Less Than Three

I've had an insanely good time here at home. Though I don't have a decent camera with me, I've been documenting the events of my trip for posterity. Here are some photos of the goings on.

Out of control (or just looking like it). 

Everything at Walmart is horrible. 

Raggie wineglass. 

Cornish hens with friends. 

Zombie board game. We also played Cards Against Humanity. 

Silly friends make life worthwhile. 

Oh, how I have missed real Italian sandwiches. 

Koba joined me for coffee and salad. 

A few more to come. Merry Christmas and hyvää joulua. 

Our Town

My mother and I decorated the Christmas tree yesterday.

We celebrate with less pomp and give fewer gifts every passing year. Lazily erecting a Christmas tree seems the only way to maintain a scrap of the ecstatic joy we felt when my brother and I were little children. That's growing up - clinging to the essence of Christmas when you've grown up to be a bah-humbug sort. It's practically a rite of passage.

It's true that the joy I take in the season has increased ever since I moved to Finland, however. Being close to the people I left behind is an exciting prospect in and of itself.

"Don't clump the ornaments,"my mother said, when she saw that I had placed a snowman too close to a small green sphere. I moved it, knowing that she'd move it herself if I refused.

Moments later, she held up a small reindeer made of clothespins. "1989," she said. "This must be from preschool. Is it yours or your brother's?"

"It must be mine," I said. "I was four in 1989."

"Here's one of Jimmy's," she said, and handed me a laminated paper disk with my brother's picture in the center. On the back it read, 'Merry Christmas, Mom and Dad. Love, Jimmy. 1995.'

I looked at my little brother, asleep on the couch next to us, shirking his duties so blatantly as we slaved to create the atmosphere of Christmas, and I just about cried. Though I didn't, I was close. We grew up. We grew to feel indifferent about Christmas. We grew into adulthood, and my mother now shows us tokens from our childhood, reminding us of how far we've come and how well we've lived. We're lucky to have lived long enough to grow into cynicism.

If it had been my town, I'm sure I'd have written something nearly identical to this piece in the Atlantic. In New England, the love we feel for our little towns is both irrational and immutable. These towns house our best memories, and they embody our first impressions of the world. Though I have often thought that places like Newtown are merely suburbs of New York City, and that the experience, that first glimpse of life is somehow different there than it is here, one person shatters that misconception. She is Pat Llodra, first selectwoman of Newtown, and former principal of my high school. Though I never knew it (and probably never cared to know, since I was inclined to resent principals at that age), she commuted 50 miles to Northwestern Regional #7 every day. I assumed she was one of ours, but she was always one of theirs.

Mrs. Llodra reminds me that, within state lines, 50 miles really isn't so far after all. And if she isn't evidence enough of that, our collective devastation most certainly is. It could have been our little town that was made infamous, that was taken from us in the rage of a single morning.

To the people of Newtown: this tragedy has taken 20 of your children and six of your teachers. Please, don't let it take your town's identity, and don't let it usurp your best memories. 

Reflection

Tomorrow, our intensive Finnish class will come to an abrupt end. After spending every day together for over a year, my classmates and I will be scattered to the four winds and forced to fend for ourselves.

The most significant thing I've drawn from this experience is an absolutely vast amount of knowledge that I didn't have before. When I began studying Finnish last fall, I knew only a few common phrases, vittu and paska, and a smattering of adjectives like hyvä and kaunis. I can now engage in real conversations with those patient enough, watch movies and television, and understand an admittedly variable amount of what I read in the newspaper. 

I've met people from all over the world, and I've come to love some of them very much. I've been thankful that Finns, at least the ones with which I'm acquainted, want their ulkomaalaiset to learn Finnish well and integrate quickly. The existence of courses like this one makes that process immeasurably easier, and we're all damn lucky. I wouldn't trade this experience for, quite literally, anything. 

We had a final exam on Monday which included listening, reading comprehension, writing, and grammar. I received something close to a perfect score, and it just about made my entire life. A certain amount of the anxiety that's been constantly lingering in my chest and stomach has dissipated as a result. I do know this stuff. I can get better. 

I haven't received the final word on my teacher's opinion on my skill level yet, but she mentioned something about it being around  B1.2. I'm of two minds about this; to me, it sounds entirely too high, but at the same time, I'm overjoyed and perhaps even a tad more confident than before. 

Okay, I'm of three minds about it. I also know that some people achieve a similar result in half as much time, and I wonder if perhaps my emotional state this autumn has been detrimental to my progress. Although I've had countless breakthroughs in the last few months, it seems to me that I've been far more passive than I ought to have been. Then again, one of the best things about being in the A2 - B1 skill range is that words stick in my head far more easily than they used to. With this base level vocabulary, I find that I have more knowledge from which to make educated guesses and from which to form connections.  

I'm leaving for the US on Monday, and I'll be there for about a month. Being there for two very busy weeks in July was perhaps more heartbreaking than it was beneficial. I sort of hate to leave on this high note, however, since it's almost as though I'm just asking for another heartsick few months when I return. The main idea behind this trip is to spend as much time as possible with my loved ones, a thing I wasn't able to accomplish last time. Who knows, though -- maybe I'll be itching to return to Finland. I hope so. 

Oksanen and All Things Indie

Sofi Oksanen came to Lappeenranta last Tuesday. I was lucky enough to have a few free hours in the middle of the day, so two of my classmates and I met at Suomalainen Kirjakauppa to see her.

"Tere, Sofi!" someone called out entreatingly when she arrived. She shuffled guardedly through the crowd and disappeared into the upper level of the shop. The crowd was perceptibly anxious. She returned within a few minutes, and her interview began. She spoke about all sorts of things, like her new book and Soviet propaganda.

