From the desk of Risto Pakarinen

Hovet sweet Hovet

Fri, 12 Mar 2010 00:33:01 +0100

�The affable Helge Berglund claims there are more than a hundred thousand active players and about seven thousand hockey teams in Sweden. How fitting, he reflects, that the Johanneshov isstadion should be the scene of the world championship competition. �The stadium�s fame as the Mecca of ice hockey,� he continues in his own bouncy style, �is once more sustained.�
� Mordecai Richler on the 1963 hockey world championships in Dispatches from the Sporting Life

Call me crazy, call me weird - just call me - but whenever I travel to a new city, I like to go see the hockey arena there. I used to also buy a hockey hat from each city, but stopped doing that after my trip to Rouen, France when I walked a good five kilometers in rain mixed with snow to find the one store that carried hockey hats. So, these days, I buy the hats only�if the store that I happen to go into - and I always go to one - has them.

But I still like to see the arena. Maybe it�s because most of my early travels only included the trip to the arena, a game, and then a trip home. Anyway, that�s why I�ve visited the Hudiksvall Sports Museum twice. It happens to be in the lobby of the local rink. Driving around Scandinavia ten years ago, I made sure I stopped to see the Oslo arena with the cool name: Spectrum. Every time we visit my Dad, I stop by the old rink.

In Vancouver, in 1996, I left the environmental technology trade fair one afternoon to trek across town to see the then-brand new GM Place but the highlight of that trip was my first - and last - visit to the good old Maple Leaf Gardens in Toronto a week earlier.

Walking up the stairs to our seats - I was there with Andrew, a Torontonian buddy of mine � the first thing I saw were the banners, the championship banners, the retired numbers. That view, and then seeing the rink, and the beauty of the building took my breath away. I may have giggled, it was such an exhilarating experience. It was also the first NHL game I saw in the stands, and I almost regretted I didn�t wear a suit and a tophat.

During the first intermission, Andrew and I walked down and took photos of each other sitting on the narrow wooden Leafs bench. That was as close to the NHL I�ve got. Being inside the arena was like sitting in on a hockey history lesson, with all the paintings of legends past on the walls. That was the arena that Borje Salming had played in all those years, that�s where he got the standing ovation during the 1976 Canada Cup.

The home of the Leafs, King Clancy, Conn Smythe, Roger Neilson, Harold Ballard, Salming, Inge Hammarstr�m - Andrew�s favorite - Darryl Sittler - whom I�d met during my summer in Orillia, and then Mats Sundin, my favorite.

But it wasn�t the Maple Leaf Gardens I grew up thinking about.

It was Johanneshov.

Maybe it was the simple fact that Finland never won anything, or maybe I�m genetically faulty, and have some Swedishness in me, but I grew up liking a lot of Tre Kronor players.

When I had been bitten by the hockey bug, and when the game started to become an all-consuming passion of mine, I would sit at my desk and write pages and pages and pages of play-by-play commentary of hockey games. My imaginary games were called in the style of a famous Finnish radio guy, Raimo �H�yry� H�yrinen - nicknamed �Steam� because he could do a good thousand words a minute -, they were always the crucial games of the World Championships, and the games were always between the Soviets and Swedes, with Czechoslovakia posing a threat in a previous game � because I loved Ivan Hlinka, Milan Novy, Vladimir Martinec, and Frantisek Pospisil.

But, the big showdown was always between Kharlamov, Mikhailov, Petrov, Tretiak and Mats Waltin, Lars-Erik Sj�berg, Mats N�slund.

And nine times out of ten, the game was played in the Johanneshovs ice stadium. (And every once in a while, it was on the Soviets� home ice, the Luzhniki arena in Moscow).

When the main arena in Helsinki was known simply as �arena� - J��halli in Finnish - the Johanneshov ice stadium sounded like a magical place, truly "the Mecca of ice hockey�, even though I understand why Richler would have had a hard time swallowing that. Johanneshov - or Hovet, �The Court� as it�s called - was also always the main arena of the World Championships, because it was the biggest arena in Sweden � and possibly, probably, bigger than anything we had in Finland.

And thus, by definition, cool.

In 1989, I was a third-year student in the Helsinki Business School, with too much time on my hands so when a buddy of mine - or five - found a cheap ferry trip to Stockholm, I jumped on the opportunity.

The ferry only stayed there for about seven hours, which was enough to walk through the Old Town, buy some CDs, and have lunch at the Hard Rock Caf�, another cool thing Helsinki didn�t have. And of course, it gave me the opportunity to get on the subway to Globen, that white dome outside the city, built for the 1989 World Championships.

Globen, The Globe, blew my mind. It was cooler than any arena I had ever seen. It was - like a friend of mine said later - like the Death Star in the Star Wars. It was so cool that I didn�t even know that while standing there, admiring the Globe, I had turned my back on Johanneshov, literally.

I didn�t know that the old 1960s hockey rink was right there, adjacent to the brand new multi-purpose arena, but no longer a major league arena since both Stockholm teams, AIK and Djurg�rden, had moved to Globen.

My first visit to Hovet wasn�t a hockey game. It was a Prince concert in the summer of 1999, but a couple of seasons ago, tired of not being able to fill the expensive Globen, Djurg�rden moved back to Hovet.

These days, it�s no longer the case that

reporters from Associated Press, United Press International, Canadian Press, and other news organizations, sit with pads on their knees and telephones clapped to their ears.

Instead, there�s just one long table in front of the commentator booths, and men and women sitting behind their laptops, updating their blogs and websites and Twitter feeds as they go. I was there this week. I climbed up to the press box, up those stairs, with each step so high that I have to run up or I might not be able make it.

In front of one of the chairs, a little left of the red line, there was a taped note indicating an assigned seat for one �Risto Pakarinen, IIHF�.

Me.

Deja view

Tue, 9 Mar 2010 09:41:50 +0100

Remember a while ago when I wrote that "remember a while ago when I wrote that �[t]here is no place - and this is no exaggaration, simply a fact, so I repeat it: no place - a Swede can�t set up a bench, or hasn�t already done so"?"

Well, the other day I went for a walk with the family and I thought about how in the fall I wrote that "I went for a walk and thought about how I said that, and how right I was. I think I may have even said it out loud, 'that thing you wrote about the benches last summer, on July 14, that was so right on, it was so true.'"

The thing that made me remind myself of that piece that made me remind myself of the other piece was a bench that I saw on my way to the mall.

This one:

Baffled

Mon, 8 Mar 2010 23:39:51 +0100

I still don't get this.

Born to be my baby

Sun, 7 Mar 2010 21:23:41 +0100

�It feels so unreal, was it the same for you?�
� Brother-in-law, 48 hours before the arrival of his first-born

Apparently, only four percent of children are born on the actual due date, which, to me, makes the whole concept of having one date simply ludicrous. If that�s the best they can do, why not simply give the parents a good ballpark guestimate, say, a week, and leave it at that.

I was still asleep that morning, a Thursday, over seven years ago, getting ready for another day at the office. Well, obviously, not getting ready, just sleeping. But I got up in a hurry when Wife (then known as Girlfriend) yelled from the shower that her water had broken.

I got up - jumped up - and we looked at each other, baffled. The bag had been packed, and sitting by the front door for a couple of weeks, with Yatzy, and books and clothes, and we had graduated from the birthing classes, even survived the way-too-graphic images they showed there.

To be honest, I, on my own, would have failed the class. The way I bathed the practice doll would have drowned a real baby, in addition to cutting the blood circulation to its arms and upper body in general.

But one thing had stuck to my poor little Winnie the Pooh mind at the class. I remembered that even when the water breaks, there was really no rush to the hospital. So, as calmly as I could, I said, �Let�s have breakfast.�

There we were, reading the paper, eating toast, drinking tea, talking about stuff we saw in our newspapers. So, Brother-in-law, even at this point, seeing Girlfriend - your sister - giving birth to a child, and myself becoming a father, seemed very surreal. We were just having breakfast.

A couple of hours later, we decided it was time to go. We lived just four, five blocks from the hospital, the same one where I had been born, so we walked. It was late November, and it had been snowing, so I did the only intelligent thing, put on my rubber boots, and off we went.

