Love on the Road 2015 (10 page)

I am, how should I put this delicately, not amused at our mode of transport for the weekend. I haven’t ridden a bicycle since I was in school and, while you never forget the
how
, the
why
doesn’t come back immediately. It doesn’t help that my bike has no gears, a jammed seat that is about two inches too high and a reverse-pedal braking system. Yet I soon find myself careening through the grid that makes up Joensuu. The streets are a patchwork of conflicting architectural opinions, bordered by nature’s majesty. Modern apartment blocks sit noisily next to older versions which, in turn, look down upon the traditional wooden mansions that, despite their varying degrees of neglect, bookend many of the streets, eyeing passers-by with their elegance and quiet authority. We ride the slight incline of Papinkatu, past the imposing gothic revival Lutheran church and turn left along Kauppakatu and into the Joensuun Tori.

This wide market is teeming every day of the summer with locals selling crafts, antiques and foods ranging from the traditional to the exotic. The market is flanked on the north and south by generic modern façades housing shops, offices and apartments and adorned with backlit signs advertising the stores therein. The western side houses a pedestrian thoroughfare that is home to a competitive version of street hockey this weekend and has a view of the Joensuun Taidemuseo or art museum. The eastern side is dominated by the Joensuun Kaupungintalo or theatre. In the centre of the market is a large teepee that is home to a temporary bar and cafe. We escape the heat here and order up a non-alcoholic beer for me and a sparkling water for the wife. After this pit stop, we take a brief turn around the market, eyeing and fingering the wares. My wife excitedly points out
the traditional dishes, and we resolve to pick up a few of the local Karelian pies. These are rye-bread delicacies that are somewhat suggestive of ladies’ nethers, filled with rice pudding and topped with dollops of egg butter.

We take our bikes again and peddle for the Suvantokatu and over the high bridge. Stopping at the midpoint, my wife points out that in the winter the temperatures can drop to - 40° Celsius, and the wind on the bridge can kill. An arresting thought, and I try to juxtapose the experience of cycling in +30° Celsius with standing stock still in the other. We ride a little further but stop for an ice cream in the courtyard of an apartment block where she used to live. The silence again descends like an unwelcome fly buzzing about and landing uninvited. I watch my wife absentmindedly pick the chocolate from her ice cream as she obviously relives one or more memories from this exact spot on a swing chair beneath a birch canopy. Unexpectedly, I feel the first sprig of affection for Joensuu. We pedal on along the east bank of the river, taking in the ancient train station, with its parked and preserved steam locomotive, cross the railway bridge and circle back to an indoor flea market, where we pick up a heart-shaped wicker basket to hold the Belgian treats we will give to my wife’s friends for their wedding tomorrow.

Back at the cottage we prepare for the arrival of the evening’s guests. Tiia is a bubbly local beekeeper with pale blonde hair and light blue eyes. She laughs freely and wears a clement smile. She is first out of the clapped-out VW wagon (circa 1980), and her arms wrap solidly about my wife in a very genuine embrace. Paul is her English (somewhere in the north) boyfriend. He is sinewy and wears the
buff hue of someone used to working outdoors, in this case, beekeeping and busking. I proffer an outstretched hand for a shake, but he counters with a familiar, masculine – if somewhat awkward – hug.

We sit and eat homemade guacamole and nachos and sip beers, ciders and sparkling wine. I made the guacamole despite my aversion to avocado, and I appear to be quite good at it. The added bonus being the opportunity to slice and peel a most hated culinary foe and smash it with as much force as I could muster. When an acceptable mush, I press another offensive food in with similar gusto: tomato. One of nature’s great fence sitters, it plays both sides, not sweet and enticing like a fruit and without the ruthless nutrition of a vegetable. I expound on this to our guests, who laugh, and I even draw an unwilling smile from my wife. I am good around people. I can always draw a genuine chuckle from a stranger.

