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!

But I've Got To Be Unconditionally Unafraid Of My Days Without You

"It's weird to hear someone talking with an English accent", said one old lady at breakfast after I'd said good morning. "Cause everyone's here got an accent, you're the only one!" By accent, in case some of you didn't get it (not to underestimate you, dear readers) she meant a foreign accent such as French or Polish. I think she thinks I'm English. Which is quite flattering. However, I've got used to it happening by this time and it doesn't feel like such an achievement any longer. A couple of years ago my head would've got so big it might have popped. The funny thing is there are two REAL English people working in the restaurant, so what about them if I'm "the only one"? Well I guess my keep-calm-and-fake-a-british-accent attitude has paid off. And then there's this big man, he's a regular customer, and I swear to you that soon I'm not going to serve him the breakfast he wants anymore for it's simply not good for him! He eats far too much and far too unhealthy. I feel so sad for him. He walks in, helps himself to three glasses of tomato juice from the buffet, and then sits down. Every time he orders tea, white toast, and a full English breakfast with two fried eggs, two bacons, and two sausages. He leaves behind around eight butter wraps and a good pile of empty white sugars. Oh and he has jam, too. A nice way to start the day? Nice, light breakfast.

So, tomorrow it's been exactly six months. SIX MONTHS? Half a year. Do you understand, that's like half of a whole year! I. Don't. How did the time go so fast? I remember a conversation by the Splash Point one night in September. It was about this, it was about time flying, time being like a snap of the fingers. It was about enjoying things while they're still there, and realising they're there before they're gone. I'm sorry if you're tired of hearing the same old story about not understanding how the time goes  — I would be — I've most likely written about it in every single of my posts, but it is really confusing and very distressing. You don't think about it at home, when you're leading a normal life and doing the things you do every day. Days go by, usually without any great landmarks. You have to go through something like this in order to understand what it's like. Something that requires counting down your days.

Some might think I'm mad. I'm still in England, and I've already booked my next trip to England. Well, it makes it a bit easier to leave. I love this country, you know that. I don't know how I'm going to be able to not live here anymore! Suddenly, I can't just go to the pier. Or to Tesco. Or what's worse, to the pub. I can't take a bus to Brighton. I can't just hop on a train and hop off in London in less than two hours. And how on earth can I buy anything without saying please??? (We don't have that word in Finnish I'm afraid, embarrassing but true, I'm gonna have to find another way to be polite.) But in July I'm going to this festival in Lewes, it's called The Gentlemen Of The Road. I'm super excited to finally get to see Johnny Flynn play live. And to see Mumford & Sons and Mystery Jets for the second time! And I've always wanted to go to a music festival in England, yay! If possible, I'll stay at the Chatsworth. It will be nice to see what Worthing is like in the summer, for I've been cursing a little over staying for 7 months and living through all the seasons except the best one. Good timing I had.

Yeah, this is just a little post I thought I'd write, now some beautiful tunes to end with!

KT Tunstall - Throw Me A Rope

Wildest Moments

A while ago, on my way back from the grocery I saw a couple making out in a telephone box. That was the moment I was convinced it's finally spring time. It was so warm outside! It was like Finland in April when April is at its best, and considering it was still February it was pretty nice. I'm sure it will be very nice in April! However, it got colder again, while Yago and I had escaped the little winter to Lisbon. There it was like Finland in June, with the occasional cold downpours, of course. We were like some bloody English tourists there, passing people on the left hand side, the wrong side. (OK well not exactly, thanks to Yago's language skills.) It's also a miracle neither of us got hit by a car. And excuse me, but what is this coin too flat to be a coin in my hand? Oh, 2 euros. I remember how weird pounds used to feel like, and how it took me ages to learn which coin was which cause the sizes don't make any sense. Now euros felt like distant friends — I knew you well once but I don't know you anymore. And going "home" to England was an interesting experience. Something I've always wanted to do at least once. Oh, forgot to mention! If you ever go to Lisbon, stay in a hostel called Rossio. It was brilliant, absolutely nothing to complain about. I could almost go back to that city just to stay there.

I cannot believe it's only been a week since Jatta left. I've had too many shifts and too much on my mind. Plus I'm back where I started from: I'm the only Finn. And in just another week I'll basically be playing stoppage time. See, I'm so athletic I'm using a football term. Actually, I did go running last Saturday! But mostly to preserve my mental health rather than my physical health. It's the only reason I ever do any sports. I'm probably unconsciously stressing about leaving more than I've allowed myself to think. I think I haven't really understood I'm actually going to pack all my stuff (should be interesting, totally looking forward to that), hand in my keys, say goodbye and go. Like, that was it. It will never be it. This whole experience is something I'll always have and nobody can ever take it away from me. I'm grateful for both the greatest and the worst moments, I would do it all over again. What I'm most amazed by is how did I ever have the courage to do this at all? I'm not a brave person, I'm not! For the first time I started to think in weeks instead of months, and that's what really got to me. Six weeks. Which my mind chops into three and three, and three weeks is a ridiculously short time. Then I got stuck on the idea of six weeks, and today I realised it's not six weeks anymore, it's five. Or five and a half. Either way, time keeps passing by. Alright, this got all cheesy now but it's true. I was surprised when a couple of days ago I caught myself thinking that maybe, MAYBE, it might be nice to gradually go back. It may have been because they're making me work my arse off this week, though, and I was just not in the mood. But now stop! I'm still here.

If I desire to start uni next autumn, and I do, I need to start studying for my entrance examination. Entrance examination. Even the term itself is so dull it makes me not want to do it. All along I've known this is coming, but it doesn't make it any easier. I mean, if opening the book to get started is difficult even normally, imagine after a year! Sometimes I've wondered why am I leaving England to study English in Finland, but I feel like studying in my hometown is the right thing to do at the moment. And I can always go on exchange! (It's compulsory at some point during your studies, what a shame...) I have to read short stories, linguistics, and something else, grammar and stuff. I've read one of the short stories now. It's going to be alright though, I'll only be working three days a week so even in order to not get bored I'll have to study. I hope.

Jessie Ware - Wildest Moments