We made a couple of stops on the way, Girlfriend had to catch her breath - or maybe just survive contractions - and I was stumbling along in my rubber boots. It was still snowing.

It was nine o�clock in the morning.

I am sure it felt very real to Girlfriend. In fact, I know it did. The only time she didn�t seem to be in great physical pain was when her entire body was reflecting a more massive mental pain, caused by the hidious purple �clothes� she had to wear at the hospital. For me, the worst part was eating hospital lunch of macaroni and cheese, minus the cheese.

But, there were were, playing Yatzy, breaking records even, and watching the home shopping network on TV, Girlfriend wincing every once in a while. Not because of the programming, but because she was about give birth to a baby.

Once, I snuck out to the balcony to make a phone call to the office, telling them that I wouldn�t be coming in that day, but that I�d come in �maybe tomorrow.� While at it, I called a client who had left a message, and told him to talk to my people at the office.

By late afternoon, it still didn�t feel real. It was more like that Friends episode where Rachel gives birth. While �we had been expecting� together, at this point, I didn�t do much.

I just sat by the window, thinking that my feet were really sweaty. Rubber boots weren�t such a great idea, after all.

And then, something happened, somebody said something, we were taken into a dark room, and just six hours later, a baby was born.

For most of �our� pregancy, we were convinced that we were pregnant with a baby girl, so my first words were somewhat stunned �that ain�t a girl�s face.�And it wasn�t, because it was Son's round face.

My plan had been to check his time of birth on my grandpa�s old watch, but I had dropped it on the hospital floor earlier, breaking it, so I had to look at the clock on the wall. It was 2:58.

It had been 20 hours since we had had breakfast at home. At around 4:30, I finally had to leave. Despite our good intentions, and all the beautiful talk about family rooms at the hospital and at the birthing class, we weren�t so lucky. I said goodbye to my new family, and headed home.

But first: food. Only mothers were entitled to the macaroni dish, so I hadn�t - really - had anything to eat since that toast and the tea at breakfast. I gave myself another pat on the back about the great decision to have a good breakfast at home before going to the hospital.

Just two blocks from the hospital, half way to our house, there was a McDonald�s. I�d like to say the first McDonald�s in the world with a special theme - rock�n�roll - but that may not be true. It may just be a slight exaggeration by the Finns, but anyway, there it was, at five in the morning, and I was hungry. The McDonald's was closed, though, except for the drive-thru. I walked to the window and knocked. The young deputy assistant shift manager opened the window, tilted his head, and said, �whaddaya want?�

�I�d like a Big Mac� meal, please?�

He just looked at me. Sighed. And then:

�What kind of a drink would you like?�

�A Diet Coke, please.�

�Five euro.�

I handed him a five-euro bill.

�Hey, I�m not drunk. I just became a father for the first time," I said.

Click. He�d closed the window.

I stood there for a good ten minutes, just looking in, staring at the staff make my burger, and thinking how beautiful my Son was, how strong my Girlfriend was, and how very unbelievable it all felt.

Clonk. The window opened.

�Here.�

The young deputy assistant shift manager handed me a brown bag. I said thanks, grabbed the bag, and walked towards our apartment which I had left as Boyfriend, and returned to as Dad.

I ate the burger and the fries in an empty kitchen, while sending emails to friends and family, about Son being born.

Un-real.

United artists

Fri, 5 Mar 2010 17:14:22 +0100

�Do you remember the first time you watched a movie on a DVD? What was it?�
� Wife, last night

Sometime in 1978, my father brought home two boxes that did wonderful things. Both were really good at just one, of course, but together, they revolutionized the way our household worked.

The first one was something called �microwave oven�, and in just under a minute, that oven could heat up any old lihapiirakka, a Finnish mince meat pie, or leftovers - I would love to say pizza but in 1978, there weren�t many pizza places in Helsinki - for me to eat during the day, when my parents were at work.

The other one, a grey box that got fed by other black cubes, about the size of a brick, was what back then, in Finnish, was called �picture recorder�. �Video� elbowed its way into the language much, much later. Our wasn�t Betamax, it wasn�t VHS, it was a Philips �picture recorder�, and we used it to record shows on one of the two channels we had in Finland. There was a chance that both channels were showing something good. There was also the chance, with better odds, that we�d be at a hockey rink somewhere when The Love Boat or James Herriot�s All Creatures Great and Small was on.

It was the second major TV shift in my then-short lifetime. The first had been color. I remember how the hockey announcers would always have to add the �Finland tonight in blue sweaters, and in black and white sets, attacking from left to right.�

But to be able to watch shows whenever you wanted, over and over and over again, was truly a paradigm shift.

And together, those two boxes - and the lihapiirakkas - are the foundation on which this sculpture I call �my body� is built.

Oh well.

In the fall of 1978, Mikko Alatalo, arguably the biggest pop star in Finland, won an annual Finnish song contest with his song, �Vicky Lee�. Alatalo was so big back then, that he was even a poster boy for Casio watches, and especially their cool youth watch, �Black Casio�, a plastic, digital watch that encapsulates 1978 perfectly. And one I had.

But, that fall, Alatalo took Finland by storm, and as always, the day after the contest, the schoolyard was all atwitter about the songs. Who won? Who should have won? Vicky Lee was a love song, a funny song, to a girl named Vicky Lee, performed by a man, desperate to get into �an intimate relationship� with her.

If I can�t be number one in your heart
Let me at least be your number two gig
If I can�t be your
Won�t you have me as your chauvinistic pig?

Where aaa-are youuuuu, Vicky Leeeeee?
Why aren�t you the air that I breaaathheeeeee
Why can�t I marry youuuu?
What do I have to do to get to youuuuu?
What do I need to do to get into a relationship with you, mostly intimate

For one of the above reasons, that competition got stuck on one of those bricks. And I watched Vicky Lee every day after school for about a month. It was Vicky Lee - oh, and the lyrics were really funny .. at the time � and he was the guy from the watch ads, and well, the whole thing was so cool. Even if I didn't really know what "intimate" meant.

I looked up �Vicky Lee� on Spotify just now, and I still knew the lyrics by heart.

There were two other shows on the same tape, and to this day, I remember them vividly. One was about a St. Bernard, yes, a dog, and the other one a cartoon about a guy who went to a store, tried on a costume, and whatever that happened to be that week, he�d end up in an adventure where he needed it. And none of my friends remember the show. Which is crazy because it was the coolest thing.

A few years later, my Dad came home with another box. By then, it was no longer a �picture recorder�, except for my father, who, ironically, was the one that sold them to people every day. The rest of the world was calling it a �video recorder� or just �video�, even in Finnish.

The tapes looked different, but that didn�t matter. (Although, I am pretty sure my Dad has those old tapes, at least one, somewhere). The cool thing with the new, um, �video�, was that you could operate it sitting on the couch, using a remote control. Provided that the couch was close enough, because the remote and the actualy player were connected by a wire.

Not only could we rewind, pause, and fast forward easily, there as actually a store in town that rented movies.

We, Dad and I, drove downtown to rent a movie, while Mom stayed at home and prepared something to eat. We entered the store, and I as blown away by the selection of movies they had. They must have had hundreds of movies there, in that one room. But the one shelf that pulled us back, was the James Bond shelf.

My father was, and is, a huge James Bond fan. I had seen the Ian Fleming books on our bookshelf, and had even read Doctor No, but the real reason I was so attracted to the Bond movies at the store was a more obvious one: I had never seen a Bond movie, but I had heard a lot about them.

The latest Bond movie at the time was For Your Eyes Only. I hadn�t seen it, but I had read the MAD magazine parody so I knew it�d be good. We left the Chuck Norris flicks on the shelves - but yes, we probably rented them all in subsequent years - grabbed 007, became members of the videoclub, and drove home.

I rushed inside to put the tape in, while my Dad shut the blinds to make it dark in our living room, all for the true movie viewing atmosphere. I was sitting on a chair, with the remote in my hand, waiting for something to happen.

