Going to Helsinki

Keep an eye on your sandwich....

In over three decades of travel, I’ve been robbed twice. The first time was years ago, on the subway in Prague. (Never wear a fanny pack on the subway in Prague. Better yet, never wear a fanny pack.) The second happened last week, in Helsinki.

Every birthday, I wonder if this year will be the year I finally start to figure things out. Despite a year that had begun with great promise, I entered June, the month of a “big” birthday, with a ticking clock echoing in my ears. Having failed to figure much out in the first eleven months of being 59, June was my last chance. Fortunately, I have a late-month birthday.

I had high hopes for an early June cross-country drive from California to New Jersey with my younger son. Thinking I might figure anything out on a cross-country drive with a 23-year-old should be the dictionary definition of “optimist.” I marveled at the World’s Largest Truck Stop. I gazed at the World’s Tallest Thermometer. I enjoyed an unexpectedly excellent banh mi sandwich in Lincoln, Nebraska. I figured nothing out, except that the Venn diagram of my taste in music and my son’s consists of two circles with no overlap whatsoever.

But I still had a shot — a family vacation that began (after a brief stopover in Oslo) in Helsinki.

How to introduce Helsinki? Let’s begin with a multiple-choice question:

Name two destinations I’ve been vaguely aware of for much of my life but haven’t given much thought until recently.

Answer (choose one):

A.    Helsinki

B.     My sixties

C.     Both A and B

As with many things in life, there are no wrong answers. Essentially, they’re all “Helsinki” — and whether I was going to Helsinki (the place) or “Helsinki” (the euphemism), I was going.

Like most true-crime stories, mine began innocently enough. Embracing a brilliant blue, Scandinavian sky and a balmy (for Scandinavia) almost-summer’s day, our family opted on our first day to buy sandwiches in a local market for lunch. We’d dine al fresco on a bench in Helsinki’s stately Senate Square, then hike up the stairs (of which there are many) to visit the iconic Lutheran Cathedral.

That may have been our plan, but Helsinki’s criminal element had something else in mind. And unlike the Pickpocketing in Prague, the Heist in Helsinki wasn’t some stealthy affair. It was a full-throttled, tactical bombardment.

Step One (“The Swoop”) involved a flock of seagulls swooping a bit too close for comfort and investigating my lunch. Those gulls knew how to play me. They knew I’d caution my family, “Be careful, I think the gulls want your sandwiches.” They understood our family dynamic — the way I’d realize everyone else had already sized up the situation and kept their sandwiches under wraps as I blissfully opened mine. The way I’d think I could outwit the gulls by walking across the street to eat. The way I’d separate myself from my herd like a wounded heifer.

Those gulls knew exactly how to set me up for Step Two.

Step Two (“Get That Sandwich”) consisted of the aforementioned flock of seagulls (1) surrounding me in a raucous swarm of wings, (2) grabbing my perfectly crusted baguette stuffed with sweet Scandinavian shrimp and a touch of mayonnaise, and (3) mocking me with seagull laughter. All of which was followed by me yelping as I fled around the corner, where I cowered in a doorway until my older son found me, offered me half his sandwich, and kept watch on the skies while I devoured my lunch. [1]

A minute later (which is all it takes to eat a sandwich under these circumstances), I returned to the square, the embrace of my loving family, and a question:

“Why’d you throw your sandwich at that poor bird?”

My family’s version of events was radically different from mine. In their version, I’d been tentatively approached by a mama seagull and her family. The mama gull gently laid her wing upon my shoulder, told me she hadn’t eaten in minutes, and pleaded for a bite of my sandwich — at which point I battered her with my baguette and fled the scene of my crime.

I knew my family was trying to get me to shake it off. They could see I was upset, and not just about losing a perfectly good sandwich. I felt accosted by the Universe, as far from figuring anything out as I could possibly be. Even worse, my family had managed to find the funny in an unfunny situation — something that’s always been my job. Rational or not, standing in the square, watching the birds flip my shrimp down their gullets with gusto, I bemoaned the loss of my lunch — and my narrative. Et tu, Loving Family? Tu bet.

Desperate to put the whole thing behind me, I suggested we head to the Helsinki Art Museum so I could immerse myself in some calming art and a reassuringly bird-free indoor activity — only to find this waiting for me at the entrance:

I’d found my funny. Or, I should say, Helsinki handed it to me, a reminder that those seagulls were my muse. Muses don’t have to be pleasant to be inspiring. If you were to ask an oyster how it feels to have a grain of sand stuck in its [insert oyster body part here], I’m confident that oyster would have a few choice words to share — but it would share them while making a pearl. If it weren’t for the gulls, Helsinki would be just a place and my sixties would be just a bunch of numbers.

As Nora Ephron wrote, “When you slip on a banana peel, people laugh at you. But when you tell people you slipped on a banana peel, it's your laugh.” Those seagulls weren’t just my muse, they were my banana peel. And by sharing this story with you, I’ve claimed my laugh. Besides, why would I throw a perfectly crusted baguette stuffed with petite Scandinavian shrimp and a touch of mayo at a bird? Who would do such a thing?

I’m fortunate to have friends across the age spectrum. Plenty have already “gone to Helsinki,” and plenty have years before they go there. I suspect those who haven’t gone yet may not be ready to give it serious thought (as the Finns say, kun lehmät lentävät — “when cows fly”). Those who’ve gone already may read this essay, roll their eyes, and respond with a different euphemism such as, “You think ‘going to Helsinki’ is something? Wait till you ‘get to Vilnius.’”

A week or so after Helsinki, I actually did get to Vilnius (the place, not the euphemism). And on a well-beyond-balmy afternoon, I took a turn off the main artery that ambles through Vilnius’ Old Town, stepped into a cobblestoned alley, and found a message from the Universe waiting for me on a wall.

Solve you, dear Universe? Never. Critique your spelling? Not today. Try to understand you? Oh yes.

For everyone in my cohort who’s “going to Helsinki” this year — there are many — happy big birthday to us all. Find your muse. If you slip on a banana peel, write about it. And please keep an eye on your sandwich.

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[1] A brief aside — I loved the group A Flock of Seagulls decades before either Helsinki or my sixties was a blip on my radar. Their hit song, “I Ran (So Far Away)” has new meaning for me now. Because, I assure you, when those birds executed Step Two, I ran. I ran so far away.

On the flip side, this confirms the Universe has a sense of humor. When I saw A Flock of Seagulls back in 1982, they opened for the Go-Go’s. A few weeks ago, I “liked” something

Kathy Valentine

wrote on Substack for Oldster Magazine. She “liked” my note in return and invited me to be in the band she plans to lead when she’s ninety. That, my friends, is like going to Antarctica. I can’t wait.