A Year Ago Today

OK. I have returned, though for a brief moment only. I know I said my last post was going to be my last post but please forgive me for I can't help closing the circle for good. It's because my concept of 9/11 is slightly different. (Luckily enough, you don't have to read this if you were greatly relieved once I stopped posting.) A year ago today I moved to England. A year ago at this very hour I was probably on the train nervously heading towards my new home, my parallel life. A YEAR. Do I have a problem (very possibly) or do people actually think about these things? I mean the year ago exactly stuff? Whatever the answer, it's going to be a proper year-ago-today seven months for me. I'm feeling funnily melancholic as well as a bit nostalgic though nostalgic might be a wrong expression because it's only been a year, not a whole decade or something as horrible as that. You know, when I was young and oh those golden days. My new friends from uni are currently running about the town racing from bar to bar but I didn't really feel like going – I'm as exhausted as after starting working at the hotel last year! Hard work, socialising. And I don't feel like drinking tonight. A year ago Charlie Fink sang in my post: "Tonight's the kind of night where everything could change". And it did. Oh my, it did.

I'm sharing a video with you since this is my last chance to do so and since I completely forgot to post it outside of Facebook a couple of months ago when it was all fresh. So yeah, some of you might have seen it already but it's quite nice so watch again maybe?

And for the last time, THANK YOU! x

Dreams Come Slow And They Go So Fast

Knowing is strange. One minute you don't know, the next you do. Something or someone. Like when you start something new, be it studies or at a new job, you don't know what to expect. You can't imagine what it's going to be like. How the place is going to look. All the people you're going meet. However afterwards, it all just seems so obvious, doesn't it? You're thinking: of course these are the people, it was always going to be these people. They had to be these very people. Who else could they ever have been? 10 months ago I left for England and I didn't know what to expect. 10 days ago I went back knowing. I knew pretty much who I'd find at the reception. I knew exactly who would hand me the keys. I knew who I'd find in the kitchen. And I wasn't in a need of a map like last September. I remember what a maze the hotel was!

The Gentlemen Of The Road was a really nice, small festival. You could even see the Lewes castle proudly standing there behind the stage and I feel embarrassed only having noticed this on day two. It was all great, though while Mumford & Sons were playing I ended up standing right next to a girl with the most horrific and shivers-down-the-spine-sending, deafening scream. A really high pitch one. To make matters worse she very much enjoyed singing along and didn't seem to mind not staying anywhere near the tune, which is quite alright as long as you get the lyrics right, which she didn't do very laudably either ("rate yourself and rape yourself") so I had to squeeze my way away from her. Late in the evening the whole site turned into what seemed like a huge outdoor nightclub, everybody was dancing. That was quite cool.

Leaving part II wasn't as bad as I thought, nowhere near as bad as the first time, which took me by surprise really. In April the thought of leaving was absolutely impossible. I felt I CAN'T go. I just can't. I had to rip myself off the town, the people and the country, and it hurt. You know, like a plaster that sits on your skin perfectly and will stay put for a long time to come unless you need to get rid of it. This time me, the plaster, was starting to come off by itself. It felt like a right time to go, that I'd seen enough for now. I almost felt a circle closing. I'm happy it all left such a good taste in my mouth for I don't think that was guaranteed. It didn't feel so final, either. (I didn't even close my British bank account so maybe that's part of the reason!) I feel confident that the people I wish to keep in my life will stay there. Oh and it was nice to REALLY see the people. I felt sane again. You see, it was the same thing while I was still in England. I kept seeing old friends and acquaintances everywhere, you know, oh he used to go to the same school — wait what? I'm not in Finland! The weirdest it felt when I almost said hi to someone before realising I wasn't in the right country to do so. All in all, I had a really lovely six days. It felt like home being back. There's just this one question. When am I going to see these people again? All I know is I don't know, and it breaks my heart a little, but I'll learn to live with it knowing the day will come.