And then, the UA logo appeared on the screen, and started to turn as the music got louder. Every second seemed so long. The music got louder, and the damned logo still just stayed there. Then the movie started with an exciting scene where Bond takes on the villain, until - as always in the Bond movies - the movie gets interrupted by The Bond Song.

I heard the first tunes of �For Your Eyes Only�, decided that it was a boring song - have changed my mind since - and pressed �fast forward� on the remote.

�Hey!� my father yelled from behind me.

�Hey, hey! Stop it! This is what makes the movie experience! The credits!� he said.

So, the first movie I saw on DVD? I have no idea. I guess it wasn�t that big of a deal anymore. I do know, though, that I for sure didn�t jump over the credits. Because Dad was right. That is what makes the movie experience. That, and the dark room. And the snacks.

Lost

Wed, 3 Mar 2010 20:45:56 +0100

Last night, I held a pretty decent speech to Son, about owning up to things. About how it takes more courage to stand up and confess a mistake than it takes to � do something else. I can�t remember what the other stuff was, but it was something very macho, and tough, like to do a jedi jump.

I went on a good ten minutes about the importance of being a great loser, and then of course, told him how, at the Olympics, all the players had to walk through the mixed zone and talk about the loss they had just been delivered.

And for good measure, I threw in Henrik Lundqvist�s name because I know it carries some major weight around here. So, if Henke Lundqvist can come ut and talk to the press right after he�s faced four shots and made just one save in one period in an Olympic quarterfinal, then Son can surely muster up some courage to tell me who it really was that spilled that glass of orange juice onto the carpet.

Right?

Great losers aren�t born. They�re made.

Me, revisited

Tue, 2 Mar 2010 14:14:42 +0100

So I went to a place called "Olympics" and the next thing I know, three weeks just flashed by. I hope you had your "risto+pakarinen" Google alerts on, and caught at least some of my stuff on IIHF.com during the games and the Games.

Like this blog entry, about an event of which I wrote here earlier.

TURNING THE TABLES

February 25 / Risto Pakarinen

Coaches don�t get medals in the Olympics, even in hockey, a sport where the coach is somewhat relevant. At times. But Pekka H�m�l�inen, head coach of Finland�s women�s hockey team, was all smiles after the bronze medal game. The memory, the experience, the overtime win, nobody can takes those away from him.

Some 29 years ago, H�m�l�inen was the star defenceman of JoKP, a team in my howetown at the time. Back then, the only pro players in the world were in the NHL, and Finnish players still actually �turned pro� when they left the country. Some were carpenters, some were students, or �students�. Pekka H�m�l�inen was the part-time editor-in-chief of an advertorial distributed to every household in the city. It had TV listings, a lot of classified ads, and couple of sports stories.

One of them was the �Player of the Week�, which usually featured H�m�l�inen�s teammates.

Except one week, early in the 1981-1982 season, when that player was me. We had hosted a junior tournament in the city, and done pretty well, so they picked me. Or he did.

The interview took place in my father�s office in an appliance store downtown. Pekka sat in the big chair behind a desk, and I, 13 years old, sat down on the other side. Pekka asked, I answered. The basic format was very simple, more than an interview, or a story, it was a fact box about the player in question so I knew what was coming.

I caught Pekka by surprise today when I returned the favor by posing the same questions back to him. Ready? All you need to know about the bronze medal coach:

Name: Pekka H�m�l�inen
Born: July 19, 1953 in Joensuu, Finland (note: At home in Mutalantie 19, not in a hospital, he added.)
Position: Defenceman / coach
Favorite food: Pepper steak
Favorite drink: �With that, red wine�.
Favorite music: Rock�n�roll
(Note here: I had practiced my answers, so I told him I listened to all kinds of music. He stopped writing, looked at me, and asked, �classical, too?� I said no, and he said, �I�ll just put down �pop�.� Pekka really did say rock�n�roll, though.)
Worst opponent: Myself
Goal: To win gold in Sochi.

Above is Pekka. No photo of a 13-year-old me available. I'm sorry.

Not really.
- - - - -
That was the official IIHF blog entry, but for you, my dear reader here, I will give you the full story. Below you WILL find the photo of me at 13, and the actual story as it ran in the paper. Turns out I forgot a couple of questions. The color of his eyes, and what is most fun in life.

My answers: blue, and hockey and friends.

Changes

Sun, 21 Feb 2010 11:32:55 +0100

A magazine cover from 1933. I guess we're still struggling with the same issues.

Oh man

Thu, 18 Feb 2010 23:55:28 +0100

Man walks into a book store. Man sees a lot of books. Man likes books, so man really likes this particular Vancouver book store because they have a lot of books. Man realizes it's a second-hand book store and is a little disappointed until he sees a pile of sports books next to a sign that says, "IOC Propaganda". Man laughs and looks at the propaganda books, and realizes that the old books are cool.

Man goes deeper into the store, finds all kinds of categories he's never gone through before. Man stops at "Cheyenne-Comanche" section. Man picks up a book, man puts it down. Man goes to "WWI". Man goes to "Movies-Movie history". Man finds old magazines. Man goes to fiction, stops at "Mark Twain". Man goes to "Art". Man goes "WWII". Man goes nuts.

Suddenly...

Man stops. Man looks up. Man examines books in front him. Man seems to be sweating a little. Man picks up cell phone from pocket. Man looks like he's texting somebody.

Man's not really texting, he's just a victim of the Bookstore Syndrome.

Soupy

Wed, 17 Feb 2010 02:28:24 +0100

So, there I was, walking down Main St in Vancouver BC, when I saw this tiny store from the corner of my eye. The bearded man, in his 50s, walked out the store, and flipped the sign on the door from "open" to something else.

It said, "Gone for a bowl of soup. Back later."

I thought it was nice. A bowl of soup. Who could blame him, really. Take your time, mister.

Time traveler's file

Sun, 14 Feb 2010 22:39:36 +0100

Twenty-five years ago, a friend of mine received a tape in the mail. It was a black, regular tape he had got from a friend from home, including the hottest hits at the time. For my friend, Terry, home was Canada, and that tape had the keys to Canadian Rock Wonderland, namely Bryan Adams�s "Reckless".Terry was an exchange student from Saskatchewan who had chosen to come to Finland because Finland was a hockey country. He probably would have been just as happy to go to Sweden, but fortunately for me and my family, he ended up in our little town, playing hockey in the only team in town, and when he wanted to switch host families around Xmas, the door to our home was opened.

Then, early that summer, a couple of months before Terry was supposed to go back to Canada, he went on a European tour, which left me home alone � with Reckless. That summer, I worked for the City of Joensuu, mowing lawns around the city. And with the noise of the lawnmower around me all day, I escaped it into the world of Walkman. Into the world of Bryan Adams. And I loved it.

Ain't no use in complainin'
When you got a job to do
Spent my evenings down at the drive-in
And that's when I met you

When Terry got back from his European vacation four weeks later, I had already made a copy of his tape. I also knew all the songs by heart by then. But because Terry had only got the tape as was, without any cover or further info, I didn't know the names of the songs. When I mentioned this to Terry, he looked at me and said: �How hard can it be to figure it out? Just listen to the songs.�

And he played the tape from the top: �You�re the silent type, and you caught my eye�� And then, �One night looooove affaiiiiiiiir�. Terry looked at me. �So, this one is called �One Night Love Affair�.� And so we went through the tape, �Run To You�, �Somebody�, all the way to "Ain't Gonna Cry".

For the longest time, I had �Summer of �69� down as �The Best Days Of My Life�.

Oh when I look back now
That summer seemed to last forever
And if I had the choice
Yeah - I'd always wanna be there
Those were the best days of my life

On August 1, on his birthday, Terry left Finland, returned to Canada, and went to college. We kept in touch, regularly at first, then more sporadically, and then not that much. A year later, I left Joensuu and went to college. During my first year, Bryan Adams released �Into the Fire�, the much-anticipated follow-up to �Reckless�. I bought it on the release day at one of the downtown Helsinki record stores, and rushed back to my small dorm room to listen to it.

On a CD, no less. Good times.

