Look who I bumped into at the airport!

Yes! That’s right! It’s totally the lady with the green hat and the orange suitcase, and her husband!

Still in Terminal 2, only this time in Helsinki, my city of birth. My city.

The city with the green trams, the hockey arena that smells like a real hockey arena, and the city of the park where I played with my son like my parents had played with me some 30 years earlier.

But now, Gate 29 is calling for me.

Yes, I’m still in Sweden. This far, my adventure consists of a subway ride with drunk Finns, and that’s not much of an adventure to me anymore. Been there, seen that, you know.

It’s been a while since I flew with Finnair, the pride of Finland, and hence, it’s been a while since I’ve been at Terminal 2 of the Arlanda international airport. This terminal is the backyard where SAS, the pride of Scandinavia doesn’t fly from.

Arlanda is the name of the Stockholm international airport, even if, with regular intervals, somebody comes up with a new name suggestion, such as re-naming it Alfred Nobel International Airport.

I want it to stay as Arlanda. I don’t mind naming it after the person who invented dynamite as much as I’d hate to see them go amiss the great slogan I have crafted for them (and tried to get the word of mouth going mostly by repeating it to my wife every time I or we have been to the airport):

Updated version: On Monday, I’ll I picked up my visa, and then I am off to Magnitogorsk for a quick trip to watch some hockey. And this is one of those trips that may be fun to live blog about, so I will do just that.

Join me on my Stockholm – Oulu – Magnitogorsk – Oulu – Stockholm adventure. Come back, and refresh often.

Back in 1990, I spent a fine summer day in Toronto, Canada, waiting in line to get into the American Embassy, to apply for a visa to enter the country. I had no idea that it would take me the entire day, but I remember the sense of freedom I felt when I emerged on the other side of the building seven hours later – and saw a hot dog vendor.

I wasn’t as lucky today, standing two hours in line to the Russian Embassy in Stockholm, trying to get in to apply for a visa to enter that country. I got close to the magic door, with only two people in front of me, when they closed the door for the day. Better luck tomorrow maybe.

It’ll be interesting to see whether they sell hotdogs on the other side of the building.

In the last two months or so, I’ve traveled across Europe, covering hockey games, talking to players, coaches and GMs in different cities, in different countries, in different languages. In every country, there are a million different stories, and fewer, but many, heroes.

Continue reading →

Here’s a mystery I have been thinking about for years, unable to solve it. Ready? Here it comes:

I’ve never (before) said this out loud for the fear of sounding inadequate, but … can somebody listen to the guy and read the tickers at the same time? I really can’t. I can read the tickers, but then I can’t really listen to the person speaking, and vice versa. (And yes, I might not be able to hear or see anything but the typo on that shot but that’s another blog entry).

But now, reading the magnificent Traffic: why we drive the way we do (and what it says about us) by Tom Vanderbilt, I feel liberated.

Disclaimer: the only time I can read one thing, and listen to somebody else, is when I’m reading a book/morning paper, and my wife says something to me – like last night when I read this paragraph:

We are led to believe that this is how people now process information, as if we are suddenly genetically programmed to multitask. Studies have shown, however, that the more information there is on the screen, the less we actually remember.

It’s interesting, though, when I was a kid, I took great pride in my ability to concentrate on a book and block the rest of the world, not hearing anything, or anybody.

I don’t seem to be able to do it anymore. My son is, though.

Today, as I was driving towards downtown Stockholm, and admiring the Old Town skyline, two thoughts entered my brain at the same time. Maybe three.

One, I was thinking that I have to tell my wife that Gamla Stan, the Old Town, is really beautiful and that we should probably move there.

Two, I was wondering why I always have to tell people where I was when I was thinking about something. It’s not that important, or even unusual that I think.

And three – and I just realize I’m listing the thoughts in reverse order, because this was the one I was thinking about as I was admiring the Old town – I was wondering if my children, one part Finnish, one part Swedish, will grow up to be Swedish, or Stockholmian first (and whether most people identify with the city first, and country second).

And naturally, I was thinking about that because I, born Finnish in Helsinki, am starting to feel at home in Stockholm. This city is Sweden to me. I don’t feel particularly Swedish, but a Stockholmian? Yes. In the last six months, I’ve found myself hesitating when people ask me where I come from. “Well, I came here from Stockholm, but I’m a Finn” is my standard line.

I get to pick and choose.

OK, so all the hockey players I write about are younger than me. (Not all of them, just the ones still playing). I read somewhere that there are only three players born in the 1960s in the Finnish league. And only one Chris Chelios in the NHL.

But, the next American president will still be older than me.

Different languages are fascinating. I’ve only recently learned that the Swiss German, the dialect of German people speak in Switzerland, isn’t really “Swiss German,” but several different dialects (that apparently are so different that a person from Basel has difficulties understanding somebody from Zurich). And that it’s only a spoken language. When the Swiss start writing stuff down, it becomes standard German.

Wow.

And the other day, I saw two hockey guys talking to each other, one in Czech, the other replying in Slovak.

Then I joined them and we spoke English, agreeing that Jagr is an amazing player.