We decide to take a dip in the lake before the sauna, so we take turns changing into our trunks and bikinis while I fire up the sauna. I steal a glimpse at my wife in the bedroom, her long limbs stretching and arching, covered in her milky skin. Paul calls me back to the land of the living. He has brought his steel six-string to the terrace and is belting out a bluesy rendition of Van Morrison’s ‘Moondance’. A hedgehog ambles past unconcerned. We walk down to the beach and observe the youth playing volleyball on the hot sand. I reach for my wife’s hand and our fingers brush, but she skips out toward the water’s edge ahead of me. She delicately dips a toe in and squeals with mock terror and secret delight at the chill. Paul and I suck in lungfuls of air and, without a word, race like children into the depths. Rising up
and pushing the hair back over my scalp I take in the silhouetted shoreline of spruce set against the cerulean lake as the golden sphere slowly falling from above. Children squeal as fathers tumble as monstrous krakens rising after them from the depths. Something within me stirs. Just a bud of a notion of an idea dreamt by a younger and more daring me. Perhaps, perhaps I would like to have this. This family, this lake, this life. I shake it off.

The sauna is pushing 70° Celsius when we’ve showered and taken our places. A bucket of birch branches soaking in water rests on the lower step, and we take turns flagellating ourselves. It’s supposedly good for circulation. I can’t speak to that, but I can confirm that it reddens and irritates the skin.

After the sauna, we suit up to head back into town. Paul is going busking on a stretch of the market, and we decide to tag along for support and to sample a little of the Joensuu nightlife.

The wife and I take our steel two-wheeled chariots and park outside the fast-food restaurant she called work so many years ago. The Dolly Burger. We find Paul perched in front of the Pizza Buffet, already belting out a Robert Johnson classic when a relatively impaired young woman approaches him. ‘Can I be your dancer?’ she shrieks and, without encouragement or rhythm, begins to gyrate in a fashion unsuited to the Delta blues. Her movements, though not graceful, do have the effect of arresting the male traffic passing by and, before long, the gentle chime of coin on coin ceases as notes are placed in Paul’s upturned cap. One man drops a two-euro coin shy of the target and our fearless dancer bends double to retrieve it, giving Tiia, my wife and I a full view, nothing left to the imagination. The
girl then resumes the vertical, oblivious, and to shocked laughter. We decide to call it a night.

The morning finds me naked and riddled with mosquito punctures, which I do not mind so much as long as they have the grace to be silent as they dine. There is plenty of me to go around and I am content in my largesse so long as my sleep is not interrupted. My wife is still slumbering and I bend and kiss her forehead as I steal in to the kitchen to make coffee. While waiting, I look myself over in the bathroom. Since I’ve stopped drinking, I have unburdened myself of ten kilos, and my eyes are generally white and not pink with red inkblots. My breathing is easier today, and my hair is less lank and pathetic. I am relaxing? What has the loch done to me? Reasonably pleased with my progress, I march in quiet triumph to the terrace and, coffee beaker and cup in hand, set myself up for some work time.

When my beloved arises, I quickly pour her a cup of coffee and wash some raspberries to go in her yoghurt. In the microwave, I heat a stale, sugar-coated Belgian waffle that I had in my backpack, and we eat in near silence. Then she microwaves two Karelian pies, which are disposed of quickly. On a wedding day, you never really know how long it will be before your next meal. We shower, we dress. I am suited and
booted in a white shirt with blue check, a mustard-yellow knitted tie and dark fuchsia slacks. My wife is pure elegance in Perse silk, shoulders exposed; heads will turn throughout the day when she walks by. We are forced to saddle up and head to the market so that my wife can have her hair coiffed and nailed up as befits her. In the meantime, I fetch some ribbon to add to the Belgian hamper. A beautiful basket of Belgian chocolates, Speculoos spreads, beers and schnapps. Afterwards, I sit and have a coffee out of the glare of the sun, under the protective wings of the teepee. I collect her from the hairdresser, and we glide along toward the church.

My wife spots some old classmates hiding under the shade of a tree, and she hurries over with me in full puppy-dog mode behind. I nod and smile as I am trained to do. Not speaking the language limits conversation and, although Finns generally speak English, they are not the most gregarious of people. Looking about, I study the faces, trying to separate family from friend. It’s purely a guessing game, as I don’t know a soul here and am fully prepared to fend for myself throughout the day. We move inside after the pleasantries and brief biographical updates and find a nice cool pew.