It's been almost a year and this is about to be my last post. Probably not the last ever, cause as it turns out blogging works well for me and it will be weird not to do it, so I might start a new one. And talking of weird, it will be weird going to university after a year of not studying. Well, at least there's a compulsory exchange year waiting for me. Anyway. To finish with, I want to share a moment with you. I was coming back from the town, walking alongside the hotel building when it hit me pretty much out of the blue — I'm actually living my dream. I AM LIVING A DREAM. I've dreamed about having a place in England I can call home. I've dreamed about knowing people from all over the world. I've dreamed about living life in English. I've dreamed about seeing bands and places and now I have! I've been mistaken for English so many times it doesn't feel special anymore. I've made irreplaceable, international friends. I've seen KT Tunstall. I've Henry Hoovered more than enough. I've served countless English breakfasts. I've been to an English festival and there was no mud there. I've tried Marmite. I've been attacked by a seagull. I've become a regular of Tesco. I've become a regular of a pub. (And Boots and HMV...) I've been in England without being a tourist. I've spent hours on the train but I never got tired of the view. I've learned how to say mean things in French. I've learned how to say fuck in Polish. I've learned how to polish cutlery and glasses. I've watched the sunset on the pier. I've started drinking beer. I've tried mince pies and yuckkhhkh. And hey, I've high-fived Dan of Bastille after a fair while of chatting with him. Though I don't mean to brag. (Yes I do!!!) I've come back to Finland richer than ever. These things are part of my past and some of it, I hope, my future too. I am lucky. Remember, it's better to be grateful for all the things you've had, than to cry over things you didn't have. Please don't just pass the previous sentence by and take it for a cheesy aphorism. Mostly cause I came up with it myself. Which doesn't mean someone else hasn't come up with it as well. But I'm asking you to think about it. Really.


Thank you ever so much for reading what I've written, hearing what I've had to say. I hope my blog has accidentally inspired or encouraged someone to do this kind of thing for it's the best thing I've ever done. To be honest I'd be happy with one person. Let me know? Live and keep your eye out for a new blog!
A big fat CHEERS,

Vilma x

"We will all say goodbye

But that's alright

Happens to everyone

The alright part is a lie

But that's alright

We tell it to everyone"

- Lifetime, Jack Savoretti

59 Days Too Many

I've been back in Finland for two months today. It's stupid how it always hits you hardest on the exact dates though it shouldn't be like that. What difference does it make if it's been 60, 61 or 62 days? That is 59 days too many at the least. Though I can't complain about the weather, it's been truly non-Finnish and warmer than in the UK. Ha ha, in your face. I've even caught some sun so my what I call Swedish look is starting to develop. That is, my hair gets whiter while my face gets more tanned, boom, a double effect with the result of me looking like a Swede. Well never mind, that's just a theory of mine and totally out of the point. Having been here for this long also means I'll get to visit England and Worthing again soon. I don't know what's it going to be like. It's a little scary actually, going back and seeing how much things have changed in a relatively short time. I'm trying to keep my hopes down a bit, I'm not even sure what I'm hoping to see or not to see. Besides the bands — the main reason I'm going. Or the "main" reason. But this time I'll have to leave without another ticket already waiting. Considering how much I cried on my flight last time and how many times the polite British gentleman next to me had to check whether I was OK (Yeah yeah sure, never better, doesn't that show?) it's not going to be any easier. Oh god. I know I'm going back, I might even move to England one day, but I don't when that's going to be. Somehow I'd have to program myself into thinking that it's a lovely, second chance given to me. Like it is something in addition to everything I've already had! A positive, nice thing. Which it is, of course. But on the other hand there's this voice in the back of my mind saying what's wrong with you, one goodbye is horrible enough to bear, why do you willingly have to make it two, for fuck's sake? I'd be fine now, without ever going back. Because I never had that last look. Easy. But after facing everything and everyone again knowing this time it's for real?

I hosted an England themed party for my friends last night. I was about to post some photos but then my Photoshop collapsed and I got too pissed off to do everything all over again so you'll only get one. And I shall write about the rest. I served things we used to serve at the hotel: Pimm's cup, prawn cocktails, little triangle sandwiches. I even baked a black forest gateau à la Vilma. (It turned out to be really nice I must say.) Would they take me back? If I don't get into uni this year? Well, I wasn't being completely serious. It would be a whole different story with different people in it. A failing attempt to relive what I had before. I'm not saying it would be a worse story, but it wouldn't be the same so I might as well go somewhere else and start a new one. But sometimes I'm thinking I wouldn't mind serving a couple of English breakfasts. After all it was just very nice. All the things that at times annoyed me to hell about the job have pretty much disappeared, it's golden memories now. But honestly, it wasn't bad there, not at all. Writing this is making me miss working there. Word by word. I could actually shed a couple of tears! I don't miss speaking English as badly anymore, mainly because it hasn't been a part of my everyday life for weeks now. Conversations with myself don't count. For that part I'm practically English.