Unfortunately, I haven't much to say on Sofi. After the event, I broke down and read a little of Puhdistus in English (Purge), and because I've been increasingly busy prior to the end of my fulltime Finnish course forever and ever, I've barely had any time to read it. Once I sink my teeth into it, I'm told it will be only a few days, if that, before I'm finished. Therefore, all I can say is that the book began in disconcertingly simple prose (which made me wonder about the translator, not about Oskanen herself), but it has expanded to become what I'd call "vivid yet tight". I should probably be reading it now rather than blabbing on the internet, but I've become rather enamored of another Finnish artist.

I was browsing Spotify for music to accompany my studying, and stumbled upon this:

and I nearly choked on the tip of my pen. My interest in folk music was reignited in an instant.

The art school douchebag in me was simultaneously elated and terrified. Who was this hauntinged siren? As it turns out, she's Mirel Wagner, born in Ethiopia, raised in Espoo.

Some of you are probably familiar with the poem "Annabel Lee" by Edgar Allan Poe. If you are, you probably remember that the poem's speaker sleeps by his love's side in the sepulchre which houses her corpse. I can tell you, though, that this poem was far from the only one he ever wrote concerning something resembling necrophilia.

I say something resembling necrophilia because much of Poe's poetic oeuvre is distinctly asexual. To oversimplify it, he felt that it was poetry's function to provide the reader with an aesthetically pleasing glimpse of death, and that carnality generally obfuscated this purpose.

Mirel Wagner plays with similar themes in her lyrics, but she adds an unapologetic dose of carnality where Poe would have only allowed for corpse-cuddling. Combine it with her minimalist, bluesy folk, and there's something irresistible about her.

And I must admit that there's something unsettling and appealing about Wagner's tale of being visited by the devil in the middle of the night...

To lighten the mood, I also found this lovely electro-pop/noise-pop band called I Was a Teenage Satan Worshipper. I can only assume that he was a kinder, gentler satan than the one with which Mirel Wagner is acquainted.

Overfed

Whether I want it or not, I belong more to the ragtag group of immigrants in my Finnish class than to the larger culture of Lappeenranta. It's not because I have more in common with them - it is almost certain that I have more in common behaviorally with Finns than with the members of my class -   it's a result of the amount of time we spend together. Despite our differences, we've formed a small coalition for the purposes of mastering the grammatical puzzle that is the Finnish language. It's been a pleasant, edifying alliance. I've even made a couple of true friends.

This week, a classmate from Cameroon returned to us after he'd attended a conference in South Africa. When our teacher asked about his trip, he shrugged. "Scary," he said. 

"Why scary?" she asked. 

He went on to describe a situation in which a bus he'd been on was hijacked. He was held at gunpoint by men dressed as police, and all of the things he had with him were stolen. The hijackers drove the bus into the wilderness, threw the key away, and left the passengers to search for it so that they might make their way back to civilization. We listened to this story in horror, understanding to only a limited extent how much worse it could have been. "That's the kind of thing that happens in American movies," someone said. It is, unfortunately, also the kind of thing that happens in South Africa. 

We took a break. When we returned, we each found two pieces of South African candy waiting for us on our desks. The guy had thought to provide us with sugar after he'd been threatened with a gun. There is something almost unfathomable about that. To give in spite of being rightfully preoccupied with yourself is a special brand of generosity. 

One of my favorite classmates is an Ingush woman. She wears a variety of colored headscarves, slips away to pray every day at break time, and speaks Finnish without any hesitancy. Her speech is usually a bit like word salad, but she manages to convey herself well without any of the hindrances usually brought on by fear, shyness, or excessive thought.  

Telling her the details of my own life story is intensely embarrassing. She has spent much of her life in a war zone, living in a state of perpetual fear . What can I say? "I grew up in the country. I was always safe, warm, and well fed. I went to school and sang in a choir. Oh, there was that one time when my parents got divorced." Her experience reminds me that I am a soft, privileged, overnourished human being. Actually, I like to be reminded. It makes me thankful for the life I've led, yes, but it also provides me with a more complete, accurate perspective on what it means to live in the world. 

This Ingush woman seems to elicit a certain amount of sneering (though mostly of a friendly nature, if that's possible) from the Russian members of class. A very quiet, usually kindly Russian classmate once whispered to me, "L speaks terrible Russian. It's because she's from the south, in that part the country. Did you know that she and her husband don't want to find jobs?" I distinctly remember being unable to conceal my indignation. "Well," the Russian woman said after she'd seen the look of disapproval on my face, "none of us really want jobs, do we?" 

In an odd way, I felt a bit like a beloved aunt had just said something terribly catty about another of our relatives. And, as much as I hate to deploy this particular cliche, our class is very much like a family. We didn't choose each other, but we must necessarily accept and care for each other. How else will we survive? 

Language Etiquette

I saw the neurologist yesterday. He gave me a physical examination, and I believe I passed. I have equal strength in both sets of limbs, decent balance, a normal gait, etc. The only notable abnormality about my motor function is my positively spastic reflexes (which occasionally makes me feel like a super hero). The appointment ended up being quite reassuring, in that it demonstrated something crucial: my body still serves me well, and I still have control over it. For the time being, a little numbness does not threaten my ability to walk, think, grasp objects, see, or exist.

I may need to switch medications, but that's another story.

I spoke Finnish throughout roughly 90 percent of the appointment. Rami was with me, and he provided far more translations in simple Finnish than in English. The doctor was, of course, able to handle himself when English was needed. If Rami hadn't been present, however, I wonder if I'd have needed to rely on English more. People are busy, after all, and most of them don't have time to sit and wait while I struggle to form a coherent sentence. On the other hand, a lot of people are just as uneasy about employing their English skills as I am about speaking Finnish. What is the etiquette in such a situation? Should one try to use Finnish, perhaps resorting to English when vocabulary is missing and grammar is jumbled, or is it more efficient to simply power through in English? It depends a lot on how well the other half of the conversation speaks English but, let's face it, most Finns speak my language better than I speak theirs.

What benefits me personally is to speak Finnish as much and as often as possible, and I try to do so with people who I'm sure won't mind. Still, one has to be considerate. But what is the considerate thing to do? Which is more burdensome: the onus of speaking a foreign language, or the onus of listening to your native tongue spoken badly?

