Helsinki, Finland: A Typical Nordic capital

The Gulf of Finland has a way of casting miserable haze over everything (as I found in St. Petersburg) but grey and rain didn’t suppress my spirits as I was meeting back up with Mommy, Daddy and Sister after 4 months of Moscow.
Helsinki is more or less what I pictured a Nordic capital to be. I’ve seen plenty of pictures of Reykjavik, Iceland and either it took a page out of the Finnish book or the other way around. The weather cleared up the next day and so we were off to walk around the city and to see what architectural or cultural wonders there were to see.
Pretty people have a way of deflecting attention away from humbler looking folk- unfair but true- so that accurate estimations of the ratio of pretty-to-ugly people are impossible to make. There were so many pretty people in Finland, all with bright blonde hair, fair complexions, and blue eyes; it was practically everyone! I remember thinking the same thing about Moscow until I decided to empirically determine the prettiness level by counting the interval between pretty people on the metro escalator. It was about 10% pretty, 1 and 10 people, which I reckon is about average. Now, I wonder if I’d count on someone’s pretty list ☹
Anyway, we were in a hotel room that looked over a school playground so the sounds and screams of recess came in through the window. I observed, once again, that kids are the same everywhere even if they speak Finnish.
Helsinki is full of nice parks and green space but lacks adequate litter legislation and/or trashcans because there was as much garbage on the ground as there was grass. It was a holiday weekend though, so I’ll give the Finns the benefit of the doubt. The tulips and flowering weeds had hatched in a multicolored array of flare. Late May is idyllic in these far northern climes.
There is a nice waterfront with old wooden dinghies docked. Weathered looking women sell fresh herring from the deck. We went inside an old market that is now set up for tourists. They sold lots of fish.
Finnish food is like other Nordic cuisine, which is to say that it is heavy on salted fish. But, it also takes a lot from the Russian culinary tradition with heaps of bland earthy vegetables, tasteless dairy products and fatty meats. Reindeer steak was perhaps the only uniquely Finnish dish I encountered.
One night we ate at a Finnish restaurant where dad ordered the “Russian appetizer.” Salted pork fat (сало, really Ukrainian I think), pickles, green onion, and an ice-cold shot of vodka. I had a similar plate at my friend Alisa’s flat in Moscow. It was funny to see my dad assimilating.
Helsinki is a quiet town and not much goes on there. It has an artsy streak, typical of most cities of a certain size. Frankly though, I wouldn’t make it a destination. To be fair, I didn’t get out too much because the family was jet-lagged and no one really wanted to do a whole lot. Still though, I didn’t get the sense that it would be the kind of place where I could adventure endlessly, spend many drunken nights, or ride bikes for hours. Maybe I just didn’t have the best time; go see for yourself.