Ps. Please don't think I'm posh cause I served Pimm's to my guests, I drew inspiration from the weddings back at Chatsworth and the bottle is a souvenir. You have to admit the label is rather classy, don't you? I know. Alright, I will get back to you after my trip probably. Bye for now!

Hometown Glory

I got home. I got home and realised I used to like my hometown. I used to like my hometown until I travelled and saw what else the world has to offer. I mean, I still like it, it's a nice town, but's that's pretty much it. It's NICE. I know now that there's so much going on somewhere else (too, I may need to add not to sound far too negative) and I'd like to be in the middle of it. It's one of these grass-is-greener-on-the-other-side effects, but then again I've been on the other side and it was really green. Greener? For some parts, absolutely, but at the end of the day I don't know. No matter what my life is where I am. There can be life in England, but there can also be life in Finland. I'm trying my best to hold on to that thought. However, I liked feeling exotic. Ok, shut up, Finland isn't very exotic, but let me explain. I liked it that my hair was the colour all the English girls were after. I liked it that I came from somewhere else. I liked having something the others didn't have. I liked being one of a kind. In my hometown it's not like that. I'm just like everyone else. Or that's how other people see me — it's not how I feel. I hate it that people can't see your history written all over your face! I wish everyone could see where I've been cause it kind of defines me.

What surprised and disappointed me about coming back was I remember everything too well. Everything here is too familiar, almost as if I never was away, and that I don't like. The only thing I keep doing is I keep passing people on the left hand side. It's particularly dangerous when you're riding a bike. And at first I had to focus to thank people in Finnish. I only failed once. The weirdest thing I came across were the forks we have at home. They are the weirdest and most ridiculous forks ever. I bet you a hundred quid my family's having a laugh and they've changed them while I was away. The only thing is... they didn't. For now, being here feels somehow pointless, it's still like what am I doing here? I miss speaking English SO BADLY. I miss the politeness. I miss the seaside and the pier. I miss the people. I miss a lot of things. (I don't miss waking up at half past five, though!) My friends need to understand that for me it's not only good to be back, not everything about it is nice, but it's not because of them. Only by doing what I did you'll understand. There's nothing I can do.

The thing (or problem) with so many people is, that if they're mostly satisfied with their lives, they don't feel like they need anything else. They don't want anything else, because they can't miss anything they don't know exists. And that's why they never go anywhere, they never leave their hometowns, and shame on them. They are missing out. I think it's better to miss something than to miss out on something. Oh yes. I'm so lucky having been where I've been, having seen what I've seen. It was time well spent.

How Am I Gonna Get Myself Back Home?

(It's not about the video, it's about the song but I had some trouble trying to post music and I really need to post this)

Oh I remember the careless days my answer to the question about me going home was "In April". Now it's "On Tuesday". Seven months, people. Who'd have known? Yesterday was my last Saturday, today is my last Sunday. I could go on for your pleasure, but you know how it goes so I'll save myself the trouble. Today is MY LAST DAY AT WORK. I'm panicking enough without completing the (brief) countdown. The feeling is more or less like the one I had before coming here. I don't really understand I'm leaving. And the mixed feelings are back, too, only stronger. I took the dockets I've saved off my wall and my room looks so weird. And I printed my travel documents. I gave up studying a couple of days ago cause I can't concentrate anymore. There's no point to read and then realise there are five other things on your mind. Like am I going to be able to squeeze all my stuff into my bags. That's a real concern, by the way. Because I. Just. Don't. Know. It might fit (not well but FIT anyway) or then I might be encountered with a mission impossible. I'm actually trying my best to avoid starting the packing because I'm so scared hahahhaha. That was like the nervous laugh pretending not to be nervous. Dear friends, please don't expect me to bring you any souvenirs. Firstly, this hasn't exactly been a holiday, and secondly and more importantly: there really is no room for any extra and I'm sorry! Yeah, but I couldn't keep studying as a priority these last couple of days. Fuck it. I'll be happy to suffer a bit more at home. Besides, I only have two chapters to go so I ought to be proud of myself. And apparently I've learned something, because one morning I was listening to some customers, and the first thing that came to my mind was "Aha! Non-standard English!" — I even surprised myself there.