Edit: A lot of people have asked how my friends and family are faring after Hurricane Sandy. As far as I know, they're all safe, either evacuated or residing just out of the reach of destruction.

Some Photos of Life Lately

The right half of me is quite numb from the waist down, aside from some serious buzzing, itching, and burning. Temperature changes send shocks through my joints. The right side of my stomach feels a bit as if it's been bruised. Since learning that I had MS nine years ago, I've never before had symptoms so obviously... neurological. Despite all this, I'm ecstatic to report that I can still walk normally.

I write more about it here, in this "uncensored" blog. I figure I ought to keep such ramblings separate from tales of my expat experience. If you're a sensitive reader (or perhaps one with good taste), you might want to avoid it.

Anyway, since I'm on syysloma, I'm doing everything in my power to have fun. It's quite uncomfortable to run, but I still go out for a brisk walk every day.

He is? Where?!

It snowed yesterday evening, and things look really beautiful in this sort of autumn/winter limbo.

Today, I went looking for some winter boots, and quickly gave up once my patience for shopping had been spent. Not wanting to go home, I began exploring the nooks and crannies of the city.

No words. 

I haven't done much studying, which I suppose is all right. Sometimes my brain needs a week-long break from Finnish so that it can subsequently begin again with a little more vigor. I do hope I still have one by the time class starts up next week. 

Majurska

In New Hartford, Connecticut, there's a cafe called Passiflora. I used to sit in there for hours, writing, reading, studying, or letting distraction grip me for a while. It was a place away from home to be alone with my thoughts in the presence of others. I actually relished when I'd have a paper to work on or a novel to finish reading. It was a great reason to spend some time getting caffeinated at good ol' Passiflora.

I have a Passiflora here in Lappeenranta, too. Kahvila Majurska, like Passiflora, is located in an old building. It has old baubles that both decorate and clutter the place. It has large, antique chairs, and sturdy wood tables. The old fortress is just outside, which is probably my favorite place in all of Lappeenranta. Everything there is old, while so much of Lappeenranta is practically brand new. 

The only problem with Majurska is that they don't serve coffee in enormous foam cups that come with free refills. Here I am shedding a tear for my empty coffee cup. I do genuinely feel more at home in this city, though, with this beautiful place to sit and work.

More Pictures of Leaves

I know, I know -- how many pictures of leaves can one reasonably take? The answer is quite a few, actually. Rami and I took in some sunlight on the first perfectly sunny day in quite some time, and we snapped some photos along the way.

The power of this cross compelled me to take this picture. Ha. 

This better not be the bike that almost ran me over a few days ago. If it is, someone's getting his or her tires slashed. 

This photo is entitled "Leaves 'n Shit". 

This one is called "Me with Leaves 'n Shit". By Rami

Emoting. By Rami

The paper mill emitting its usual stench. 

Soothing the pain of correcting papers with some cake. By Rami

All joking aside, the day was spectacular. Today was a proper autumn day: warm sun and chilly breezes. I really hope it's not the last of the season. 

27 - 28

I am just the worst; I've become a useless blogger. I refuse to accept defeat, however. I'll continue to write, and you'll continue to like it*. 

I took some autumn photos this weekend, during the short, sweet respite from the gloomy rains that seem to have engulfed much of Finland. They didn't come out as well as I would have liked, but here are a few for your perusal. 

Halloween's coming. 

I couldn't be more indie. (Shoes pictured are not cowboy boots.)

*Or dislike/hate/loathe it. 

Suomen kurssi

Last night, my Finnish teacher mentioned to me that some people from Yle would be coming to film our morning class. My first thought, as it often is with these things, was en fucking jaksa. But they were actually quite unobtrusive, and we nearly forgot about them altogether. To my great relief, I was not chosen as an interviewee; that honor went to Krisztina, and I think she did an excellent job. They also filmed the class next door. The shots of people milling around are of our class. The shots of people poring over what looks like Suomen mestari 1 are from the other class.

Here it is. Our story begins at about 4.30.

Furthermore, I find it quite touching that the people of Lappeenranta are interested in what their ulkomaalaiset do all day. I thank them for caring and not recoiling. There certainly is prejudice here (though I'm pretty much never the object of that prejudice), but, on the whole, this place should be proud of its cultural tolerance.

Spring and by Summer Fall

It's autumn again, and I'm very happy.

The air is tight and cool, the leaves smell sweet with decay, and I've discovered that I am, in fact, still alive.

I always get annoyingly poetic about the season that precedes winter. I once wrote:
There is potential in the fall for my tissues to be reborn into glorious sensitivity. If it were summer, I may have wasted away by now, blowing away in the breeze, or melting into the soil.

Overly emotional, 18-year-old dreck aside, there is certainly something about fall that awakens me in a most pleasant way. I, like everyone, dread its onset, because it means a vanishing summer that will eventually give way to winter. Still, when it arrives, I am invariably overjoyed. I'm not sure why, but it's probably because fall's quite an important season for most New Englanders. It's hard to hate autumn when it looks like this, even if its arrival means returning from vacation, going back to school or work, and an imminent winter.

I'm not sure that Finns love fall quite as much as we do [any Finns care to comment on this?], but Finland certainly doesn't want for autumn beauty. And just as I always did back home, I feel now as if I've awoken from some kind of summer-induced stupor, and that I can begin again in some productive capacity.

I appear to have hit the ground running in terms of Finnish study; all the passive activities that I took part in over the summer, though they seemed a bit inadequate at the time, have helped me quite a lot. I'm actually speaking Finnish -- using it to communicate, not just to practice communicating. Please don't think that my attempts to speak are anything other than pathetic, but still. One has to start somewhere.

My English class has been a real joy, too. My students are really enthusiastic and very fun. They're quite willing to speak up, as well. What more could a teacher want?

