“There comes a time in every woman’s life where the only thing that helps is a glass of champagne” said Bette Davis. I must point out that those times also need a comfortable chair and girl talk.
(Champagne Bar at Stockmann, Helsinki, Finland; May 2015)
At 15 it is a privilege to be invited to come along. At 35 it is a privilege to not invite anybody to come along. And sometimes, just sometimes, there are friends with whom it is possible to share a moment and at the same time have room for oneself, too. 
(Långvik Spa, Kirkkonummi, Finland; March 2015)
For centuries we Finns were born in the sauna, and it was there that we entered the next world, too. In the meantime we cleansed, meditated, and nursed a cold in the same little hot room.
Today it is intended for us to be born and die in a hospital. We are not nursed by shamans but we still nurse our colds in the sauna. We may not believe in midsummer magic but we still bring leafy fragrant birch branches into the hotness. We may buy our beer in the store but we still store it either in the sea or lake or in the cold water bucket on the sauna floor.
And we city-dwellers may not have access to a sauna by the lake or sea every weekend (unless we flee to our summer houses). But each and every apartment building in this country has a sauna, and many apartments in them, as well. There is no living without a sauna, not even today. Not even for me.
On a Friday night, kindly do not offer me a night out in town. Rather allow me to enjoy the last condo sauna slot of the evening. A companion and a cold cider, or a book and just me. Delicious hotness seeping into the bones. Then slowly inching into the cool pool and a few laps, listening to the water splashing against the rim. Finally more heat until the muscles let go of whatever they were worried about.
Is there such a thing as a collective soul of a people? If there is an ancient, cultural core that is still alive, the sauna would be the vehicle that takes us Finns to that ancient source. Not understanding why we love the heat and the cold shocks, or why we bat each other with birch twig bunches, perhaps we are connecting to the consciousness of that ancient people who speak a language almost nobody understands, and whose geographic roots are shrouded in mystery?
As I twiddled my toes in the turquoise pool water, I could not help but wonder how tightly cultural heritage is entwined into our DNA. From lake water into pool water – into something else, will we still have saunas 200 years from now?
(Helsinki, Finland: March 2015)
There were white surfaces, and light wooden floors. Clean edges and no frills. There were practical tables, durable chairs, and simple lighting. And it was all so Finnish we did not think it was all too marvelous. We shrugged; of course the home we grew up in had several Savoy vases. Of course we ate our kindergarten lunches on the Stool 60 and the table with L-shaped legs. They were designed by a Finn to be used by Finns.
And so it was difficult to set our minds on the wavelength of quiet reverence of the American party that joined us on our tour of Alvar Aalto’s home. What did they see that we did not? I washed my thoughts with images of American homes, focused really hard, and stared squinting at the Tank chair. After some effort I began to catch glimpses of how different the zebra upholstery and the simple curved frame was from everything that was ordinary across the Atlantic. How our fellow tourists saw the boxy, minimalistic shape of the house so extraordinary, and how everything Aalto is both Finnish and resonates so with the Japanese. I blinked – and the magic was broken. I was back in a room that felt homely and familiar.
Aalto is wired into our cultural inheritance, and it surfaces with symptoms of inherited blindness for things others consider singular. Things we consider for granted others collect as design items.
As I stepped back out into the bleary January Saturday I wondered how much we could learn about ourselves if we could only step out of our own cultural contexts? And how much more beautiful and wonder-full the world would suddenly become?
(Alvar Aalto house, Helsinki, Finland; January 2015)
There it is, standing nonchalantly on my kitchen counter. Disregarding the clutter and the snow outside, this Cycas revoluta proudly stands as a messenger from 250 millions years ago. Yes, before the dinosaurs. What a joke, then, that I bought it at Ikea, that paragon for modernity and human everyday life, instead of a specialty garden shop offering a more worthy handling.
People go gaga for cycads. Some feel the presence of dinosaurs, others a cosmic connection, and many are fascinated by its botanical secrets. And then there are those who make money in cycad trafficking.