In a way it will be a relief to put my bum against the aeroplane seat and fasten the seatbelt. Close my eyes and take off. To know the worst part, waiting and also worrying about practical stuff, is over. If I could I'd just skip the last day. I'd sneak out without saying goodbye to anyone. Selfish and rude, yes, but I would. It's called self-protection. I hate saying goodbye. What hurts the most is that it's just another morning and just another flight for the other people on the plane. They're coming back from a lovely little weekend break or a monthly business trip, perhaps. They don't know that I'm leaving behind seven months of life. Different life but real. That I'm travelling with so much more than they are. Metaphorically AND literally. And the thing I feared the most came true. The weather's all lovely now which makes it a lot more depressing to leave. You can see summer coming, the town is starting to wake up and come alive and I won't get to live that. I'm sad because of it. It hurts. Yes, I'm coming back in July but only for a couple of days and I haven't had enough even in a couple of months. And those were the "crappy" seasons.

This is probably the last post I'll write while I'm still in England. I'm afraid I won't have any spare time later. Today I'll get the last taste of everything, so to say: one more breakfast, one more lunch, and one more dinner. Three birds with one stone. Two down dead, in two hours it's time to kill the last one. Let's do this.

I'm sure this is what awaits me at home.

Oh I Feel Overjoyed

I have two identities.  My inherent Finnish identity and my English identity I've grown little by little. To be honest I like the English one better. I feel like I'm a better person in English than I am in Finnish, so to say. Should I be worried? Probably, for I can't keep speaking English to everyone in Finland without making a fool out of myself. "Who does she think she is? Is she trying to be exotic or something? Puhu suomee vaan että ittekki ymmärrät. LET ME LAUGH." This might have something to do with the fact that after six months of constantly speaking English everything has started to sound helplessly ungraceful and awkward in Finnish — more than before, that is. Although you're basically saying the same things they are not the same things. The shade is always somewhat different. And all the things you simply can't say in both languages! And it has to do with the culture, too. For example, I can't tell people I'm happy to see them in Finnish without sounding uneasy, at least inside my own head, but it's easy to say "Nice to see you!" and to actually mean it. We're just not like that and you don't hear that a lot. Or some of us are, I'm not. And all the pleases and thankyous the Finnish people leave out. Not to forget swearing. Swearing in English is so much more fun than that boring and rough swearing in Finnish. Well, I can keep swearing in English all the same I think. Anyway, note I'm not speaking of two different personalities here. (I don't have mental health problems, at least not of that severe kind.) Of course deep down I'm exactly the same person, I just express myself slightly differently. I've got to know all these people in English so they only know my English side. I wonder if they'd like the Finnish one as much?

Whether my English has improved — I can't really speak for myself. I know it must have, though. You'd be a failure in case you spent half a year in an English speaking country and didn't improve your English. There is one thing I've noticed, which I assume can be labeled as an improvement. At first, if I wanted to say something the process was like this: What do I want to say? How am I going to say it? Say it. Now the process is more like this: What do I want to say? Say it. I no longer have to think.