And, lastly, if you were a nerd kid who grew up in the USA in the 90s, you probably watched The Adventures of Pete and Pete. I always think of this show as a bit of an autumn treat, since much of it seemed to take place around this time of year. And perhaps this formative children's entertainment is the reason I get so annoyingly poetic sometimes. And why I giggle whenever I hear the word "blowhole."

Fatigue

I've been doing very little, and, therefore, have had very little to write about. Real life begins again in a week or so.

I'm just coming out of a period during which I was very homesick, and life felt stultifying and arduous. My trip to the US was truly beautiful, but I was way too busy to really process what it all meant. I'm currently stuck in the quicksand of inertia and boredom, but I know that school and study will throw me a rope.

As it turns out, I'm awfully nervous about what's to come, though -- what if I'm unqualified to teach English, and I'm unable to answer pedantic and inane grammar questions (you know, the sort of questions that assholes like me ask)? What if my students prefer Received Pronunciation and are instead forced to listen to my distastefully coarse rhotic "r"? What if I haven't learned a sufficient amount of new Finnish vocabulary this summer, and I'm left perpetually behind as a result? What if I then never learn Finnish properly, and I end up with a permanent seat in front of S-Market, just next to that woman who asks everyone for precisely three euros?

Perhaps my anxieties aren't quite that irrational, but they're certainly somewhere in the neighborhood.

At my father's suggestion, I've started running. What a genius suggestion it was, too. I've always loathed running in the past, but my short-term circumstances give me little choice but to enjoy it. It gives me a sense of accomplishment that memorizing vocab on the couch fails to provide.

[I apologize for the lameness that is this post. I've been thinking of reviewing some of the restaurants here in Lappeenranta, so perhaps some juicy expat-blogish type stuff is on its way.]

Okay, so maybe I'm a little homesick: a photo essay

Inspired by Katri:

Ulkomaalainen in Need: Finnish (Popular) Culture

When you live in a foreign country, and you're trying to learn the language, you're supposed to watch soap operas, right? The language is simple, the plots are simple, the overwrought drama is simple -- perfect for someone with the vocabulary of a one-year-old, yet with the maturity of someone, well, (slightly) older. I read Finnish tabloids for the same reason. I've actually learned a decent amount of vocabulary from them, as they're easier for me to understand than even Selkouutiset. 

I've been using this whole watching-crap-television-and-reading-tabloids-thing partially as a means by which to attempt immersion. I have found, however, that I cannot survive on a diet of Iltalehti and Uusi päivä alone. I can never seem to fully forgo English, which would be ideal, because there is just so much English language media to consume. Furthermore, I want to consume some of it. You know, so that I don't feel as if I've regressed to being a one-year-old. A one-year-old who is for some reason semi-literate, and is being forced to read everything there is to know about Madonna's presence in Helsinki.

So, I'd like to solicit some suggestions for other Finnish stuff that I might read/watch/listen to, etc. Simplicity is probably best for my current skill level, but limiting myself to simple things is just so tedious. I do know how to use a search engine, but I've failed pretty miserably in finding thing of interest to me. Perhaps if I find out what interests you, it'll help.

I'd like to discover some good Finnish films (old or new, it doesn't matter), as well as blogs, radio programs, and podcasts. Even forums. Books too, although I find that anything more complex than books about princesses is sort of beyond my ken. Oh, and thank you!

Drink, Speak

I'm back from the wilds of small town America, and I'm through (I think) with a short blogging respite.

I returned to Finland last Thursday, determined to begin anew and stop being so fearful; I cannot go on avoiding every single person who looks as though they might speak to me. This may be Finland, and I may be from New England, but, in the end, I've just got to quit being such a pussy.

In that spirit, Rami and I went out to Teerenpeli on Saturday night. The intent was to simply exist in a social setting - not necessarily to initiate conversation with strangers, but to chat amongst ourselves in Finnish. Four gin and tonics, though weak, got me sufficiently drunk so as to make me brave. Rami's uncle showed up at some point, and so we said a few words to him and his wife. It was a social evening after all.

On our way home, we decided it would only make sense to get some disgusting fried food from a grill. As soon as we entered, a Romani man jovially shouted to Rami, "Where did you find that woman?"

"From America," he answered.  The man looked a little surprised.

"Really? She's very beautiful. Does she speak Finnish?"

"A little, yes," I answered. I must have been pretty drunk.

"She does speak it! But does she speak it well?"

"Not well, no," I said.

"She does speak it well!" he said. "Do you have a sister?" he asked, finally addressing me, but in English.

"Well, yes," I admitted.

"How did you meet this beautiful woman?" he asked, again addressing Rami in Finnish.

"On the internet," Rami answered.

"What site? I must go there," he proclaimed in English. Rami and I both began to laugh, but this seemed not to deter the man from asking a second time. "What site?"

"Omegle," Rami said. "Omegle piste com."

"I will go there!" he exclaimed.

I wish him luck. He'll need it once he discovers what Omegle is.

But then, yesterday, a young, completely nonthreatening girl approached me on the street and asked where the library was. We were right next to it. It was as though the lesson from page one of my Finnish textbook had leapt into reality. I pointed, but no words left my mouth. Fortunately, she understood. And then, for no apparent reason, I thanked her.

Conclusion: Drink More.

A Little Too Finnish

                                                                                     
At around 4 today, Rami sent a text message asking me to come meet him at his workplace. I obliged. When I got there, I saw two men lingering around the entrance, doing nothing in particular.

I sent him a message. "I'm here. Not coming in. There are weird dudes at the door," it read.

He emerged after a minute or two, laughing. "'Weird dudes' -- you're the weird one," he said. "Those two guys were just from the neighboring company."

"They looked as if they might talk to me. You know, ask me a question or something," I said. "'Weird dudes' was just shorthand for 'people I don't know.'"

"You've been in Finland too long," he said.

"Yeah, that must be it," I sighed. But that wasn't it.

I guess I need to spend a little less time studying and a little more time practicing being a normal person. 

Impending

My next trip to the US is coming up on the 16th of this month.