Later that same winter, Music Box, a cable channel, ran a Bryan Adams special, basically a "miniplay" consisting of the music videos of his greatest �Reckless� hits, with some goofy interludes as glue. I didn�t have cable, but I had seen the show on the TV listings and wanted to see it badly. I called my Dad to see if he could tape it for me. He didn�t have that channel, either, so he asked a friend of his to tape it. I got the VHS tape a week later.

Oh, thinkin' about our younger years,
There was only you and me.
We were young, and wild, and free.
Now, nothin' can take you away from me.
We been down that road before,
But that's over now,
You keep me comin' back for more

After �Into the Fire,� Mr. Adams took a break from recording. I caught his tour in Helsinki and I have the T-shirt to prove it. Then I went to Canada, to work at Tackla, a hockey pant manufacturer in Orillia, Ontario. And while there, I tracked down Terry Z, and we agreed that it would be �great� if I could fly to Vancouver and hang out with him. So, in September, before my last year of college, and after my work at Tackla was over, I flew first to Detroit to meet my Michigan host family from 1986, and then kept on going to the West.

Terry had a nice little apartment somewhere in Vancouver. He introduced me to macaroni and cheese � and Meat Loaf. The musician. He also had a little humor publication he wrote and published, and delivered by riding his bike around the city, leaving his four-page funny called �The Coaster� to coffee shops everywhere. And he surfed. On water.

By next fall, I had graduated from the business school, and was living in the attic of an old house, next to a kindergarten. My aunt was the head of the kindergarten, so she pulled some strings and got me the apartment � and the right to use the downstairs kitchen in the evenings because my place didn�t have one.

Suddenly, too, the B-man was back with �Wakin� Up the Neighbours�. And I fell in love.

Terry? Who knows.

You might stop a hurricane
Might even stop the drivin' rain
You might have a dozen other guys
But if you wanna stop me baby don't even try
I'm goin' one way your way
It's such a strong way let's make it our way

The times were tough. I was an unemployed college graduate, trying desperately to find a job. To keep a positive outlook on things, I considered myself a pro hockey player, albeit one who didn�t get paid, and was playing in a minor minor league in Finland. But still. Better than not doing - or being - anything.

And then I scored a nice job at the Canadian Embassy in Helsinki, working for the trade division, and putting my finite wisdom to good use for Canadian companies that were trying to find an entry point to Finland. In 1996, the path took me to an environmental trade show in Vancouver.

Hi, Terry. Good to see you again. Crystal? Nice to meet you.

I also fell out of love.

I don't wanna be the joke of the party
I just wanna be back where I started
I'm gettin' out before the goin' gets grim
So hey honey - I'm packin' you in!

That summer, I went on a whirlwind tour of the Nordics, driving my black BMW from Helsinki, through Sweden, to Denmark, back up to Norway, and then Sweden again, before taking the ferry back to Finland.

Coincidentally, BA was touring Scandinavia as well, on the heels of �18 �Til I Die�, his first studio album since �WUTN" in 1991. I saw the show at the Oslo Spectrum.

After it, I drove to the Swedish-Norwegian border, and slept in my car.

18 til I die - gonna be 18 �til I die
It sure feels good / to be alive
Someday I'll be 18, goin' on 55!
18 til I die

By the time �On a Day Like Today� came out, I had moved to Sweden. It was the first BA album since Reckless that I didn�t buy on the day it came out. And something else happened. Life.

I met a wonderful Swedish woman, and fell head over heels in love with her. We moved to Finland, we had a son, we moved to Sweden, we had another baby, a daughter, we got married in Vegas, and we moved to a nice little yellow house in the suburbs.

Terry married his Crystal and they had a daughter, and a son, and a daughter, and they moved to a nice, big, white house in the suburbs. I had had some contact with the Z-man because he wrote for my now-extinct hockey magazine from Vancouver.

This week, 25 years after Terry came became a part of the family and was my acting brother, 19 years since my first visit to Vancouver, and 14 years since that environmental conference, we connected again.

I rode the Skytrain to the end of the line where Terry picked me up, and we kept on driving another half hour to their house. We chatted about hockey, we picked up the kids from school and kindergarten, we took another daughter to her gymnastics class, we reminisced about Joensuu, and our old, yellow Fiat 127, and we played hockey in their garage with the two smallest kids, and we drank Cokes, and when Crystal came home and we had just fooled around and not made dinner, we ordered pizza, before we went to Terry�s son�s hockey practice.

We sat behind the glass, behind the net, looking at the kids, the six-year-olds in their Ovechkin and Lemieux and Canucks sweaters sprinting around, going around pylons, trying desperately to lift the puck off the ice, and we talked, and laughed.

A lifetime in one day.

We may always be together
Or miles and miles apart
Tomorrow may be raining
But tonight we have the stars, yeah, yeah

Well, in Vancouver, it rains all the time in February. It rained when I got here, and it rained when we were waiting to get in to the BC Place to the Opening Ceremony of the Olympics where Wayne Gretzky lit the Olympic flame and Bryan Adams sang a duet with Nelly Furtado.

It also rained after the Opening Ceremony when we were walking to Hockey House, a sponsor venue close to the arena.

A colleague of mine had encouraged me to make sure that I�d be at Hockey House after the Opening Ceremony because a good source had told him that �a certain Canadian rocker� would be there. And sure enough, just as I was about to finish my plate of finger food, I heard the opening riff to �Can�t Stop This Thing We Started�.

And nothing could have stopped me.

I hadn�t seen a Bryan Adams show since the one in Oslo, Norway, in 1996. I have bought his two albums since �18 Til I Die� - �Room Service� and �11� - but can�t honestly say I even know all the songs on them.

But there I was, first 25 meters away from Bryan, then 15, then 10, finally inching my way towards the stage, until I was right there, closer to Bryan Adams than ever before in my life. Bryan Guy Adams is no longer a young, rebellious rocker. He's 50.

Neither one of us is reckless anymore. But that night, he rocked. His old buddies Keith Scott (guitar) and Mickey Curry (drums) who�ve been with the band since the 1980s rocked.

And so did I.

Rocking to Bryan Adams, in Vancouver. Hanging out with Terry. Seeing Wayne Gretzky light the Olympic fire.

Inhale. Exhale.

Meeting Michael J. Fox - another favorite Vancouverite of mine - would surely unravel the very fabric of the space-time continuum and destroy the entire universe.

I need somebody
Hey what about you
Everybody needs somebody

Arnold has left the building

Sat, 13 Feb 2010 00:36:28 +0100

Wake-up call: 5:55 am. Get dressed, walk out the door, meet a colleague at the edge of Stanley Park. Mission: To witness Arnold Schwarzenegger carrying the Olympic torch. Why the Governator would be carrying the Olympic torch in Vancouver on the last day of the relay was a mystery to me.

Sure, �The Austrian Oak� is a six-time Mr. Olympia, but he�s never participated in the Olympics. He�s not Canadian, he's Austrian American with no special connection to Canada as far as I know.

But, run he would, and that had to be seen.

And that�s why I headed out into the darkness, and that�s why I was ordering a tall latte at 6:15 am. I had five minutes to kill - I was supposed to meet Lucas at 6:20 � and, well, Starbucks is never far in this city.

At 6:25, I try to keep up with Lucas�s long strides towards Stanley Park, sipping my latte, making small talk and small jokes about the Terminator. It is pitch black, the only lights being on the other side of the bay. But we still have time because Arnie was supposed to get the torch at 7:03, and if that�s what the Canadians say, then 7:03 it is.

6:35 am. Can it be getting darker? Grass, mud, gravel, more mud. We�re in the middle of a shortcut to the seawall where the torch will appear .. Soon. But it does seem strange that there aren�t any people here. I�m getting worried, and the look on my face must be like a deer�s in the headlights. I am looking at a jogger wearing a head light. She tells us we should go right. We do.

6:45 am. OK, Lucas is taking it up a notch. I can�t keep up with his long walking strides, so I start to jog. �Wanna run?� Lucas asks me. �No, no, I�m just trying to keep up.� Then he picks it up a bit, and I have to start lifting my knees.

6:46 am. Stop. A lot of people are standing around, walking, waiting. Lucas asks someone what is going on and that someone had heard that the torch (and Arnie) should be here in about, say, ten minutes. �The torch was here already, but they�ll be back when they�ve finished another loop,� he said.

