Second Wind, Second Lives
Helsinki Dérive, Part Six
Monday’s order of business has been taking things easy, with Nancy being really under the weather and thus having to cancel a lunch meetup with her friends.
"Is it possible to look up COVID symptoms anonymously?"
"Who would care if you did that?"
"I don't know...someone."
"I don't think contact tracing is a thing anymore. Anyway, I just looked it up, and it looks like the flu."
Perhaps the biggest accomplishment of the day is doing a small load of laundry in the Airbnb's washing machine which felt like loading a small nuclear reactor with the European-style washing chamber, and hearing the damn thing spin and whine like the TARDIS for two hours while we napped. So far it’s been “ick for one,” and any fatigue or hints of a sore throat I’m actively quashing.
Last year I had attempted to do the wash at an Airbnb, and I'd been foiled by the very thorough "visitor's guide" that assumed that everyone knew to close that chamber before hitting "start." So far I've done laundry in Hove, Bergen, and Helsinki. I've cooked pasta in Edinburgh, Oslo, and Helsinki. I’ve yet to stay in a place that had a rice cooker and wok, otherwise a stir-fry would have been a nice overseas achievement to unlock.
The induction range on the countertop remains a mystery of minimalist controls design, and this apartment’s microwave is also a test of whether the operator “gets it.” Between the tofu paneer and pad thai we heated up the other night, I think we got it. The weirdly oversized refrigerator wheezes and squeaks like a family of asthmatic squirrels - I’ve been yelled at by those critters in the past, and the damn fridge sounds like its cousin in an iron lung. There’s one of those Dyson fans that look like a needle’s eye blown up to the size of a Star Wars domestic droid. Its constant whisper adds a layer of white noise to the other household signals.
One might be tempted to say that Monday was a wash, as the most we were able to accomplish was to hobble to a neighborhood second hand shop, get some Vietnamese food around the corner, and lament not being able to go to the sauna as we’d intended. We talked about the cruise ship horror stories one hears—catching a norovirus while on the high seas, toilets overrunning, the retrospective spin of a vacation from hell being a “bonding experience”—and decided that a) we’re on dry land and b) statistically for every ship of fools, there are many, many others conveying folks without issue.
I don’t think I’ve seen a single COVID test for sale here, even at the pharmacy. Back home the governors of California, Washington, Oregon, and Hawaii banded together like superheroes in a crisis to make this season’s vaccines available without a prescription. A quick search on Google shows that in Finland the jab is only available to those 75 and older or with some severe pre-existing conditions. That policy, a calculated one I’m guessing based on my understanding of Finnish governance, would trigger an outrage among folks I know, for whom the vaccine is life. Not sure how I personally feel about a land mine that’s also an inert frisbee, depending on where you live.
It seems that while the virus continues to evolve, some American anxieties remain firmly rooted in 2021, and even when traveling to the other side of the globe you drag some of those tangles with you.
A bit of breakfast, a dose of ibuprofen and cough syrup, and we’re headed to Espoo (NOT pronounced like “boo”) via Metro out of Kamppi and a bus at the city’s sports park. Nancy friend, the proprietor of the Mekkomania vintage boutique, recommended that she check out the “recycling center,” and while it might seem ill (haha) advised to venture out while under the weather, there’s more than a little bit of “If I’m well enough to walk around, I’ll be darned if I miss out on Second Hand Wonderland (my moniker, not anyone’s),” so here we are in a cavernous and brightly lit warehouse of things looking for a second or third life in someone’s home.
“Finland’s answer to Goodwill” would be a lazy comparison, but not an inaccurate one. The racks and rows of clothes, shelves of housewares, library shelves of CDs, movies, books, boulevards of sofas and couches (where I and other spouses lounge), and at least two walls of posters and wall decorations. I’d joked earlier about finding an electric bass for a 100 Euros that Nancy could practice on (and leave as a gift for the Airbnb), but no such luck, although a tacky Strat clone is available here for a 110 (I’ll pass). What’s notable and tempting is the shelf of Olivetti typewriters in a variety of 70’s colors, each less than 20 Euros and likely to fetch 10 times that among American aficionados. Again, pass. Too much trouble to haul even a compact unit home, not to mention the prospect of having it refurbished, let alone the hassle of selling it.
Nancy’s managed to find a radiantly green vintage mid-sleeved dress which would quite fetching on stage. I walked around with a copy of the 90’s Icelandic band, Bless’s album ‘Gums’ which I vaguely remember from the early 1990’s, which I eventually put back amongst the classical recordings, three copies of Duffy’s ‘Rockferry,’ boy bands who are struggling with middle age now, and loads of odd-end Finnish pop. CD’s cost 2 Euros, DVD’s are half that; the gross devaluation of yet another forgotten medium in the age of streaming? The paperback section is peppered with Stieg Larsson books, the girl who was a global sensation. As much as I’m compelled to make meaningful comparisons between the Finnish and American second-hand experience, at some point it all feels like listening to a harmonized duet of late capitalist buyer’s regret.
On the other hand, being able to type this out while borrowing a desk and task chair (both for under 30 Euros) is an irony and a blessing. We assign objects with meaning, so I wonder if furniture can absorb energies through contact and occupation (my high school chemistry teacher would likely say they can). What dreary work-from-home memos were drafted on this table? The next owner might inherit some of my low-key travelogue vibes. Nancy’s left her shopping basket with me while she goes to try one some of her finds. The “Kierrätyskeskus” printed on it seems less a word salad than a kebab skewer of letters, and that reminds me that I’m hungry. There’s a Subway in the next building, and we cruised past a Taco Bell and a Burger King on the bus. Getting a beef and bean burrito in the suburbs of Finland just because I can seems a gratuitous echo of the Bergen Whopper experience, so again I’ll pass.
Nancy asks for my thoughts on the green dress she photographed in the dressing room—it’s as groovy as it looks on a hanger. She’s picked out a similarly delicious zippered top, and I realize that my inventory of women’s clothing vocabulary is sorely lacking. Those two pieces, each around 20 Euros, would easily cost ten times that on Etsy, I’m going to guess, so there is that “home field advantage” for finding Nordic sartorial funk in Finland. Still, passing on those Olivettis aches a bit as we check out and board the bus that takes us to the Metro back to Kamppi, where a delightful lunch awaits at a random discovery, Yeastie Boi, along with the obligatory visit to the Moomin Shop.