhelinhallussaanlain makes it mandatory that every Finn over the age of 4 (months) must have his or her own cell phone.  (I believe that the US Congress is currently considering similar legislation.  Or will be, as soon as Steve Job's successor reads this blog.)

3.  "Never give a sucker an even break" may have originated with W.C. Fields:

But that motto has truly been brought to full flowering by that most American of cities:  Las Vegas.

Now, I won't argue that Helsinki has yet achieved the tasteful, understated beauty of Las Vegas, this being a picture of the most prominent building in Helsinki:

In case you are wondering, yes, this is a church.  And it doesn't even have bingo.  So how can this resemble Las Vegas?, you might ask.  If you were still reading this.  Thank God that you are not.  But if you were, I would point out the guy in the front of the picture.  You know that Las Vegas attracts all kinds of riff-raff:  gangsters; deadbeats; con artists; drunken fraternity guys; Wayne Newton.  But when it comes to moral bankruptcy and an addled brain, this guy beats them all.  Or so I am told.  Often.  And repeatedly.

But the closest connection between Helsinki and Las Vegas gets back to my original quote: "Never give a sucker an even break."

Within the first couple of days after I got here, my lovely bride-to-be taught me a card game that is a big favorite in her family.  I won't try to explain it, but it is a game of skill, memory and daring.  And I handily won!  The first time we played.  And then  .  .  .

Well, just as the casinos in Las Vegas have never gone broke by having someone start their gambling with a run of luck, let's just say that someone who is not a native-Finnish speaker has been doing a lot of cooking and dishwashing at a certain apartment near a tall stone church.  And what I want to say is, "If only there had been some clue that Raija knew how to play cards so well!"

 

Journey to the Past

Since my post about coffee consumption in Finland, I have been literally inundated, flooded and consumed by questions about my darling Raija's distain for the substance.  And I use the term "literally" in the standard American meaning of "not literally, but in a figurative and exaggerated sense" and I use the terms "inundated, flooded and consumed" in their standard meaning of "not one person has asked about this."

So, in the face of this overwhelming demand, I have no reasonable alternative but to making up a demented and half-baked story that has the most tenuous connection to Raija's preference for drinking tea:

I know that most of you have assumed (especially after reading my prior post about the 1000 centiliter forest in the middle of Helsinki) that this is a picture of Raija, with flowers growing out of her hair, in a wood cabin that her father made with his bare hands.  Sorry, folks.  You've clearly been spending too much time reading something that has rotted your brains.  This picture is not that at all, but rather is a picture of Riaja, with flowers growing out of her hair, in a wood cabin that she made with her bare hands.

Anyway, the true story of Raija's love of hot tea was revealed to me when her son Joona had surgery to fix an obstructed airway in his nose, which was the result of having his nose broken several times while engaging in martial arts.  (Obviously, though I have loved Raija from the first moment I met her--especially if she is reading this blog--my love reached a totally different level when I learned that her son can break me into little pieces.)   So after his surgery, Joona was sent home the same day and told that the bleeding would stop in 30 minutes and he could return to work the next day.  Three hours later, when his nose was now gushing blood like a faucet and he was fast becoming inundated, flooded and consumed (I am using those terms now in the unique sense of meaning "inundated, flooded and consumed") by his own blood, he was back at the surgery center, where they discovered that he lacked the normal clotting component to his blood.

Most of you already have figured out what that means!  But for those of you who have not learned your European history from animated films, let me clarify.  By giving you this remarkable piece of information.  The literal translation of "Raija" into English is "Anastasia!"

Still not convinced?  Just look closely at the picture.  See all the snow in the background?  You don't have to be a genius to know that you are looking at January in Finland.  Or maybe April.  Or September.  Still have some doubts?  Then look carefully at the gentleman to the left of the staircase.  I hate to brag, but there's no one else in the history of the world but me that looks that good.  Surely you recognize me.

Oh, yes.  One thing.  When I say "to the left" I mean to Raija/Anastasia's left.  In other words, to the right.  Case closed.

So the answer to the question of why does Raija prefer hot tea to coffee is the obvious one.  Because she is a direct descendant of the Russian royal family.  And as her husband-to-be, you know what that makes me.  Incredibly Lucky.

But you already knew that.