6:47 am. I take off my jacket and glasses because, yes, I�m svery sweaty. My glasses steam up, so I hold them in my hand for a while. The mob looking for Arnie look more chaotic without the glasses so I put them back on. And off. And on. And off. I wipe them with my sweaty T-shirt. It�s time to go again because Lucas has heard somebody say that they�re actually running on the other side of the bay.

6:55 am. A man wearing a Canadian flag and holding a cowbell comes walking towards us. �He�s not here, they�ve already been here,� he says, and then points to the place we were eight minutes ago. The group over there has grown bigger. Lucas and I walk briskly back, and we see people line up on the side of the road. That�s a good sign. We stop. And then we decide to walk a little further up the road because - let�s face it - if they�re running towards us, we�ll meet them faster if we�re closer. Simple.

6:58 am. A group of kids run past us, yelling, mimicking Arnie, �Vitch vay yoo goh?�

7:03 am. Nothing has happened. Right now, Arnold Schwarzenegger should be receiving the torch. Somewhere. If things were going according to plan. Instead, a huge, red Coke truck does come honking, with all speakers blasting off Coke�s official Olympic song. �Everybody! Let�s make some noise!� Oh yeah? �VITCH VAY YOO GOH?�

7:15 am. Police cars, Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and cops on bikes come down the hill, and then, behind them, a lone runner holding the torch. We snap photos, and as we walk down towards the knoll we were standing on earlier, we see another person in white meet the torchbearer. They bow, and they light the other person�s torch on the Olympic flame�s journey towards the GM Place and the opening ceremony.

8:20 am. I�ve walked around the entire city but am now almost back at the hotel. In fact, I can see it but can�t cross the street because the police has blocked it. And then I see why: It�s the Coke truck. The torch is on its way. Still without Arnie.

Olympic Victor

Thu, 11 Feb 2010 20:45:33 +0100

Greetings from Vancouver, the host city of the 2010 Winter Olympic Games. It�s a long way from Stockholm to Vancouver (via London), and my total travel time form door to door was 21 hours. I spent ten of them on the plane from London to Vancouver, sitting next to Victor Droop, a Dutch fellow on his way to the Olympics as well.

Just as I had sat down on my seat, 24C, Victor, at 24A, looked at me shoving my bag under the seat in front of me, put my books and magazines in the seat pocket, turn my iPhone to Airplane Mode, and take my shoes off, he turned to me and asked:

�Is there a toilet on this plane?�

I must say that the question surprised me, even caught me off guard a bit. So I said,

�Yes, yes, several.�

Victor seemed happy with the answer, so I went on, jokingly.

�I hope so because it�s a ten-hour flight, heh heh, in fact,� I added, now thinking ihe had cracked a joke, �in fact, I think it may be a human rights issue: they have to provide us with water and a toilet.�

�Aaah,� said Victor.

I turned my iPhone back to the Normal Mode, and texted Wife: �All good, sitting on the plane, next to a guy who�s never flown before.� Then I went back to Airplane Mode, and heard Victor again.

�Have you been to Canada before? You have? This is my first big flight.�

A few minutes later, when the boarding had been completed, the stewardesses went through the security announcement, with their arms waving and pointing the different exits.

Victor showed me where the gas mask would fall, in case of an emergency, slapping the little plastic locker above my head. And then it was time for us to fly.

Victor whistled happily during takeoff, all the way to above clouds, with his nose pressed against the window, admiring London from a couple of thousand feet. When the Fasten Your Seatbelts sign had been switched off, I put my earphones on, and focused on the entertainment system. Victor, on the other hand, was talking to me.

�I�ll be going to Vancouver for six weeks, first ten days as a tourist, and then i�l go to Banff to ski. And maybe the Dutch Paralympics team will be there, and they will, if they�re smart, and I can coach them a little,� he said.

�Ski Cross is my sport,� he said.

A half hour later, he yelled, �this is our plane.� He yelled, because he was wearing earphones, listening to jazz, and doing the air guitar. He�d found our Airbus in the in-flight magazine.

A half hour later, he yelled again.

�Oh, my sport!� he said, pointing to the screen in front of him. There was a man riding a bike.

�Oh, you�re into that, too?� I asked.

�Yes, I used to ride tandem with a Dutch paralympian, a blind guy, really good,� he said.

A half hour later, we were served food. Ten minutes after that, I showed him how to take down the little table so he didn�t have to hold the tray on his lap.

And so it went. Victor would play his air guitar, whistle, get some sandwiches from his red backpack, read a book about a Dutch soccer player, laugh out loud - �This is a funny book! And a great player!� - admire the weather outside - �so sunny!� - and ask me about the remaining flight time.

�Almost there? Just two more hours,� he�d say.

�No, I�m afraid we still have six hours to go,� I replied.

�Nooooooo, two!�

Four hours later: �I think we�re landing now,� said Victor.

We weren't.

Two hours later, as we finally touched down in Vancouver, I packed my book, my magazines, my iPhone, my laptop, and got up. I looked at Victor who was wearing a blue woollen hat that covered his ears, like a speedskater's hood would.

�Speedskating?� I asked.

�My sport!� said Victor.

Please sign

Tue, 2 Feb 2010 21:50:52 +0100

Last weekend, I was in Minsk, Belarus, to see the Russian KHL�s All-Star Game. After the game, I was standing in the mixed zone, listening to former NHLer Ville Peltonen, also a Finnish national hero thanks to his hat trick in a World Championship final against Sweden in 1995, when some fans showed up.

They said, �pleez, pleez� and gave Peltonen some small flags, posters, and a pen. He said, �sure,� and signed a half a dozen autographs, and posed for a few photos.

(Some of my colleagues thought it was such a no-no that the KHL should be fined, but my story�s not going there).

I�ve been asked for my autograph once. Coincidentally, it was during the year that Ville�s father, Esa, also a Team Finland legend, but a generation earlier, was my coach.

I came walking from the dressing room, and opened the door to the lobby of the arena. It wasn�t huge, there was just a Coke machine, a janitor�s booth, and a staircase to an upstairs cafeteria. Usually the girlfriends and wives were waiting there - the ones that didn�t have kids - and usually I just kept on walking out the front door.

Except, this one time, there were two young boys, with pen and paper, and they stopped me by politely standing in my way, and shoving the pen and paper to my chest.

I was amazed. Never before had I been asked for an autograph. Never before had someone wanted to touch my life in such a way. Never before had someone wanted to get a piece of me like that. A memento.

I�ve never been an autograph hunter. Probably because I haven�t been in the presence of great celebrities, or because I�m just too shy to approach anybody and have them sign a piece of paper for me just because I happen to share a space with them for a second.

In fact, I�ve only asked for an autograph once in my life, and I did that just to get somebody else - who was an autograph hunter, but also shy - to do it. At that point, I was in my thirties. During the 2003 Hockey World Championship in Helsinki, Brother-in-Law and I saw legendary Soviet coach Viktor Tikhonov outside the Helsinki arena. Brother-in-Law wanted to get an autograph of the coach that saw the Miracle on Ice from behind the losers� bench.

So, for moral support, I did it. And I�m glad I did. Because I could tell he was glad to sign my little piece of paper.

I do have some other autographs. When I was 13, a friend of mine sent me Bobby Hull�s autograph. And in Canada, a radio host friend of mine told me, on his way to backstage area, that he�d get me something. He did. I have a ticket stub that says �To Reestow, lots of love, Nancy xxx�. Nancy is Nancy Wilson of Heart.

Bobby Hull, Heart, Viktor Tikhonov. Happy to have all their autographs, and happy to have that special connection to them all. (I also have all of the Tampa Bay Lightning players� autographs on a hat that Cookie sent me, and for that reason alone, that team has a special place in my heart).

There is one autograph I know better than the others, though. It used to be the first thing I saw when I woke up in my teens. It was the one that was plastered all over the margins in all my books in high school. It belonged to a hockey player whose photo I used on my bus pass for months. The first name started with upside-down Golden Arches, and the last name with a G that was so different from the one I had learned at school that it seemed more like a musical note than a letter to me.