Yes, cycad trafficking. Indeed. Just like tortoise trafficking, or ivory trafficking. There are those who go to great lengths to smuggle rare, CITES-protected cycads, in order to cash in thousands per plant. Not only botanists collect cycads, but also celebrities wishing to build a world-traveled, connoisseur image of themselves.
Even some botanists have faced jailtime. “Botanists in jail?!” you may ask. Indeed, botanists are usually not associated with rogue behavior. But there is something about the cycads. Is it persistence from the Permian age, regardless of herbivorous dinosaurs, ice age, and pollution? Is it in the palm-resembling looks of a plant that is closer related to the spruces and pines of our time? For me, cycads have been magical ever since the age of five when I went gaga over dinosaurs and the Jurassic age. The fascination was reinforced when I read Cycad Island by Oliver Sacks in my early twenties.
And so I carefully place my little cycad on my windowsill, sending it a silent thought to produce at least that one expected leaf per year. Perhaps it will befriend my bonsai trees and decide it, too, is here to stay.
(Helsinki, Finland; December 2014)
We packed our bags and presents and cats and groceries and headed for a christmas in the country, for the very first time. Christmas is probably the least probable time of the year when we find ourselves thinking of change. Yet it is change my thoughts unwillingly return to each year, and the reminder of how much I was against the changes that shaped our christmas from a beloved tradition to a glove that just does not fit.
Traditions are not meant to be broken, but sometimes life goes on and old ways cling to us desperately like the last leaves on winter-bare trees. Sometimes a shrug and a shake may be a better way. Sometimes a sparse arrangement of the most precious baubles and garlands and angels is better than a tree so covered in tinsel one barely sees the branches underneath. Even if it seems like traditions can be set in stone, they all have had to flex through time to stay on board. Sometimes it is time to gently nudge them into new grooves and discover how surprisingly smooth this can be, and how welcome the end result.
(Loviisa, Finland; December 2014)
And then, just like that, it was Sunday and we were strolling the streets of Chelsea. Escaping the throngs of shoppers we slipped into Bluebird, savoring the chance to sit outside just a few days away from November. Among the pumpkins and haystacks we dug into huge heaps of fish and chips, swearing it was going to be the first and last time that week.
And then, just like that, we found ourselves in the old borough town hall and a vintage fashion fair. Oh, there was lace, crinoline, and plumes. Heaps of hats and stacks of ballroom shoes. Dear me, the evening gowns from the turn of the century and flapper dresses from the roaring twenties!
There were silver hairbrush and mirror sets, pearled purses, and butterflies, both on display and in our bellies. And fashionistas, film stylists, and nostalgia lovers going gaga among sequins and tassels and veil-thin organza. Oh if only that gorgeous opera cape in night blue velvet and silver trimmings could be mine…
(Frock Me! Vintage fashion fair in Chelsea, London, UK; October 2014)
Starry warm August nights are best enjoyed outside reading a good book in the light of a storm lamp.
(Stories from Crete coming up…)
Last year was quite the drama at Small Ships’ Race. Boats capsized in the wind and it was truly a game for only those who knew how to sail. This year was just another beautiful blue warm breezy summer day. Perfect for a leisurely game followed by a party on the landing. Once again I marveled at the ability of small town folk to dance, jump, and kiss like they were unknown to everybody – until the next day when the rumors began to gain color and momentum.
In a small town like Loviisa one’s business is everyone’s business. Except for the strawberries and cava in the orchard – only ours to enjoy!
(Loviisa, Finland; July 2014)
Sometimes it is impossible to find the time to explore new places. Land, cab ride, two days of meetings in a hotel, another cab ride, and back in the air again. But even then it is possible to sneak outside to stand in the spring sun, if just for five minutes, and to enjoy the forsythias, magnolias, and cherry blossoms. Frankfurt I heard your old town is gorgeous. I had no idea – and still don’t. Please keep it gorgeous until I return?
And sometimes a darling mother drops by with her own key, leaves a huge pot of yellow daffodils on the balcony right behind the door, and places an order for sunshine for the next day. Spring arrived at home, as well.
(Frankfurt, Germany; and Helsinki, Finland; March 2014)
This blue marble 