"You're moving to Finland? But it's so cold there!"

You may or may not have heard about the rather unseasonal snowstorm that has hit the northeast USA yesterday and today. Here's what it looked like there in its early stages, yesterday at about 1 or 2 in the afternoon.

My dad sent me several pictures (including this one), and told me that he's warm, full of homemade chicken soup, and enjoying this incredibly weird weather.

I can't help remembering the reaction so many of my fellow New Englanders had when I told them I would be moving to Finland: "But it's sooo coooold there!" Yeah, well, it's been my lifelong dream to live with Santa Claus and befriend a lot of reindeer, so I figured, why not southeastern Finland?

In truth, the weather here in Lappeenranta (you know, not Santa Claus country) isn't really all that different from that of northwest Connecticut. Winters are slightly longer, summers are slightly shorter, and the average temperature is slightly colder. Oh yeah, and, in sharp contrast to what was going on back home, it was sunny and 11 or 12  degrees C here yesterday.

I suppose this pattern of strange weather and severe storms is a product of climate change. I don't even pretend to know much about the science of global warming, but that's what I'm told. Even so, I feel prepared to tackle the long winter here. After all, it'll only be marginally worse than what I'm used to (and, in cases like a nor'easter in October, more than marginally better!). I'll keep you updated, and let you know if, by February 10th, I'm crying into my karjalanpiirakka and planning a move to Barcelona.

Edit: I do very much want to travel north someday. And in winter, no less!

Productive Break

I have this week off from Finnish class, and, shockingly, I've managed not to completely piss it away with internet-surfing and face-stuffing. No, I haven't studied a word of Finnish -- I really ought to rectify that, and soon -- I've been researching and writing. A lot, actually.

For about a year now, I've been wanting to write some fiction about the ritual abuse hysteria of the 1980s.  After a few false starts, I actually managed to get a promising story started upon arriving here in Finland. After a lot of research and a lot of writing and a lot of thinking, it became clear that I wouldn't be able to cover the topic properly in anything less than a novel. The problem with this topic, as you might imagine, is that it's sensational. Just imagine if the Salem Witch trials had taken place in recent historical memory. And the accusations are far more lurid; we're talking knives in orifices, animal and human sacrifices, secret rooms, evil clowns, etc.

My interest isn't really in the injustice of it all, although one can't really consider the subject without noting how ridiculously unjust the investigations were. My interest also isn't so much in how accusations from chldren were made possible, since the methods of both the prosecution and the "therapists" in their employ have been brutally, ruthlessly discredited. In other words, we know damn well how these kids came to accuse their elders of such heinous acts. I find all that stuff fascinating, believe me, but it isn't why I want to write about it. I want to write about it because it could have been me.

My parents sent me to a reputable community preschool in 1988 and 1989, when I was 3 and 4 years old. I can't say I remember it terribly well, but I have no reason to doubt that it was a pleasant experience. Yet, in Pittsfield, Massachusetts, just over an hour away from where I lived in Connecticut, an openly gay day care worker was convicted of molestation in 1985. A year later, three family members from the Fells Acres preschool in Malden, Massachusetts were convicted of ritual abuse. These are only two examples. The country and, to some extent, Europe, had been whipped into a mode of malicious delirium. In those days, the unsubstantiated accusations of one lunatic parent could have resulted in a guaranteed long term prison sentence. My preschool was not immune, it was merely one of the lucky ones.

Since I, as well as my friends and a few of my cousins, could have endured days, weeks of leading questions, anatomically correct dolls and false memories of horrific (if comically absurd) events in our lives, it got me wondering what those kids really went through. What was it like to be three and badgered repeatedly about knives-in-the-butt and satanic clowns? What kind of malignant tumor of an idea was it that brought about these investigations in the first place? What was it in the individuals, and in the country as a whole, that propelled them towards this mass injustice? What are some of the long term effects on the kids who were involved, all of whom are adults now?

It's something I don't think should be forgotten.

Anyway, there's something about living in Finland that has allowed me to examine the problems of the USA more completely. So, no, my writing hasn't been about Finland, but it's from the safety of this (somewhat) outside perspective that I can write about the things I want to write about. 

I've Always Wondered How to Marry a Finnish Girl

Nah, I haven't. I managed to snag a male Finn, and that's quite enough for me at the moment. My husband apparently had some trouble with this task himself, however, as he had to dip into the genetically inferior pool of eligible American woman in order to find a lady.

This book is rather harsh on Finnish men, and on Finns in general. It espouses the usual stereotypes and covers very little intellectual property that hasn't already been rightfully claimed by Roman Schatz . The author seems to think that the book's acerbic tone is some sort of novelty -- as if there hasn't ever before been someone with the guts to call the Finns out on their cold weather, hot women, bad food, and propensity toward alcoholism. Wow, if only some foreigner would comment on Finnish culture with a caustic yet affectionate affectation. It's been done before, thanks.

