Wings & Hearts

At nearly seven hundred hours on a Monday morning, a train from Oulu to Helsinki isn’t nearly packed - far from it. At nearly seven hundred hours on a Monday morning, a train from Oulu to Helsinki looks like a ghost town, even in the last month of summer when people living in near-Lapland would normally be using the rest of their vacation days to be visiting the shore. At nearly seven hundred on a Monday morning, a train from Oulu to Helsinki had a smattering of people in each compartment - businessmen prepared for a long trip from home to sell their earnest wares or services, clutching briefcases which were anything but and looking forlorn, and those who were expediting themselves from their home, who’s reasons varied but expressions remained the same.

I wore that expression myself, I was certain - slightly pained to be permanently abandoning my home of nineteen years, but excited and anxious to begin the next chapter of my life somewhere new, somewhere where the people didn’t have a preconceived notion of Sinikka Helle Lotjonen based solely on my crazed family.

A few waves were all I afforded my parents, who wore black on the platform as if they were in mourning, before I settled into a seat on the opposite side of the train, away from their prying glances where I could open the window and burn a pack of cigarettes or so. The quilted duffel I had clutched so gravely was slung into the seat beside me to keep any strange businessman from trapping me in the seat for the entirety of the six-hour trip. Stranger things had happened on longer train trips, and I was not willing to take the chance. A stewardess brought me an ashtray and a small glass of water; I tried to be cordial and thank her, but most people on the train looked as if they would just like to be far, far away from the strangely dressed girl.

For some reason, the polo’s, chinos and topsiders which had been the norm on a summer-long trip to Southampton were frowned upon in Finland; WASP preppy simply wasn’t coming in as well as I would have hoped. Pioneers were martyrs in their own sense of the word, and I had always just counted myself in to the former category. Besides, the thought of nasty Metallica t-shirts or Flashdance gear was enough to make me quake right down to my white Keds. Give me classic any day. The style suited the delicate Finnish features I had inherited from my mother - light grey eyes, stick-straight blond hair

A cigarette touched itself to my lips - I had packed and opened the package, selected a lucky, and pulled my hand up to my mouth with a cancer stick without even noticing. Damn. I had never intended to become addicted to nicotine, I thought, just a habitual smoker. But as time went on, I found it more and more difficult to escape my parent’s condescending notice of my habit, and now shit like this happened. I sighed as I dug for the lighter I knew I had packed in the duffel, and fired the cigarette to life, letting the smoke and tar fill my lungs.

Somewhere between Tampere and Helsinki (between an ABBA cassette and a Billy Idol cassette) I had fallen asleep, among the dour businessmen and expats smoking out their windows. I lit another fag and suppressed a sigh, noting that the train would soon pull into Helsinki Central Railway Station. I pulled the duffel bag into my lap from the seat beside me and began packing things away inside it - the walkman, the cassettes, the enormous, boring book, which was my secret sleep-inducing weapon on long trips.

The train ground slowly to a halt beside the platform; I watched as people filed out of my compartment and struggled with my extensive amount of luggage as they watched, a cigarette dangled precariously from my lips, the ash at its end growing ridiculously long.

“My little sister, smoking Marlboro’s? I thought I’d never see the day,” I spun on the spot and nearly dropped said fag down the front of my shirt as I leapt down the narrow aisle of the train toward my brother.

“Paavsi, veli!” I nearly tackled his stout frame to the ground with my embrace, both of us grinned broadly as we embraced - I kissed each of his cheeks twice and he did the same. “I’ve missed you!” He had gotten thicker, he had said something about working out to offset the effects of beer on his belly, and his usually messy brown hair had been cropped short sometime during his absence, but my brother’s soft brown eyes were still the same.

“As have I - I never thought I’d miss you growing up,” Paavo laughed, easily pulling down the two thick suitcases I had battled so violently from the overhead.

“Since when are cigarettes a sign of adulthood?” I reached over to crush the cig out in the nearest ashtray and proceeded off the train after Paavo. “So where to now?”

“The limousine, of course! Can’t you see it waiting there?”

“I’m afraid not, must be around the corner.”

“Nah, Sini, its right there, down those stairs. Biggest fucking limo I’ve ever seen - it’s so bit its segmented! It‘s got to be underground because it won‘t even fit on the fucking streets!” I laughed uproariously and reached to take the smaller piece of luggage (a duffel bag) from his straining hands to allow him to set the enormous square piece on its wheels. “Alright, let’s go.”

The Metro wasn’t as bad as everyone in Oulu had described it; even with two large bags, Paavo and I managed just fine (read: didn’t get pick pocketed or lost or stuck) and emerged on the surface in Kallio - a quaint residential district in the heart of Hel where the flat was. My new home was part of a big, Medieval-looking building, with a tall red brick facade and an intimidating iron-barred door. Paavo had once told me that it was once a warehouse, but had been reclaimed by the district a hell of a long time ago, as if the district was its own fucking entity. I laughed as I waited for him to find his keys, sparks from my lighter brought another cigarette into being - preparation for the long flight of stairs ahead. The bad thing about Hel; stairs, stairs, stairs. Not a single fucking elevator to be found!

I was barely clinging to life by the time we reached our floor - the fucking fifth floor! Five whole flights of stairs! Or was it four? I felt like I could literally reach into my chest and pull out a pair of tar-blackened lungs and probably not miss a breath.

“Maybe you should quit smoking,” Paavo quipped as he rolled my luggage to a stop in the single unclaimed bedroom - mine.