I'm going home so that I can act as a bridesmaid (-matron?) when two of my dear friends wed each other. I'm looking forward to spending quality time with the quality people in the wedding party, as well as helping out in ways that require my presence (in other words, something more than simply sending emails which read, "Wish I could be there!"). I've also been asked to sing a song during the ceremony, which I'm nervous about. The last time I performed was five years ago, at the wedding of another beloved person.

Aside from that, the trip will be just what you'd expect: lots of catching up with family and friends, eating, and hanging out with Riley. It'll probably be wonderful. And that's the problem.

Last Wednesday, I watched this documentary about Centralia, Pennsylvania. It managed to both move and frighten me. It forced me to notice the hometown zealot within myself -- the sort of person who thinks her own rolling hills are Shangri-La. [Edit: No, that's not 'what she said'. In fact, forget I said that.]

While I'm home, I'll slip back into the slot that's forever reserved for me. I'll get comfortable, and I won't want to leave, because I'm actually an enormous pansy who's utterly dependent on her place of origin. I guess that's the plight of many expats, though, and after the initial sting of leaving and coming home to Finland, I'll acclimate once again.

Other than thoughts of my trip and what it'll mean for my sanity, I've been focusing on Finnish (as usual). I feel as if I've become a bit of a bore on that front, so I'll refrain from commenting on it. Instead, I'll just share the photo of the place at which I studied on Friday.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have coffee to drink and Finnish soap operas to watch. 

Pretty Pretty Princess

Today, R and I went to the harbor for a couple of vetyä.

There's a tori near the water's edge where a man sells used books. He's there every day of the week. I often browse his collection, searching for items stupid enough to suit my Finnish literacy.

I've been slogging through Mies parvekkeella and I've discovered that, while it certainly is good for a mental workout, it's not something I can actually read. That is, I cannot run my eyes over it, understand most of it, and then look up the words I don't know. It requires quite a bit more work than that.

But what I want from my reading is to gain vocabulary, not simply to struggle towards something resembling comprehension. For me, grammar is the easy part. It's acquiring and retaining a decent vocabulary that's (very) difficult.

So, at the recommendation of quite a few people, I bought an Aku Ankka book from the tori last week. It proved to be quite beyond my reach within a few pages, and I've resolved to save it for when I'm a bit more advanced. I'm already reading one way-too-hard book. What I need now is a book that I can get through with some amount of ease and confidence, and which will allow me to learn a few new words without making me strain to comprehend their context.

Today, as I thumbed through the used books down by the harbor, I came across this shiny pink atrocity. "Well, I've been looking for young adult books," I thought. "But this one...I must find something else. Anything else."

All the rest of the young adult books were, in some form or another, about horses.

I approached the kind book seller very sheepishly. "Kaks euroa," he said. His skin was baked a deep brown from standing in the sun day after day. I blushed a princessy pink and handed him a 2 euro coin.

And that is how I began to read the third installment of The Princess Diaries.

Afterwards, we went swimming. I hesitated to bring this sparkly thing with me, but I thought, "Fuck it, I want to learn some Finnish while I lie in the sand."

It's exactly what I needed. I understand a great deal of it, including the context that surrounds unfamiliar words. Actually, I feel sort of badass as my eyes pass over the text somewhat fluidly. Imagine - me - able to read a book intended for someone fifteen years my junior!

I'm not complaining. 

These are a few of my favorite things: osa kaksi

I didn't do much for Juhannus, and that's why I'm unable to write much about it. Rami was very sick on Juhannusaatto, and I spent the day caring for him. I did, however, venture out at around 22:30 to observe the goings-on. Everyone was wild and drunk on more than just viina. I was approached by a few brave (read: drunk) Finns, to whom I simply said, "En puhu suomea." It worked like a charm.

In honor of Juhannus, I'd like to discuss another of my favorite things about the Finnish language.

Nominals that end in a (usually rounded, I think) short vowel + s drop the -s and acquire a -kse- in their inflectional stem.
What does this look like?
Linnoitus = fortress (I use this example because we happen to have one here in Lappeenranta. See the above photo.)

Nominative pl.: linnoitukset
Genitive sing.: linnoituksen       Genitive pl.: linnoitusten
Partitive sing.: linnoitusta          Partitive pl: linnoituksia
Inessive sing.: linnoituksessa
Elative sing.: linnoituksesta
Illative sing.: linnoitukseen
etc.

As you can see, the partitive singular and the genitive plural are exceptions, as they both maintain the final -s, and add -ta and -ten respectively. (Yes, the partitive plural drops the -e-.)

I'm not sure what I like so much about this inflectional change, exactly. There's just something pleasing about a plosive, placed precariously in the middle of an inflected noun, when no such plosive is contained within the word's nominative singular form. It was quite mysterious when I first heard an example of it. Now, like several other types of inflectional changes, I understand it. I think.

I also like the way it sounds. Try it out: lin-noi-tuk-ses-sa. It just sounds good to my ears and feels good to my throat. There's no explaining it, really. It's like asking why this song makes my toes curl.

I hope you all had a chance to put your duties aside and get drunk on booze and sunshine over the weekend.

Olen tyhmä

"Olen tyhmä, olen tyhmä!" a classmate of mind said, as she described how she feels when people speak English to her and she's unable to understand or reply. She's Hungarian, and the only language she and I share is what little Finnish we've mastered. We began the fall course waving our hands like primates in a zoo and drawing cave art in our notebooks. As of this moment, we've evolved.

"Voin opettaa sinua," I said, not really sure of whether or not it was true. But, I thought, I need the practice. She's never studied English, and only knows a smattering of words she's picked up from movies and other media. I'm not really qualified to teach ESL, but I think I can pick out a few important fundamentals and provide her with a baseline. From the alphabet, numbers, basic greetings, and then onwards.

She called me yesterday, and we went here:

Her young children, both of whom speak a lot of Finnish, swam in the lake while we studied.