But I could copy it perfectly.

�Wayne Gretzky�, and a little �#99� underneath, on a poster above my bed.

Even if I never seem to be able to throw anything away, I�ve never been a collector, either. I don�t have a complete collection of anything. But the things I have, I keep. That�s why there�s still one of the 1978 soccer World Cup collectible cards floating around my desk somewhere. Oddly enough, it�s a photo of Team Sweden, of all countries.

I�ve never been able to collect hockey cards,don't have the perseverance, but I do have a couple of Gretzkys, and a Mats Sundin. I have saved several special Gretzky retirement magazines. I have that old Toronto Maple Leafs game program where I first read about this great player, then called The Kid. I have the ticket stub to his last game in the NHL. A friend sent it to me.

I�ve read two Gretzky biographies dozens of times, and all through high school, I had an Oilers sticker - �Go 2 it� - on the splash guard of my green Peugeot bike.

The only collectible thing I have ever bought, just to have, is the August 10 issue of the Edmonton Sun. The one detailing the trade that took Gretzky from the Edmonton Oilers to the Los Angeles Kings.

Well, I do have two Wayne Gretzky action figures, one with an Oiler Wayne hoisting the Stanley Cup above his head, and another, an LA King Gretzky.

Wife calls them dolls.

If there ever was an autograph I wanted, it was Gretzky�s.

Five hours before I was standing in the mixed zone watching Ville Peltonen talk to the press and fans, I was in a hotel, a conference room, in Minsk, Belarus. There were about 50 journalists there, a few camera crews, and a half a dozen photographers.

A colleague placed my dictaphone on the table next to the mikes, so I could record what was being said. I found a spot in the back, in an open area, where I could see the door.

Twelve hours earlier, I had heard that Wayne Gretzky was in town and that I was invited to a press conference he would have. I was even under the impression that I might get some one-on-one time with the Great One, so when I saw him walk into the room, my heart was beating and my mind was racing.

What would I ask him? What would I ask him? Would I waste a minute on his opinions on the Russian league, or would I ask him about the good old days. He must be tired of talking about that, I decided. What about being The Great One? He�s not going to tell me, he doesn�t know me.

Should I ask for his autograph? No. I�m working.

I moved to the other side of the conference room, so I could get closer, and take some photos.

I was trying to see what he saw: a room full of journalists - he looked surprised to see so many people there - and a guy with a camera to his right, staring, smiling, cocking his head to the left.

Would he know that I was his biggest fan? Could he tell? What would he say if I told him so? But of course, I wouldn�t, not now, not here, not � probably ever.

I looked at him. Wayne�s not 18, or 25 anymore. Neither am I. Then he looked at me. And I think he looked into my eyes. And I think he smiled.

After the press conference, I went to get my recorder when all the other journalists approached Gretzky, to ask one more question. I snuck behind the table, looking for my Olympus, but couldn�t see it anywhere. I heard somebody ask Wayne something about Jari Kurri, and sighed, because I had heard the answer a hundred times before.

I felt a slight panic for having lost my recorder, and a Gretzky press conference on it so I moved to the left, and felt the table cloth with my hand, to see if my recorder had maybe somehow ended up underneath it.

And then I felt my shoulder touch something. I looked up, and there was Wayne Gretzky.

I was rubbing shoulders with Wayne Gretzky.

For real. I decided that I didn�t need his autograph. I could still do one myself.

�Me?� I asked the boys. �You want my autograph?�

�Yeah, yeah,� they said.

I looked around to see if any of the girlfriends saw this. If they did, they didn�t care. I took the pen and paper, and wrote my name on it. No number underneath, just my name. After all, I hadn�t even played in the game, I'd been a healthy scratch, as I had been all season.

�Thanks,� the boys said.

�You�re welcome,� I replied, and walked towards the door, to get to my sky-blue 1966 Volkswagen Beetle as fast as possible when I heard one of the boys talk again.

�Who was he?� he asked his friend.

Out of the box

Sun, 31 Jan 2010 20:25:44 +0100

One of the great thrills of traveling used to be the different kinds of ice creams and candy you�d see outside your own country. Never have I eaten an ice cream as exciting and exotic as the Swedish popsicle with two wooden sticks instead of one I had in 1978 in Huddinge � a southern suburb of Stockholm, not far from the spot I landed in with my green Nike bag twenty years later.

In fact, I would go as far as to say that modern traveling makes us dumber. We�re not using our brains the way we used to, back in the, oh, 1980s.

Because we�re not forced to.

For one, candy is the same everywhere. You have the Mars and Snickers bars, the Kit-Kats, the same Magnum ice creams, and let�s not even go to the beverage section. Magazines are a little different, but that is a small consolation because I can�t read them in Italian or Spanish, or Polish. I am writing this at the Warsaw airport.

Paradoxically, the little variation for us traveling in the economy class comes from the little snacks we�re served onboard a plane. Finnair, the Finnish airline, sometimes serves sandwiches made of pretty dark bread and LOT�s ham-pickle sandwiches (two times two, return ticket to Minsk, stopover in Warsaw) certainly took me to Eastern Europe in a flash.

Another thing that has disappeared for us European travelers is different kinds of money. Sure, the euro may be convenient, and good for business, but I miss exchanging money before traveling. Going through the bills was like a history lesson, too. �Oh, I wonder who this guy is � a former King, maybe? Nice! And see, here they have that huge wooden bridge, isn�t it the longest in the world? Wait! There�s a hole in the coin!? Why?�

And then there were the math problems. �Hmm, let�s see, if 10 dollars is 50 krona, then that weird-looking ice cream they sell for seven krona must be � three bucks? Sweden is so expensive! Wait.� And we�d look up, and mumble, count in our heads, mouth the numbers, squint our eyes, and then declare, �No, it�s actually just 1.50 or so.�

Of course, you can still get that experience, but it�s just not as easy as it used to be. I had to go all the way to Minsk, Belarus, to feel it again. First of all, there�s the language barrier, which is almost total. I know seven words of Russian, and with those, I can get (up to) three of something, and be very polite and thankful.

And when a ten-minute cab ride costs 20 000 Belarusian rubles, you lose sight of the zeroes fairly quickly. I did, anyway. A three-course dinner for five, with a bottle of wine, cost 481 000 rubles. Is that a lot? I still don�t know, but it was exciting and, yes, funny.

When you don�t know the language, you can�t ask those important questions, like, �what is that?� Or, even if you can, chances are you won't understand the answer.

Sometimes you get lucky, and the salad turns out to be a Caesar salad, the next time, when you think you ordered a Caesar salad, you get a mixed salad with ham, tomatoes, creem cheese, olives, grapes, and five potato chips for good measure.

The meat pastry at the hockey arena turns out to be filled with, not meat, but quark. And of course you pay by giving the salesperson the biggest note you have, say, a 50 000-ruble bill, and get a bundle of money back, including a few ten-ruble bills which you have no idea of what they�re worth.

(When I say �you�, I still do mean 'I').

Sometimes it�s the little things that really make a difference. It�s the little things that are not like at home that force you to think different, and challenge the age-old truths you hold so dear.

Sometimes reality forces you to open your mind.

It can be, for example, such a little thing like that in Minsk, to get hot water in the shower, you have to turn the faucet to the right. Cold water is left of the center.

Nothing like an unexpected cold shower to get the blood going all the way to the brain.

Mr Brown goes to Oxford

Mon, 25 Jan 2010 23:06:34 +0100

It�s been twenty years since I last read Peanuts, but I used to be a huge fan. A huge fan. Reading about Charlie Brown taught me a lot about life, I discovered new words - �anxiety�, anyone - but mostly they just made me laugh. I could relate to all of the characters at some point in my life.

What a joy it was for a little pre-teen Finnish hockey guy to find a Zamboni on the pages of Peanuts, let alone strips abut Snoopy playing hockey. �Here�s the world famous hockey player winding up for one of his spectacular slap shots��

I always thought Charlie Brown was too hard on himself. It�s not wishy-washy just to change your mind. Even if you do it many times, in rapid succession. Charlie Brown just didn�t know how to trust his instincts, just like I didn�t trust mine at the LA Six Flags when Wife wanted to ride that monsterous rollercoaster named Goliath, and I told her I�d do it, so I waited in line for 45 minutes even though I then had to back out at the last second and do the loser walk all the way back, excusing myself to the people braver than me.