The book is funny, though. It has a lot of very decent witticisms and jabs that are both humorous and insightful. The thing is, that's all this book really manages to be; in fact, a large portion of the book is interrupted by a series of Schwarzmann's tweets. I don't have a problem with that method per se, but the book's cohesive vision, while present, is pretty damn dull and unoriginal. Given this overarching flaw, I'd think it would behoove Phil Schwarzmann to weave his best jokes into the narrative, to the extent that there is one, rather than to sling them at us one by one, hoping they'll impress us.

I don't know. My perspective is different than Schwarzmann's. For one thing, I'm what he claims is an anomaly -- I'm a woman of some first-world descent who moved here for love. I mean, Finnish women are intelligent, strong, and physically attractive whereas Finnish men are drunk, socially inept, and emotionally unavailable. If one is to move to Finland for love (or sex) it's more likely to be for a woman (and not a man), right? God, could those stereotypes be any older?

Whatever. Listen, Schwarzmann, I'll give you what I think I owe you: Finnish women are some beautiful, high caliber women. Finnish culture is idiosyncratic and worth writing about. Winter is inevitably sucky. The True Finns are weird. [Hey, are they really any more racist than the American Republicans?] You're a funny guy. Maybe your next book will be a little more "novel." Don't actually write a novel, though.

And I'm just glad I figured out How to Marry a Finnish Boy.

Learning

I wasn't always a good student. Much of my time in primary and secondary school was spent avoiding homework and focusing on my burgeoning musical career. I wasn't wholly terrible; I did excel in a few subjects, like reading and writing. Actually, I think it was the relative ease with which I could read and write that saved me from a "doomed-to-be-special" academic career. And, believe me, some of it was very "special" indeed. It was thought that I had a learning disability in math, and I was treated (and educated) accordingly. I spent the first twenty years of my life believing that I was utterly incapable of mathematical thought. When I finally entered college, I figured out that was far from true. The story of how I came to be thought of as a special ed. student is way too long to recount and is fraught with dull, childhood-in-the-first-world trauma. And it isn't really want I want to talk about. The important thing is that, once I was twenty-one and finally in college, I learned that all one really needs to do if one wants to learn math is to practice.   In fact, one doesn't even need to practice all that much. One simply needs to do her homework.

I admit it. It wasn't until college that I truly learned how to learn. The do-your-work principle applies to most if not all disciplines, and I discovered, much to my delight, that I could master things to which I dedicated some effort. It wasn't just the result that delighted me about this new approach, though; as it turned out, I also came to love the process of learning itself. I mean, think about it: things that initially seemed impossible become effortless through the simple act of thinking, and thinking is something we humans are notoriously good at. What could be simpler? I still can't believe I thought things were otherwise for so many years.

I'm proud to say that I graduated college with a 3.93 GPA, and that not one math class contributed to its imperfection. Yes, I went to a state school, but I think that my score would have been comparable at nearly any other university. I attribute my success to that precious realization that most things don't come automatically -- we're not born with a priori knowledge that can be merely awakened with one glance at a blackboard. Even the most intelligent among us must do some amount of thinking in order to attain knowledge. And you know what? I wouldn't have it any other way. If I could upload information from a USB stick directly into my brain, I'd be hesitant to... yeah, okay, that would be pretty cool.

But seriously, the act of learning is one of the most pleasurable in existence.

Why am I going on about this? Well, I just came home from Finnish class, during which our teacher asked us to write sentences using some of the verbs that we know. I began with simple constructions, all of which were correct, so I went on to explore more complex sentences. The teacher came by to point out my mistakes, I corrected them, and I'll try never to make them again.

We spent about 45 minutes doing this. It was a little like I had fallen asleep and missed a good 40 of those minutes, since it seemed to me that I'd only done five or ten minutes of work. But then it was time to go, so I packed up my things and walked home. On my way, I realized that I had never known just how interesting, how stimulating, how absolutely fascinating studying a foreign language can be, and that I'd probably love to take this class even if it weren't essential to my integration.

We're cheated out of so many things in the US, and one is good foreign language training. Sure, I studied German in high school, but I learned almost nothing. Since I hadn't yet learned how to learn, I didn't do much studying outside of class and, in class, well, let's just say we ate bratwurst and watched Das Boot with subtitles far more than we spoke German.

I think after I learn an acceptable amount of Finnish, I'll try my hand at German. If I can learn Finnish, how hard can it be to learn a little Deutsch? 