The best local beer: Karhu III

Paris

Paris is like one of those people who you see from afar and who you just know you don’t like. He runs with that other crowd: you have friends in that crowd and occasionally there is some fraternizing between your crowd and that crowd because, you know, they like some of the same stuff. But this guy, he’s always outgoing with everyone until you come around and then he starts acting standoffish. Geez, what’s his problem?
One time he ends up hanging out with you because sometimes the social die is cast that way. At first you’re thinking “oh God, not Paris, he’s annoying as hell.” But, after a while you bow down before convention and introduce yourself even though he already knows who you are and you know who he is. With all of your prejudice stacked against him you painstakingly initiate conversation. To your complete surprise, he chats right back and the chip that you you’d seen carved deep into his shoulder suddenly disappears and all preconceived notions dissipate. Now you’re buds, hooray!
That’s a bit like how my friendship with the French capital developed. I thought it’d be lame and touristy, and it was. But, there was some Parisian magic that lightened my heart and made me admit that Paris was an okay city.
Max and I arrived mid-afternoon and immediately found a free parking space right next to the Louvre. I had to go find a clinic to get my Hepatitis A and Typhoid vaccinations. Immunization complete; I’m invincible.
I’d booked two spots in a co-ed room at some hostel in the boondocks. Well, Paris doesn’t really have boondocks, but it was on the southern edge in a predominantly Korean neighborhood. The hostel was called Namdemun Guesthouse and they served free Korean food for dinner (included in the 28 euros a night). Not a bad deal. There was a “Free Mumia Abu-Jamal” poster hanging outside and I’m a big fan of Live from Death Row.
My friend Rosalia happened to be in Paris too so I met up with her and some of her friends under the Eiffel tower. Unfortunately, she was back to her home in Spain the next day so our reunion was brief.
Afterwards we happened to run into several of the folk who were staying at our hostel. They invited us to a bar and so we forgot our fatigue and stayed up late drinking with our new friends.
The next morning over a Korean breakfast I met a nice Japanese girl (whose name I still can’t remember) and I invited her to come ride bikes with us. Paris has a bike-loan system where you can take bikes from hubs located all over the city. The first half hour is free and new bikes can be checked out almost immediately after turning in the old one. So, every thirty minutes we’d park our bikes and then grab another set for the next half hour. The bikes were a bit cumbersome and weren’t so good for doing wheelies on, but they handled all right. I managed to cover most of the tourist areas without being hit by a car once!
There were loads of young folk staying at our hostel and I quickly made friends with lots of them. After riding bikes I met up with a girl from New Zealand who had just recently completed a tour through the Balkans. She said Bosnia was great, so it’s on my itinerary now of course. I invited her, a girl from Seattle, and a girl from North Carolina (with a heavy Southern accent) to come back to the Eiffel tower with us that night.
I’d forgotten my metro tickets in another pair of pants so I was forced to jump the turnstile, which isn’t such a big deal because they rarely check tickets. Ha! Just my luck that we walked right into a ticket checkpoint where I was fined 25 euros. Maybe I deserved it, but Max entered legally and threw away his ticket so he was fined too.
In Moscow when you jump the turnstile it plays a little melody and an old woman blows a whistle at you (or sometimes just smiles). Occasionally there are police stationed to look out for turnstile jumpers, but they just turn you around and make you buy a ticket. I was mad about the 25 euros, but that’s the price we pay for legalism. So be it.
Anyway, we got to the Eiffel tower and only Max, our new Japanese friend, and I wanted to go up. The others sat drinking overpriced beer in the park.
The Eiffel tower is a good deal higher than I expected. It’s almost as high as the Empire State Building. Yeah, I know that the Empire State Building isn’t really that tall compared to more modern buildings like the Burj Khalifa, but it’s still an amazing view. Likewise, the Eiffel tower was a good vantage point from which to overlook my new city.
The morning of my departure I met two Israeli guys, one Russian born. We chatted about the Netanyahu administration and Palestine. They had an interesting take on current events- decidedly pro-Israel- but they were really nice guys. You know, there’s a lot more to people than their politics.
I had time to kill before my flight so Max and I went to an outdoor market in some Parisian neighborhood off the beaten track. I bought a baguette and some goat cheese for lunch. All week I’d been finding delicious fresh produce, especially good nectarines. But, the market produce was mediocre- nectarines hard as knee caps.
We sat in traffic a while on the way to Charles De Gaulle International Airport and when I got there I was too early to check in. I bought some overpriced orange juice so that I could sit in a restaurant and I started to write.
The time came and I walked to my terminal. Security screening was uneventful. I sat in the handicap chair at my gate which elicited some glances, but I would have gotten up for an invalid..duh. The room was a bit warm from the sun poring in- the greenhouse effect, you know- and my feet were aching from my new shoes.
The flight was open seating so I ended up being stuck behind a huge group of Finnish high-school kids. Not that I mind high-school kids, I’m not so far removed. But, sometimes you get some young bucks trying to impress the girls and sometimes they need to be knocked down a rung. There was an especially rambunctious kid sitting in front of me who kept messing with the girls in front of him and being goofy. No big deal, just kids like me having fun. But then he started banging his armrest up and down and it was making this obnoxious squawking noise. Everyone was giving him looks but he kept on going: squeak, squawk, squeek, squawk for a good twenty seconds. So, finally I looked fear in the face and, risking derision, tapped him on the shoulder and said “could you cut that out please.” The girl sitting next to me gave a big smile and thumbs up. Yep, fighting tyranny big and small wherever I go.