I just re-re-evaluated the situation.

And, we all have had our own red-haired girl somewhere.

Back in 1983, I spent a good month in Oxford, England, on a language course, trying to learn Queen�s English, and see the world, I suppose. Once again, I don�t really remember how and why I took off on such a trip, I don�t remember having such drive back then, but I did, and I chose Oxford because, well, it was Oxford, the home of the most famous university in the world. Besides, I don�t like water or beaches so Brighton was out of the question anyway.

Maybe money was an issue, too.

It was in Oxford I found Peanuts for real. The book store on the square next to the Carfax Tower had a good selection of the Peanuts paperbacks. Carfax Tower was our hangout. On our first day in Oxford, we were supposed to meet �at Carfax, at noon�. I came in early but couldn�t find Carfax, didn�t know what it was, so after twenty minutes of desperate staring at the map, and all street signs, I finally asked a nice old lady for directions.

�Carfax? You are in Carfax, luv� she told me.

I just stood in front of the book store, and soon, the rest of the Finnish teenagers showed up.

But to Oxford I went, and I�m happy I did. I had a wonderful month, living at Jim and Joyce Ferguson�s second-floor room, riding the buses, playing soccer in the park, eating real hamburgers at real burger joints, eating chips with vinegar, learning how to count in Italian, learning that counting to ten in Italian doesn�t impress all Italian girls, and going punting on the shallow river that flows through the green town.

Joyce fed me English sausages and beans for breakfast - which is why I hung out at the burger joints - andwe watched cricket and the Wimbledon on TV with Jim. Every week I�d go down to the bank and cash a few of my traveler�s cheques, courtesy of my good friend Tommy Cook.

By the last week, there wasn�t much left to cash. In fact, I had spent almost all my money. Besides the �I�m with Stupid� T-shirt that had the witty drawing of a finger pointing to my right, I didn�t have much to show for my time in England - we even made a trip to London - except for quite a few Peanuts paperbacks.

The day before the end, before the bus would take us back to Gatwick, and a plane would take us back to Finland, and all that punting and hanging out would turn into us being pen pals, until the postcards wouldn�t come at all, we had decided to go for a final dinner. At a really nice place, instead of some � burger joint.

My problem: Now I had no money.

And when I say �no money�, I mean � I had almost enough money to buy myself a Coke. But the others insisted that I come a along, so I did. We did go to a nice place, and the others did order nice food. I think I sat between a steak and a burger, and I ate some French fries off my friends� plates.

Maybe they should have been wearing the T-shirt I was wearing.

When I landed in Helsinki two days later, I hade exactly five pence in my pocket.

But I was wearing a new, cool Peanuts sweater.

Good grief.

Keeping up with the Ristos

Mon, 18 Jan 2010 23:18:09 +0100

I can say that I pretty much compete with everyone, with the exception of three people and those three happen to share my street address and my love for the �Make�em laugh� scene in Singing in the Rain. (Although, to be one hundred percent honest, I think I love it the most. And I�d be perfectly happy to say I finish second in that race, but I don�t).

I don�t compete with everybody on everything, that would be just stupid. But, there are some things that I do compete with them about, without their knowing it, of course. I still want to be friends with people.

A friend of mine called our squash games �playful competitions� � and then we both would laugh. Yeah, right, as if we weren�t really playing to win.

So - and I know I�ve mentioned this before - my days are filled with small races with flexible rules. It�s a race to the cash register at the store, it�s a race to the best parking spot, I want to make it through one more traffic light, I want to beat my old record for picking up the kids, and so on.

The best parking spot used to be the one closest to the main entrance, and if I�m the only one pulling into the parking lot, it still is, but if I�m right behind another, the best spot turns into the one that allows me to get out of the car fastest and be the first person inside the store. (To support this rationale, I now have scientific data, thanks to �Traffic�, a great book I will finish one day).

The worst place for this frame of mind is the gym. At the gym, everybody�s always looking at each other, sizing the others up. There are the pros, who dress accordingly and who own the gym. You all know who they are at your gym. Maybe it�s you.

At my gym, I am not that guy. I�m the guy who people look at wondering, �you think he really bought that T-shirt at a Belinda Carlisle show in 1990?�

There�s always that gang, a group of guys, who laugh and talk and spend four hours at the gym, talking and laughing, and working out, and admiring themselves in the mirrors. These guys may also be the pros, but most often not. The pros get in and do their stuff, like surgeons. The gang members are in good shape, but they�re not athletes. Instead, they know everybody. They�re the gym�s social connectors.

I�m not in the gang. I get in alone, I do my stuff - like a sloppy surgeon - , I listen to music, and I get out. I�m the guy the gang members look at wondering, �did he come here to read a magazine?�

Yes, I did.

It�s good for the brain.

Then there are the running women, the aerobic people, the yoga masters - those are not in my world, and are therefore disqualified from competing with me.

Then there are the regular casuals, like me.

These are the ones I compete with at the gym, in gym terms. These are the ones that push me into pressing a little more on the bench press, curl a little more, and ride the bike a little faster, and a little longer. In my fury, I also beat the lazy bastard inside me.

It�s hard to compete with the pros. I�m not an athlete. There are very few things I can beat a true athlete in. Maybe in some weird weight regime, or, say, headbutting, but realistically, it�s hard to find an athletic performance in which I would excel in a high-level competition.

Which is why I love the sauna.

That�s my last chance. The rule is: I can never be the first one to leave the sauna � unless, of course, I'm alone in there. If I get in, and there�s already somebody else, I have to sit and wait until he leaves. If I�m in there alone, and somebody comes in, I have to sit and wait until he leaves. Basically, I can only leave a sauna when I leave it empty.

Unless, there are Finns or other crazy sauna people inside. In that case, forget it.

The first one to shower is the winner.

Sign here

Thu, 14 Jan 2010 00:44:13 +0100

I like my name. I like my initials. The letter R is a very special one to me. I used to love the blinking R that marked replays on sports broadcasts. I sign my emails with just a single R, and my little hand-written notes to friends and family with a backwards R, like the one in Toys R Us.

I don�t have the same relationship with P, but together, as RP, they�re a secret code to something wonderful. On sixth grade, I made a belt buckle with RP on it (and without knowing it, I was smart enough to also attach it to a belt that was long enough for me to wear even today). On eighth grade, a classmate designed an RP logo for me. I still use his design where there�s first two vertical lines, and then a loop over both of them, ending in the second leg of the R, when I have to put my initials here, here, and here.

The combination, �RP� is not a very common thing to see, but when I see it, I feel the universe pulling for me. And yes, �Ristorante� still, after all these years, always makes me smile a little bit.

I liked Bulgarian soccer star Hristo Stoichkov, and there was always the Count of Monte Cristo, but because there haven�t been too many Hristos, Ristos, or Krysztofs for me to cheer for, I extended my connection to all the cool Richards out there. That was also the name I chose for myself in English class on third grade. Everybody had to pick one, and the teacher always addressed us with our English names during that class.

We even called each other by the English names outside the class so much so that some of us still carry their third grade English names as their nicknames. Like Nicky Ojala.

Everybody wanted to be Steve because the coolest man out there at the time was Steve Austin, a k a the Six Million Dollar Man of the popular TV show. �Steve� wasn�t on our teacher�s list and it was therefore out of bounds. �Steven� was available. I didn�t get it.

Instead, I said I wanted to be Richard. But being shy, and having heard some of my buddies butcher their names, when it was my turn, I didn�t want to stand out. So, I just stood up next to my desk - as was the custom then - and pronounced it �Rick-hard�. My teacher shook her head and told me that I wouldn�t get the name until I learned to pronounce it correctly. I nailed it with my second try.

The ending of Robin Hood wasn�t boring anymore, thanks to King Richard the Lionheart. My other favorites included Richard Burton, Richard Nixon, and Richie Cunningham.

Last week, Son asked me if Hannes Kolehmainen - that one famous namesake of his that he knows - would be running at the Vancouver Olympics in February.