“Maybe you should quit breathing.” I shot back… actually, it was more of a wheeze, but I meant it to be a shot. My brother simply shrugged and left me to catch my breath and begin the unpacking phase. He knew how anal I was about my stuff, and therefore didn’t even ask to help for fear of being assigned the task of color-coding my underwear and sock drawer or something to that effect.

Aside from its messiness - a situation I could easily remedy in a weekend - the apartment was very nice. It had come with its furnishings, old oak pieces that gleamed as if freshly polished, which matched the worn-looking mahogany floor. Simply beautiful, I thought, as I prepared to contend with dressing the bed. Paavo hadn’t warned me it would be a fucking four-poster, and now I would have to somehow acquire hanging curtains to match the damned sheets. What am I, superwoman?

After my room was organized to perfection and the pieces of luggage slid securely beneath the bed I proceeded to the balcony, fags and a glass tumbler in hand.

“What ’cha doing?” I asked of my brother, who was reclined on the floor of the furniture-less balcony; a balcony that had a beautiful view of the Helsinki skyline.

“Relaxing.”

“Oh, yeah?” I watched as he filled his glass to the quarter mark before he slammed it back, refilled it once and repeated the motion before he filled it one last time. This drinking thing was a hassle - as soon as one thought they had a handle on how much they could actually drink, they push the bar too far. Which was why I usually preferred to watch unless the stuff actually tasted good - I hadn’t informed Paavo yet, but White Russians were about the only things I would drink.

“That’s my girl.” Paavo cuffed my shoulder as I sat beside him, taking in the view of Helsinki through the iron bars of the balcony.

“What a pretty city,” I wondered aloud, exhaling pure smoke. “But really, Paavo, three beards? Can’t you pick just one and stick to it? I’d suggest the middle one, by the way.” I swigged my drink. “If you left one of the side ones you’d just look dumb.”

“Aren’t you so fucking funny. Makes me regret the Chinese I ordered for you.” My eyes widened in surprise. Chinese food was about my favorite thing ever, it was fantastic.

“No. Chicken Lo Mein and Sweet and Sour Chicken?” Paavo grinned impishly. “And Egg Drop soup and those little baby corns?” I illustrated the size of the baby corns with the cigarette in my left hand, and Paavo burst into laughter.

“Yes!”

“My favoritest brother ever!” I exclaimed, throwing my arms around him before I propelled myself to the couch to stand watch for the delivery. Paavo’s collection of movies, stacked high in disorderly piles on either side of the television caught my eye - I carried my favorite blue and white china ashtray over and set it on the corner of the table the television was perched on and began organizing them alphabetically.

I was all the way into the P’s (deep P’s too, like Poltergeist), and quite disgusted with how many porno’s my brother owned (I sorted those separately from the rest) when a knock came at the door. I bounded to my feet, and managed to beat Paavo to the door by a nanosecond, even with a coffin nail in hand.

“Hi there,” As the door opened, I realized I was to be met with disappointment; the man at the door held a cello, not a paper bag filled with delectable Eastern goodies. I sighed. “Oh. Paavo, it’s not the food.” I deferred door handling to my brother and went back to alphabetizing, finally selecting a movie to put in as I honed in to the conversation in the background, watching the man who so resembled Barbie out of the corner of my eye.

“… and then the bitch locked me out. So I came here; everyone’s surely bar-hopping right now and could care less for me.” I suppressed a giggle - so Paavo had become boring with his old age, how funny.

“No worries, Eicca. We’ve got plenty of room here, you can have the couch.” Eyes wide and cigarette dangling, I turned. Uh, hello, what about me and my first night in Helsinki?

“Excuse me?” The look on Paavo’s face was easy to read - could I really expect him to turn away a friend in need? I sighed, pushing my hair back from my face. “Whatever, never mind.” So much for all of the heart-to-hearts I had planned. I killed the remains of my smoke as I moved to find plates for the three of us. Sulking over the blond stranger’s presence, I made my plate in silence and curled up on the balcony to eat it by myself; positioned so that I could hear the boys’ conversation over the sounds of the Big Chill, which played in the background. I had been the youngest sibling until I was fourteen, eavesdropping was my specialty.

“Who the fuck is that?” I heard Eicca (the blond, Barbie-doll looking man) ask through a thick mouthful of food. Disgusting.

“My little sister.” Paavo had let quite a pause drift between the question and the answer - presumably, he had decided to chew and swallow his food before he spoke.

“She dresses like an idiot.” I suppressed a hiss with a mouthful of Lo Mein noodles - for real? He was taking stabs at my clothes because he was insecure with his life and had to come sleep on my brother’s couch? I glanced down at my clothes - a black polo, khaki chino’s, a Kelly green ribbon as a belt and Sperry Topsider’s - definitely not as freakish as his dilapidated jean pants, which looked like they were held together by duct tape and a few remaining stitches, and his greasy t-shirt, the sleeves of which he had cut off somewhere along the line. Icky. At least Paavo still wore sleeves on his t-shirts, but I suspected if he gained any more muscle in his arms they wouldn’t fit through the holes.

“She’s got her own drummer. It’s cool, it’s a Lotjonen thing.” Paavo defended. I slurped my Lo Mein happily now, blood was thicker than water with us Lotjonens. Eicca mumbled some retort I couldn’t hear as I lit a cig, stood with my plate, and sullenly proceeded inside to sit with the boys.

What a fantastic first day.