And as the chilly wind blew through my jacket, I thought, "How did I get here? Oh, thank god I don't work at an insurance agency in Hartford, commuting two hours to work every morning and three hours back in the evening, a slave to my own shitty health insurance, searching for a necktie with which to hang myself at lunch, learning nothing other than to use Microsoft Access and to smile vapidly at my coworkers when what I really want is to tell each and every one of them to stop talking to me forever."

I'd like to take a moment to thank Finland for having such an impossible language. Yes, I realize most of you probably wish to kill me right about now, but it must be said: if it weren't for your language, Finland, I might have nothing left to study. I might've tried to get into some university, and I might've failed (two events which may still come to pass), and then my career in "formal" education would be over. The longer I struggle with your language, Finland, the longer I'll be forced to take classes. Lots and lots of classes. I don't mean casually, on the side, after work, or studying once in a while at home over coffee. I mean that my days will necessarily be spent learning. I do hope I'll be able to contribute something after all the sponging I've done, and yet I sort of dread the end of this particular learning experience.

And, for now, I can dedicate several hours a week to teaching a friend of mine something she very much wants to learn.

Edit: I'm also hoping to pick up a little Hungarian in the process. I think it's among the most beautiful languages I've ever heard. Here's a Hungarian children's cartoon I used to watch in English as a kid:

Accented

I mentioned a while back that I might record myself speaking a little Finnish:

Obviously, since I don't speak Finnish natively, I can only just barely hear my own accent. Rather, I hear that the things I say don't come out quite the way I intend, or the way in which I hear them in my head, but I'm unable to do much about it.

I'm reading the text, enunciating* as clearly as I can, and I realize I sound a bit stilted and odd. My normal speech might not be so clear or so stiff. Again, though, I can't really say objectively.
[I also apologize for the somewhat loud clicking of my mousepad.]

So, that brings me to this: if you speak Finnish -- just a little, fluently, natively -- I encourage you to record yourself speaking a short text. Post it in the comments, or on your own blog. Come to think of it,  all languages (and accents) are welcome. It'll be a language and accent extravaganza.

*I have noticed that my English spelling is getting, well, embarrassing. It's as if Finnish is pushing whatever spelling skill I had out of my brain, and I often don't notice my mistakes at first. I initially wrote "annunciating." I wasn't proclaiming the coming of Jesus, so, yes, consider this corrected.

Haastattelu

I did the interview after all.

When my teacher asked if I'd do it, I didn't have the heart or the will to say no. That's one of the paradoxes of shyness; you'll sometimes do brave things only to avoid having to say ei.

Overall, it went quite well. I was able to communicate all of my thoughts using Finnish, resorting to English for only a few words. I did, however, ask the journalist to repeat several of her questions in English to be sure that I understood them. I find that, when I'm nervous, listening comprehension is the first thing to go.

As a result of my performing days, something odd and alien kicks in when I'm especially nervous. When my brain is near to shutting down from nerves, some persona (who is most certainly not me) takes the reins. I think that may have been what happened in this case. Once I got going, though, it was easy. The journalist and photographer were very kind, and they said some very nice things about my Finnish abilities (though I think they were more or less obligated to be encouraging).

I suppose the real test will be if the things I intended to say end up on the printed page. 

You, Me, Her and Him

My grandfather in Italy with a few of our relatives.

My grandfather loved languages. He used to sit for hours at the table in the living room, reading, studying, and practicing his pronunciation. If he wasn't working in one of the gardens, that table was quite likely where you'd find him.

He was a meticulous man. He could focus endlessly on one infinitesimal minutia in a sea of grammatical minutiae. He'd pore over a given detail until he had internalized it. Though it doesn't sound like the most efficient way to learn, it seemed to work for him; he learned something like six or seven languages in this way. When I was young, his focus was almost always on Swedish, which he studied so that he could speak to a few business associates in their native tongue.

I did not always appreciate his love of detail, though. If I were ever to utter this phrase, for example: "Him and me went down to the store," he'd correct me with the speed lightening and in the manner of thunder. "He and I!" he'd boom disapprovingly.

"Yes, Lena, he and I!" my mother and aunts might've echoed. They had been scolded about the declension of personal pronouns all their lives. "You don't want to sound like a raggie, do you?"

Why, no, I didn't want to sound like a raggie! What if someone were to overhear my mistake? Never again, I'd think.

Now that I live in Finland, and I hardly know what's correct and what isn't, I'd really prefer to speak only to Rami, to my teacher, and to my classmates. I'm not ready for primetime, as it were. If I were to try to communicate with your average, everyday Finn, I'd only end up sounding like a raggie.

Of course, my grandfather loved to use the languages that he'd worked so hard to learn. He was fearless and confident in what he knew. Oh, if only I could learn to do as he did, and perhaps forget the idea that one must speak perfectly if one is to speak at all.

Everything that excites and stimulates is, on some level, scary.

Specifically, there are three major things that excite and frighten me now:
1) I'll be teaching an English conversation course in the fall. Though I believe I have all the tools, I do hope I can actually, you know, teach.
2) My Finnish teacher asked if I'd like to take a second class with her, in addition to the one I'm in now and will be continuing, in the fall. It's a bit more advanced than what I'm used to, and I think it might be akin to 'skipping a grade' two nights a week. I said yes, and I'm very happy that there'll be more for me to learn. I'm also scared shitless.
3) Apparently someone from Etelä-Saimaa, our regional newspaper, is coming to my class to interview a few of us for an article about educated expats and their lives in Finland. It was hinted that I might be chosen, since I'm the only American in the class. My first thought? "Oh please no. Please, please, no." After all, what could be worse than having your early failings with the Finnish language immortalized on the printed page? I may, erm, opt out of this one. The thing is, if I understand most everything that is asked, and I manage to communicate moderately well, I'll be immensely proud. It seems far, far more likely, though, that my tongue will twist around and around itself, and I'll choke.

Looks like I'll have to figure out a way to syphon off some bravery if I want to live here. 