France: Maxime's house

On the way from Dijon to Paris I stayed at my friend Max’s farm. Max and I were roommates in Moscow and since I was passing through his home country I figured I’d come say hello. The farm was called Saitainville, pronounced like “Centerville,” and is about two hours south of Paris.
The farm is out in the middle of a field. The closest neighbor is over 1 kilometer away. The house is within a compound with high barns and storage buildings making the walls, and a graveled courtyard in the middle.
When we drove up to open the gate, two dogs- a spaniel and labby mutt- ran up. Max’s dad came out to greet us, giving Max the customary French double-cheek kisses and shaking my hand. I asked him “where the hell are my kisses?” just kidding. His palms were calloused and a few of his nails were blackened with blood blisters where they had been smashed. Real farmer’s hands.
Max’s dad was animated and he talked happily to me in French, though I didn’t understand a word.
I’m still getting used to kissing strangers, but Mrs. LeComte radiated some maternal energy that made the cheek-pecks a filial duty.
They gave me a tour of the farm and I was given Max’s sister’s room for the night. The décor of the house was French hodge-podge eclectic. Lots of upholstery and furniture from the 1970’s mixed with some classic French design and a few hand carved armoires that must be family relics.
Max’s brother, Camille, had the same animated expression as his father. He was anxious to exercise his English, which is just marginally better than my French but not as good as my Russian (to give you an idea). Camille was a goofball.
Mrs. Lecomte keeps a big garden in the back and- just my luck- all of my favorites were in full fecundity! Three cherry trees had dark red ovaries dangling like ornaments. His Mom had already picked the strawberries, which were sweetened by the unseasonably dry weather that the region has had. The apples, pears and apricots weren’t bearing yet, but that was no loss.
We had “French barbeque” for dinner, which means four courses with two wines, plus the before dinner chips and drink.
So we started in the living room with a special liquor from the south flavored with anise seed- a bit like absinthe. To the kitchen for a garden grown salad and goat cheese on toast. Then came the barbecue that we’d cooked earlier over this little forge: pork and beef sausage, shish-kebab and pork chops. A plate of French cheeses and finally a cherry cobbler with strawberries and cream- all from the garden. We drank rose wine with all of it, which Max told me is customary.
The next morning we left for Paris where the streets are bumpy.

Another word on Russian corruption

If one has the financial resources, then freedom of action is nearly limitless in Russia. It is a country of libertines; there is no moral mortar to bind people to the law.
That is not to say that Russians are immoral or amoral, just that the law, the state, and the government has no moral authority in the eyes of the folks on whose back it stands. In the United States we typically think of our laws as just because they generally reflect popular opinion and are written by freely elected representatives. People usually try to follow the law, however unpopular or antiquated, if not just to avoid the legal repercussions.
The problem in Russia is that no law has moral authority, even the ones that should (and few have legal authority). Laws designed to protect have been muddled with laws that are little more than red tape so that the moral considerations given to breaking either are the same.
A friend of mine totaled his car driving drunk. On paper, driving drunk results in the loss of one’s driver’s license and a hefty fine. My friend got off paying the police 10,000 rubles (about $350).
But, it’s not my friend’s duty to uphold the law. The fact that the police were willing to overlook a drunk driver who was obviously endangering any hapless pedestrian who he may have passed shows that the law has no moral weight for those tasked to enforce it (let alone legal weight).
This mindset was explained to me by an acquaintance of mine:
“When I was studying in Europe, they didn’t understand my mindset. I want to party and have fun but they were always like ‘no, that’s against the law.’ Europe is the worst, then America. In Russia we don’t care whether it’s against the law. A lot of people talk about the bad things in Russia but I can ride my motorcycle at 200km/h and if the police stop me I just slip them a few hundred rubles and I’m off.”
I’m quoting from memory, but it went something like that.

Of course, this is not every Russian’s mindset. Most abhor the lawlessness and want things to change but don’t know where to start.
What is the root of the problem?
The offenders? One can’t be expected to volunteer for punishment. If the legal environment is such that jail time or large fines can be avoided by paying a relatively small bribe, then who wouldn’t pay?
Are the police at fault? Partly. People have to eat and that is difficult to do on the pittance of a wage that Russian police earn. Unless an officer engages in entrepreneurial law enforcement there is no way he can own a car, live in a decent flat or provide much of an upbringing for his children. There is virtually no punishment for soliciting bribes but there is everything to lose for opposing corruption or speaking out against one’s fellow officers.
The problem is the wider legal and political culture. The Russian government is rotten through and through, with officials at the highest levels actively reinforcing the good ol’ boy structure whereby the country is ruled by oligarchs and low level bureaucrats are given free reign as profiteers.
I’m afraid that things will only change with the death of the older generation. Politicians are still caught in what Solzhenitsyn described as the thief’s mindset: “you today, me tomorrow.” Today I will do whatever I need and screw whomever stands in my path to reap the short-term benefit. Tomorrow, the same will be done to me. Until this thief mindset is purged from Russian political thought, bacterial corruption will continue to fester in the wounds of the country.