On Monday I took a great risk. Or well, it wasn't really a risk since I had nothing to lose. I knew Bastille was playing at Concorde 2 in Brighton but for my great disillusion the gig was completely sold out and I couldn't find anyone selling tickets online or anything. The worst thing was I'd seen ticket's being on sale like two months ago but didn't buy one. (Yeah... why make life too easy?) I decided to go to Brighton anyway, just in case I got lucky. At least I'd hear the soundcheck if I got there early enough. So I stood there in front of the venue freezing to death. I stood there for a long time. There were all kinds of people coming and going in and out. Then I saw Dan, the man behind Bastille himself, coming out of a yellow tour bus with a bunch of other people. OMFG. He disappeared quite quickly. I continued waiting. I bet they all thought I was some psycho stalker standing there with my hood on waiting for my chance to strike but I didn't care, I was absolutely freezing. Then I saw Dan coming out again, shaking hands with a woman I assumed to be a journalist, and they both got in the bus. Then I met this lovely German girl who was also looking for a ticket. We stood there together now and I told her what I'd just seen. And that once he'd come out I would strike. Dajana, the German girl, promised to take a photo. And I did strike. I still can't believe it but I did. Just like that, totally cool, like no biggie. WHAT'S HAPPENED TO ME? I think the cold had gone to my head. It must have. He was the sweetest man on earth, no exaggeration. Just like a normal person and not a great artist. When I asked him if we could take a photo together he asked if it was alright they'd (they = Dan and Will, another band member) go do the soundcheck first and then come back out for the photo. It was all surreal for god's sake. We listened to the soundcheck outside jumping to the beat trying to feel our toes again. And they came back out — just for us. They were warm also physically, so thank you Dajana for it took you such a long time to find that camera phone, it was not a problem for me to wait at all! Take your time. And a bit more if you like. I've got their autographs now and a photo of us. We talked. Dan high-fived us!!! That was the best part — I've touched the hand of talent. Woah. And this whole story has a very happy ending, too. It seemed really really really desperate for a long time, nobody was selling tickets and the bloody posh kids kept flooding in chauffeured by their parents, but we both got in in the end. I bought the only spare ticket we could find (Dajana let me get the first ticket, what have I ever done to meet such good (or foolish) people?) and Dajana managed to get on the guest list so she didn't even have to pay. We spent the whole night taking turns telling each other how we couldn't believe we actually got in. The gig was awesome. I have a feeling (and so do all the music magazines btw) Bastille are going to be huge. And I can always say I've met them personally. And I made a new friend. So yeah, it was worth going to Brighton that night, I got a bit more than I ever hoped for.

Bastille - Overjoyed

People Of The Bus

Never has coming back from Brighton taken as long as it did the other day. It was rush hour and it was the clammiest bus ride, and by the time we reached my dear destination all the bus windows were fogged up by the breath of the people that were too many to fit in the bus at any rate. It was no double-decker but a normal one. I was sitting next to a young man, who was listening to music and reading a paperback at the same time. I've never seen the point of doing that, because you (or at least I) end up missing both — what you've just read and what you've just heard. And I can't read on the move anyway for it makes me feel sick. I'm a bit bitter because of that. Perhaps his only goal was looking cool. Which he pulled off quite well. There was an old lady eating a chocolate bar. One piece, after a couple of minutes another one. A man in his mid-thirties playing a game on his iPhone and by the way he sucked. And then his phone rang and he failed to answer and he had to call back. Fail. At least three people checking what's going on on Facebook. People coughing. People breathing. People fogging up the glass and some people wiping off the fog trying to figure out when would be the right time to hit the stop button. But Brighton itself was really nice, the weather was really nice, I was out wearing only my denim jacket. I mean not ONLY, I was wearing other things too to cover up other body parts. Don't picture me wearing just a denim jacket, please. I know, it's too late now. But I need that kind of days to cheer me up, to make me feel alive and kickin'. To make me want to absorb every last thing there is to be absorbed. The see and the sun and the streets. The Englishness? Especially the sun.

We have more staff now, three French students. For now they seem alright. However, now that I've said that they might turn out to be a nightmare. There are two things about French people that never fail to amaze me. Number one: no matter how pathetic, childish or hopeless a man is, or even if he is a complete twat, he is without an exception wearing cologne. Number two (and this is the last time I'll ask, putain de merde): is every fourth man seriously called Thomas? Yes, we've got another one. Last night I asked two of them how old they are, and after telling me they're 17 and 19 the 19-year-old smiled widely and said, clearly being very proud of his English skills: "I'm a big gay!"OK, everybody knows he meant guy but the French accent came badly on the way this time.

Right, I was wondering why it was getting a bit chilly in here cause it's been boiling hot in my room the last few days, but I found a logical explanation: my window was open. I'm such a Sherlock. It's less than four weeks now, folks, and I'm feeling fifty-fifty. I'm going to the town now. To study. I'm not posting music this time because I have huge trouble deciding what to post. Nothing seems to be spot on. Laterz!