Mies parvekkeella

Oh, but I have been so lazy about writing. I open the text editor and close the browser tab before I've even written a word. I think of writing and my heart sinks, because I know that I have very little fuel to dedicate to even the illusion quality. Still, I get a little twitchy if I don't write something in English every once in a while, so here I am.

Things have been pretty much invariably beautiful here. The temperature does yo-yo a bit between pleasantly warm and disappointingly chilly, but it has been sunny and bright pretty much every day for a few weeks. (We did have quite the rainy, windy day yesterday; we went to see Prometheus.) The harbor is once again full of vendors and vetyjä. 


One thing that's been taking up a lot of the time and energy that I might otherwise use for blogging is this:

Yes, it's a book belonging to a series of Swedish detective novels, translated into Finnish for my learning pleasure! I bought it here, where I spotted it, thought it looked funny and creepy, opened it, and realized that I understood quite a lot of what I was able to skim. I dug three euros from the cluttered depths of my purse and purchased it. Should I have started with something easier? Probably. One major issue is that it contains a lot of idiomatic language that is indecipherable to me until I ask a native. Still, I'm asking, scribbling away, and using Wiktionary a lot. It's frustrating, but I'm learning something.

In fact, I think I'll read some of it now.

Edit: I also discovered this little gem at the same store:

Tavaroita

We live within walking distance from the local Prisma. If you're unfamiliar with it, it's a chain of "hypermarkets" here in Finland.

We rarely shop there because, in truth, I kind of hate it. In fact, I hate shopping of any kind. To me, it's the worst of all chores.

Prisma, though, always seems packed like an enormous sardine can full of consumers. People mill about aimlessly among the rows and, if you intend to buy something specific, you will most likely have to push past several people who are entranced by the yogurt or the baked goods. It reminds me of Walmart, though it's actually a good deal larger than any Walmart I've ever had the misfortune to visit.

Now, to be fair, Walmart is an evil son-of-a-bitch. Although it is owned by oligopoly member S-Group, I doubt very much that Prisma's business practices are quite so deplorable. (A Google search didn't yield much information either way. Please enlighten me if you happen to know something I don't.) I don't seek to equate them. It's just that I've been programmed to feel irritated whenever I'm in a gargantuan supermarket brimming with people.

And when I'm finally out in the open air, goods in tow, I resolve to be less of a curmudgeonly jerk and to understand that, for some people, Prisma is quite an awesome thing. "Hey, I don't need to drag my children to four different stores; I can complete all of my shopping in one trip!" If you're a parent or a person otherwise lacking in time and energy, Prisma must be of immeasurable use to you.

But, really, is it so interesting for its size and abundance? Is the "Prisma trance" a result of anything particularly compelling? Is there porn tucked between milk cartons and pasted to the back of every t-shirt?   Clearly there's some incredible fun that I'm missing because I'm such an utterly joyless shopper.

Still, I think I'll be happy to keep rushing impatiently through the act of shopping. And I think I may just stay away from Prisma until the day I manage to suppress my inner curmudgeon. 

Pen tied: Learning and Writing Finnish

In the last two or three weeks, I have continued to study Finnish pretty intensively. At this point, I'm discovering that there's quite a lot that I can learn on my own when I stray outside of my course's curriculum. Here are a couple of study methods that have been very helpful to me:

1) I record myself saying 20 - 45 important new vocabulary words just about every day. On such recordings, I'll repeat a Finnish word three to four times and then give a definition of it in English. Then I simply listen as needed. Doing this has helped me a lot with vocabulary acquisition and pronunciation. My guess is that most people prefer not to resort to rote memorization of vocabulary, but I find that this activity helps me to store words in my long-term memory on a short-term basis. Then, when I encounter them in class, reading, or in conversation, I have a greater chance of remembering them more permanently.

2) I read, in English, any information I can find regarding the grammatical structures that I want to learn. Finnish: An Essential Grammar by Fred Karlsson has been immensely helpful as a reference guide.

And that's quite enough of the dull stuff.

On a related note, however, one of my homework assignments for this evening was to write a story using all of the following verbs:
               vihata = to hate
               rakastaa = to love
               ajatella = to think (about)
               lyödä = to hit, strike
               suudella = to kiss
               odottaa = to wait
               etsiä = to search
               käyttää = to use
               löytää = to find
               huomata = to notice
               tuntea = to know, to feel
               myöntää = to admit, agree
               kutsua = to invite

And, without further ado, here is my absurd, completely stupid "story":
Joku mies rakastaa naista, ja hän päättää kertoa hänelle sen. Mies ostaa kukkia ja menee naisen luo. Kun hän saapuu sinne, hän koputtaa kovasti ovea. "Oletko kotona?" hän huutaa. Nainen tulee ovelle ja avaa sen. 
     "Tunnenko minä sinut?" nainen kysyy. 
     "Sinä tunnet minut hyvin! Minä olen sinun rakas! Haluan kertoa sinulle, että minä rakastan sinua! Minä olen etsinyt rakkautta, ja olen löytänyt sen, koska sinä olet kaunis!" 
     "Odota minua pieni hetki..." nainen sanoo, ja sulkee oven nopeasti. Mies odottaa vähän aikaa, mutta hän on kärsimätön. Hän koputtaa ja huutaa, "Tule takaisin! Haluaisin kutsua sinut minun luo kylään!" 
     Nainen tulee takaisin ja avaa oven taas. "Mene pois. Huomaan, että sinä olet vähän hullu." 
   "Höpö-höpö," Mies sanoo. "Minä myönnän, että olen vähän töykeä, mutta olen töykeä vain koska rakastan sinua liian paljon!" Sitten mies yrittää suudella naista. 
     Nainen lyö miestä päähän ja sanoo, "Käytä järkeäsi! Et saa suudella vieraita naisia!"
    Mies on surullisen näköinen. "Mutta minä ajattelen sinua tosi paljon! Haluaisitko mennä kahville ja keskustella sitä? 
   "Voi, voi," nainen sanoo. "Okei. Pieni hetki. Haen mieheni."
Mies murjottaa ja sanoo, "Minä vihaan sinua." 


