I’ve never understood why anybody would smoke in bed. Any romantic notions that people have about it are wrong, OK? It’s just wrong.
After having slept last night in a room where somebody secretly took a puff or two, I understand it even less. OK, it’s not a puff or two. It’s like there’s an old Russian guy sitting in the chair in the corner, smoking away.
Which is why it’s nice to have a balcony. With a view:
What a fascinating country. And I don’t understand a word. That said, I’ve only been here for a few hours, and have only met Evgeny, Elena, Vladimir, and Igor, and those four just briefly at the airport.
The passport control took a while, because apparently, there are only two daily flights from Magnitogorsk, and both to Moscow. Our charter was one of the first international flights, at least this year.
Not knowing the language is a little scary. And here’s a room you don’t want to enter.
And what are the odds of you watching a junior hockey game in 1994, and have a lady screaming, “PASI!” behind you throughout the entire game, only to find yourself face to face with Pasi, the TV commentator in Magnitogorsk in 2008.
Not sure, but the odds for me are 1:1.
What are the odds of your hitching a ride to Russia on a plane chartered by your old coach, now the GM of the team that you’ll be covering?
I don’t know, but right now, mine are about 1:1.
Off to ‘Gorsk.
(The guy in the photo is that old coach of mine, Juha Junno, now the GM of Kärpät).
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!
My mother believes in the power of thought, among many other things, but this one is so strong that she’s instilled some of that into my brain. Which is why, when I wanted a job at the Canadian Embassy, I actually walked around the block every day for a few days, to send good vibes up to the third floor.
(I did get the job).
Unfortunately, it also works the other way. This morning, as I was packing my tiny suitcase, I went back and forth about packing/not packing my glasses and contact lenses. I decided to pack them and … (drum roll) … my bag didn’t make it to Oulu. Not yet, anyway. I wonder how long I can wear the same pair of contacts. (Please, no comments about how long I can wear the same pair of underwear).
They promised me that the bag would be on the next flight, landing about now. Or if not on that one, surely on the 1 am flight. And at the hotel at 5 am.
But who knows, “they” are tricky people. “They” also say we put a man on the moon. Really?
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.
It started so innocently. My son and daughter had started this moving business – “Max Moving Men”, freely translated – and all I needed to do was lie on the bed while they would move our pillows and blankets from the bed to their storage.
My son took one end of the pillow, and my daughter the other as they carried everything to .. I don’t know where.
While I was lying there, they got tired of me and threw everything on top of me again. And then I moved my arm, and I heard how they ran away, screaming “monster!”
That sounded great so I got into it. They came back, I made a move, they ran away.
Then the pauses started to get longer. I heard them running towards the bedroom, and away from the bedroom, but not really into the bedroom. I thought they were just getting ready to meet the monster.
So I did the grown-up cheating thing: I looked. I peaked through a hole in my mountain of blankets and pillows, and I saw my son running past the bedroom, with a plastic helmet and a sword in his hand.
Just as I thought. They were preparing themselves for meeting the Monster.
I pulled the cover over me again and waited. I made a little breathing hole to myself, and waited. I heard the tapping of the tiny feet outside the bedroom, and laughed a little. Were they in for a surprise! This was a monster like none they’d ever seen!
And then the tapping stopped. I heard voices from far away, muffled voices, so I figured they were hiding. So I decided to wait them out and hide longer.
Ten minutes later, my wife came to tell me that she was going to the gym.
“What about the kids? What are they doing?” I said through my breathing hole.
“They’re reading in their little home in the bathroom,” she said.
“Oh.”