Viikonloppu

I'm listening to music loudly in a pair of earbuds while my husband naps. In the hopes of making myself useful, I thought I'd discuss some of the mundane details that one inevitably notices when moving from one country to another.

1) Don't get caught bringing your produce to the checkout without first weighing it. This is a pleasantly do-it-yourself society after all, and what could be easier than putting your bananas on a nearby scale, pressing the appropriate button, and putting a barcoded price sticker on them? [I have noticed this trend catching on back home -- certain Stop & Shops now seem to have scales that print price stickers in the produce section, and there are of course the self-checkout lines, but if you really insist on having someone weigh your fruits and veggies for you, you still have that option in the states.]

2) The vast majority of cashiers I've seen are allowed to sit while they work. In the US (or, at least the northeastern US) they're not provided with chairs, and must therefore stand for hours at a time. I pointed this out to Rami and he simply asked, "Why?" Well, I'm not really sure, but I think it has to do with a bizarrely zealous customer service ethic. Do they look like they're working harder if they're standing? I mean, we consumers certainly can't abide slackers while we're purchasing our Cheetos and Mountain Dew. Then again, it's equally possible that a standing-only policy is a way to save on the cost of chairs.

Land of the corns and home of the bunions.

3) Finns tell time in a way that might seem slightly backward to English speakers. If it's 8:00, they'll say, "Kello on kahdeksan," or "Kello on tasan kahdeksan," which means just what what you'd expect: "It is 8 o'clock." (Literally, it means "Clock is eight.") For the first half of the hour, they'll say the time in the form of how many minutes past the hour it is. (8:20 = kaksikymmentä (minuuttia) yli kahdeksan.) In the second half of the hour, they'll express it in terms of how many minutes there are until the next hour (8:45 = viisitoista vaille yhdeksän.) Literally speaking they'll say "20 after 8" or "15 before 9."

 Of course, it's certainly not out of the ordinary to speak this way colloquially in English -- we'll say "It's 15 minutes to 9, dear!" or "Oh my, it's 20 after 8!" quite frequently. What is unusual, for me at least, is to do so all the time. I sometimes find it a little muddling, but that's exactly what Finnish class is for.

4) Lappeenranta is concise in a way that small cities simply are not back in Connecticut. Since Rami and I live keskustassa (in the center), we're within walking distance from most important things. You'd think having a car would afford you more freedom, but I have found that quite the opposite is true. I love not having that particular set of worries. The repairs, keeping the tank full, parking -- I could definitely go the rest of my life without owning a car.


That's all I can think of for now. I'll report more boring details as I think of them.

As for me, my stomach is much better, Finnish class is still wonderfully beneficial, and I'm in the process of a really pleasant weekend. I currently have no complaints.

October First

Today being an overcast and autumnal Saturday, Rami and I went out early in the afternoon to snap some photos. We walked to the harbor, had a quick lunch at Kasino (where they were serving a lot of pork -- my stomach cannot tolerate carbohydrates at the moment, so I had to forgo the potatoes), and headed to the fortress, where fall is not quite yet at its peak.

When we got a little chilly (it was pretty windy), we went in to have a coffee at Kahvila Majurska. There were quite a lot of tourists around. I suppose the beauty of all those deciduous trees turning colors up on the fortress hill is a draw, but it was surprising to see it just as bustling up there as it was in summertime. I should probably assume that they were there for the same reasons Rami and I were there. Fall is awesome. It's unique in that I dread its onset (since that means winter is coming, and I'm typically not eager to relinquish sunlight and warm temperatures) but when it's here, it's a time I enjoy as much as any other -- maybe more.

Maybe it's because where I'm from, autumn is sort of a, forgive me, "hallowed" time. It's the harvest. It's the time of pumpkin pie, Halloween and Thanksgiving, of lame country fairs and even lamer hayrides, corn mazes, apple cider, and freakishly large root vegetables with prize ribbons pinned on them. It's the time in which you stock up on joy and leisure before winter sucks the fun out of most things. The air is crisp and cold, yet not yet bitter. Most years, the trees are on fire with color; we're all very proud of the leaf display, yet we grumble when out-of-staters come to enjoy it and get hopelessly in our way.

Even in listing these things, there is something ineffable about what makes autumn special to us New Englanders, an I'm failing to capture it. The point, though, is that I've somehow begun to feel more at home here. The air is just as crisp and just as cool; the fallen leaves smell the same; the hot coffee tastes just as good; the leaves are more the color of rust than of fire, but that has its own seasonal charm. In some strange way, the commencement of autumn has given me a stronger connection to home. And I don't think the Finns view fall in quite such celebratory terms, but that won't stop me from enjoying it enough to account for everyone.

Looks like I got all sentimental again. I need to inject some humor into this blog. I'll work on it.