(Most everything is in present tense because we haven't yet covered other tenses in class. I did slip in a bit of perfekti, though.)


Translated:
A man loves a woman, and he decides to tell her. The man buys flowers and goes to her place. When he arrives there, he knocks hard on the door. "Are you home?" he shouts. The woman comes to the door and opens it. 
    "Do I know you?" she asks. 
    "You know me well! I am your love! I want to tell you that I love you! I have searched for love, and I have found it, because you are beautiful!" 
    "Wait for me just a minute..." the woman says, and closes the door quickly. The man waits for a little while, but he is impatient. He knocks and shouts, "Come back! I would like to invite you over to my place!" 
     The woman comes back and again opens the door. "Go away. I see that you are a little crazy." 
    "Nonsense," the man says. "I admit that I am a little rude, but I am rude only because I love you too much!" Then the man tries to kiss the woman. 
     The woman hits the man in the head and says, "Be reasonable! You can't kiss strange women!"
    The man is sad-looking. "But I think about you a lot! Would you like to go for coffee and discuss it? 
   "Oh my," the woman says. "Okay. Just a moment. I'll get my husband." 
The man sulks and says, "I hate you." 


So what do you think? Do I have a shot at being the next big Finnish novelist? Perhaps after studying Finnish for the next thousand years, you say? Yep, I'm afraid I'll have to agree with you there. When you're constrained by a lack of knowledge and ability, you have no choice but to embrace the absurdity.

Höpö-höpö aside, it was a pretty great exercise.

Odd Is As Odd Does

I went through some of my old journals recently, and found this tidbit from when I was 18 or so and not yet in university:


There are so many odd birds in Winsted. I have been noticing them more lately, perhaps because I have resumed my old habit of walking on main street, and there are always people floating around. I am trying to formulate some sort of character sketch about at least one of them. Sometimes I can't help but stare. 


For instance, while heading out to grab some lunch at a restaurant down the street from my apartment, I noticed this woman coming out of the Register Citizen building. She was about 70 years old and had dyed her hair jet black. Her makeup was very thick, and I wondered if perhaps she was participating in a play somewhere locally, as it was difficult to accept that she thought it looked attractive. Blue eyeshadow, pancake-thick foundation, and ruby rouge, virtually circles on her cheeks, she looked like someone who might audition for a music video. I know my description borders on cruel, but believe me, I don't intend it that way. She was very beautiful in an odd way. All these people are beautiful to me in the odd way. I just wish there were some way for me to utilize this fascination. 


This place is so weird. I grew up here, and I should be utterly used to it, but I am not. Every day I walk down the street with a continued fascination that may outfit itself in either hatred or contentment. It always manages to be fascination, though. Confusion, even. 


This town used to be so lovely. Think of it; even Route 8 comes out in Winsted. Before the flood, this place was really something. Now it manages to be some kind of voluntary prison. There's no denying that this place sucks, but it holds a simple beauty. I intend to visit often once I escape.

Note that to say I "grew up" in Winsted is overstating things. I actually grew up nearby, in a much more beautiful and more rural place. Still, Winsted had the grocery store, the shoe store, and my father's small label business, so it's true that I did spend a good deal of time there. At 18 I had moved there temporarily, in with my father, in an effort to figure out exactly what it was I planned to do with myself.

If memory serves, I wrote this shortly before another, more intimate and more frightening encounter with an "odd bird."

There was a man I used to see around town. He was between 50 and 60, and he aways wore the same army green jacket. I assumed he was homeless. He always smelled of earth and alcohol. I'd see him nearly everywhere: at the pharmacy, the grocery store, and on the street. We saw each other so frequently that we eventually began to acknowledge one another with a nod and a smile.

One day, as I was walking home, he came up behind me and said, "Hello!"

"Hello," I said. We had never spoken before.

"How are you on this beautiful day?" It was cloudy. He used the few teeth in his mouth to smile like a politician.

"Fine. I've got to go," I said.

"Well, just wait a minute. You're usually so friendly. Don't you want to have a chat?" He was blocking my path. The street was empty, even though it was midday on a Saturday.

"Well, I would, it's just that I'm very busy," I said.

"You're so beautiful. Are you married?" he asked. It was then that I knew he was either stupid or nuts.

"Not yet," I said. In retrospect, I really should have said yes.

"How can someone so beautiful not be married?"

"I'm too young," I said. In retrospect, I really should have said, "Because I've got herpes, syphilis, and the clap."

"Can I give you a hug?" he asked. Yes, he was nuts. Too much alcohol had pickled his brain, and he'd retained his ability to speak but not his ability to think.

"Nope. Gotta go!" I said, and tried to walk swiftly away. I was only two meters or so from the front door. He grabbed me by the shoulder and ran his hand down the length of my arm. I froze. In retrospect, I really should have kicked him square in the nuts. Hindsight.

Then my father came out of the building with a garbage bag in his hand. He saw us, walked calmly in our direction and asked, "Can I help you?" He was addressing the man but it was, without question, me he was helping.

"Oh," the man said, his face falling, his head drooping. "You're already with someone, I see." Yes, he was nuts. Certifiable, in fact. Too bad that he had no one who cared enough to certify him.

I ran inside. My father stayed behind and talked to him for a few minutes. When he came in, he said, "That guy sends his apologies."

The strange thing is that I never saw him again. Perhaps it was because I avoided all of the places in which I typically ran into him. Perhaps my dad scared him into hiding, although I find that somewhat hard to imagine. Perhaps I did see him once or twice, and I just don't remember it. I'll never know.

That's actually just the most dramatic example of a few incidents in which I felt threatened while walking around in Winsted. Living in the country probably made a pansy out of me, but that small, sleepy town is not without its dangers. Nothing of that sort ever happens to me here in Lappeenranta. There are drunks here and everywhere, but they've never bothered me. Perhaps it's because I'm older, and perhaps it's because Finland has a far superior system by which to decrease poverty and desperation.

Isn't it odd, though, that I miss that place?