�No,� I said. �But Hannes Kolehmainen did run at the Stockholm Olympics in 1912, and won three gold medals at the Stadium you and I saw a soccer game last summer," I added quickly, to make it special.

Another Hannes, doing big things in Stockholm. I thought that was kind of cool.

But to be safe, I then told him that Han Solo�s first name is really �Hannes�.

It could be!

Sink or swim

Sun, 10 Jan 2010 20:58:23 +0100

I�m in the water. I�m telling myself to stay calm. Breathe. I inhale and move my arms and legs fast. I seem to be floating. Maybe I can do this after all. I move my limbs too fast. Too fast. No, too slow. I�m drowning. I move my arms faster. I kick the water as hard as I can. It doesn�t help. I. Can�t. Stay. Afloat. The water tastes likes shit. I spit. I close my eyes. I want to rub my eyes but can�t because if I do, I will go under water, and I will never get up.

�Risto!�

Somebody yells. I feel a pull in my stomach. I�m moving forward even though I�m not doing anything. What is this? What?

�Move your arms, keep your head up, breathe.�

I�m breathing. Can�t you see. That�s all I do. I�m moving my arms. I�m kicking the water. Kicking it. Kicking it with both feet. I hate it so I kick it as hard as I can. I feel another pull. I move forward again.

I can see again. I see a manlady walking next to me. Over me. To my right. It�s yelling at me. I hate its red pants and white T-shirt. Leave. Me. Alone. Monster.

It won�t. I feel the pull and I see that the pull is connected to the rude manlady�s hands with a rod. And a loop that�s around me.

�Come on! Do it!� it yells.

I grab a hold of the side of the pool. I stop. My fingers white, I hold on to the side of the pool. I see somebody�s spit floating towards me. I don�t care. I feel the pull again. I squeeze the tiles. I breathe. I�m panting. I want to go home.

�You�re done. Go back to the kiddie pool.�

The manlady wants to punish me by humiliating me. I don�t care. I get up, I run to the kiddie pool that�s behind a wall. I ease myself into the water. It�s warm. Warmer than in the other pool. I sit on the bottom. The water�s up to my neck. My hands on the bottom, I turn to my stomach so that my mouth�s under water. In my head I look like a crocodile in the Tarzan books and comics I've been reading lately.

# # # #

My Dad is the coolest. He runs from the sauna, first half-skipping, then in quick steps, trying to avoid the biggest stones, until he gets to the wooden jetty where he can run normally. His last three steps are cautious, but fast, as he approaches the edge and jumps into the water.

Splash.

Then nothing.

Then his head way way way way out there.

That is so cool. There�s nothing that�s cooler than that. Especially when my cool Dad does it.

Today�s the day I�ll be cool, too. I�m wearing my swimming trunks, and I run towards the edge of the jetty. I�m not as brave as my father, so I won�t jump in head first. I�ll go feet first.

Splash.

Then silence.

Forgot one thing. I can�t swim. Everything around me is brown. Or greenish. Brownish greenish. It depends a little on the sunlight. It�s more brownish towards the bottom, and greenish closer to the water's surface.

I�m going down. Everything gets more brown. It�s really brown now. I hate brown. Wait. Now it�s a little greener. And now greener. Now almost yellowish. I feel a pull in my wrist and I see other greens and other colors. I see the greens in the trees. I see the blue sky. I feel something squeezing my wrist. It�s a hand. It�s a man�s hand. It�s my uncle�s hand.

I inhale. I spit. I breathe. I like air.

# # # #

I'm in the water. I�m telling myself to stay calm. Breathe. I inhale and move my arms and legs. I seem to be floating. Maybe I can do this after all. I move my arms faster. I kick the water as hard as I can. It doesn�t help. I. Can�t. Stay. Afloat. I put my feet to the bottom and pretend to be swimming.

I do a duck walk towards Son. He�s spitting water. It must taste like shit. I know it. I remember. He�s splashing the water. Kicking it hard. He waves his arms.

�Take it easy. Inhale,� I hear myself saying. �You�ll float. You�ll be fine. Here, take my hand, I�ll pull you.�

�Don�t let go,� says Son. �Promise!�

�I�ll never let go. Trust me. Trust yourself. Trust the water.�

Don't sock'em

Wed, 6 Jan 2010 22:25:20 +0100

�Who�s going to like a guy who�s just being funny and doesn�t even want to wear socks?�
� Son, a week before Christmas, 2009

Your mother, Son, your mother. And I�m not talking about your mother as your mother, if you know what I mean. If you don�t, let me explain. Your mother, my wife, the smiling little chickity that takes care of business in and around the house, once fell in love with a guy who was just being funny, and never, ever, wore socks in his shoes.

(He did wear shoes).

Yes, that would be me.

The photo up in the upper left corner of this page is, in other words, not just a clever photo idea by a clever AD - although it is that, too - but instead, it�s just me sitting on a bench one summer day whe we needed a photo for a column I wrote.

I can�t really remember how that happened. Gradually, I think, because I remember a friend always laughing at me walking around with no socks, and his thing was to say, �I guess it�s not winter yet because Risto hasn�t dug up his socks�. That would indicate that I then, at some point, did dig them out, and wear them.

That would be in the early 1990s.

I do know that it all started with hockey. First, I read in some book, most likely Wayne Gretzky�s 1987 biography that Paul Coffey, the star defenseman, wore skates that were two sizes smaller than his shoes, to get a better feel of the ice. He also played barefooted.

In 1990, I spent a summer working for Tackla in Canada, and that summer re-ignited my passion for hockey after a year of �focusing on my studies�. So much so, that when I then in August followed the Tackla crew to a sports trade show, I bought new skates at the show. CCM VakuTacks, the hottest stuff around at the time. They warmed up the boot, and when you put your foot in, the warm padding inside the boot then was formed around my ankle, giving it a perfect fit.

The salesperson told me to take my socks off. I did, possibly for good.

At some point, I just stopped putting on the socks after a hockey game, I suppose.

Still, back in 1995, I was still wearing socks with a suit. I had a nice job at the Canadian Embassy, and suit was what we wore. Suit and tie. Once, I had a turtleneck under my jacket, and my boss stopped me at the printer (which was the official watercooler around which we talked to badmouth the said boss). He gave me an elevator look and said, �what are you, a rabbi?�

So, suit and tie it was.

Three months into the job, I was sent to a forestry seminar in Brussels, Belgium. It was a big deal at the time, because the environmental organizations were on Canada�s case, and there was pressure to create a certification standard. So, it was decided that people from different Embassies around Europe would gather in Brussels for a little pow-wow.

Representing Finland: Risto Pakarinen.

I flew into Brussels on a Saturday - cheaper - and walked around the city, enjoying the per diem I was on. On Monday morning, when the symposium was about to start, I got up early, and put on my suit. A new tie I had bought the day before, and then just my socks and shoes.

No black socks in the suitcase. Not a pair. Not anywhere.

The store next to the hotel? Closed, due to a Belgian holiday.

What�s a forestry expert from Finland to do? I don�t know, because I wasn�t one, but I just put on my shoes, tried to pull my suit pants down as much as possible, although not to any hip-hop lengths, and hope that they would cover my whiter-than-white ankles.

I took my place at the table and sat the entire day with my feet crossed at the ankles, under my chair.

And on Tuesday morning, before breakfast, I ran to the store next to the hotel.

�Excuse me, do you have socks?�  �Yes, sir, what kind?�

�Just regular black socks that I can wear with a suit.�

�What size, sir?�

�Um, 40, maybe.�

�Here we ha��

�How much?�

�400 francs, sir.�

�I�ll take them, thanks.�

�Sure, let me just put them in a bag for you, sir��

�No, no, I�ll wear them right now,� I said, took off my shoes, put the socks on, and went back to the hotel to ~~talk~~ listen to Canadian forestry experts.

The beginning of this habit may be a little blurry, but it is safe to say that I haven�t worn socks this side of the year 2000, so Wife has only known me as a barefooted funny guy.

Currently, I do own one pair of socks. Just in case. They�re black, and they might just be Belgian.