The church is relatively Spartan but has distinct New England decorative features or, at least, what Hollywood has taught me to be of New England. Behind the altar is a large fresco of the Crucifixion, and the ceiling is an impressive painted canopy of interwoven ivy. The groom rises on the command of the organ: tall, bear-like, blonde and gallant-looking in traditional Victorian wedding attire. The bride is led up the aisle, blushing in white silk and embroidery, with a shock of crimson hair tumbling to one side and
down her shoulder. The ceremony is short, simple and blessedly all about the couple. After vows are sworn, rings are exchanged and then it is a simple kiss and the newlywed couple proceed outside with the guests falling in behind, blowing bubbles from little canisters while the photographer tries to grab every shot she can. We hitch a ride to the reception with two of my wife’s old class friends: Reija and Jarno, a short-of-stature couple with the distinction of not being in any way distinct.

The dinner and reception are held on a rustic old farm on the far side of the lake. A renovated barn houses the brunt of festivities. Two long white-clad tables, adorned in pink, are lined up in the annex. The walking dinner is comprised of traditional steaming vegetable stews, succulent meat dishes, creamy sauces, fresh salads and Karelian pies. Deserts follow in rich succession, and all is helped along with free-flowing wine, the notorious Finnish gin concoction known as ‘long drink’ and, for me, a sweet, non-alcoholic ale that is extremely easy to imbibe. There are no speeches, just laughter from the groom. The party eventually dissolves and small cliques begin forming.

The groom suddenly asks if any of the male coterie can help him with ‘paperwork’, and a conspiring look falls over the men present. The women roll their eyes in mock exasperation before shooing their dates out. Just as I am about to take my seat, another member of the party approaches and asks me to join. My wife smiles and, with a shooing motion I too am banished to do the ‘paperwork’. A wave of apprehension sweeps over me as I try to imagine the incredulous faces of the hard-drinking Finns as I explain that the only foreigner, an Irishman, does not partake. We tumble along
down a grass verge, away from the clamour of the other celebrants and come to a stop in front of a high, windowless barn, even more ancient than the other farm structures. A small door is opened and my guide ducks inside. I follow and am greeted by the sight of nearly all of the male guests bent low over dark wooden tables, pouring glasses of Scotch and vodka and Kossu into crystal tumblers. One member of this exclusive club is handing out cigars, and this picture is watched from above by a framed scene from an imaginary card game between Marilyn Monroe, Humphrey Bogart, James Dean and Elvis. A cigar and a tumbler are pushed my way but, with careful dexterity, I accept the finest of Havana while rejecting Scotland’s charm. This is spotted by the groom who simply shrugs and continues extolling the merits of whiskey over vodka, or I assume as much – the conversation is taking place in Finnish, after all.

We then step outside, away from the natural tar perfume of the cabin, to enjoy the chosen poisons in the now cooling air. I take a pull from the cigar and the cloud is rich, warm and fragrant with vanilla. Laughter erupts as one of the more inebriated gents falls backward on his arse but, with practiced skill, spills not a drop. The conversation begins to open up and, before I know it, the alien tongue has transferred into something familiar, as I am being jabbed and jibed in my own native speech. The reticent Finnish male needs only a drop or two of Dutch courage before he blooms.

Before long, we are being summoned by the expectant females. The traditional bouquet-throwing is about to begin. We wade around the excited school of unwed women and take our places. Who among my newfound northern brothers will be next down the aisle depends, as tradition
goes, on the flight of a bouquet of flowers and the speed and strength of his chosen cohort. The bride mounts the ramp toward the upper level of the barn. She looks back with a sly grin and winks at the assembled. Her arms clasp the stem of the bouquet and with flurry of speed and silk, the bouquet is sent skyward in a ferocious arc. The women push and pull, but the bouquet has chosen and, with a little backspin, seems to evade several hands before landing in the clutches of Reija. I turn to Jarno, his head drops.

I find my wife’s gaze, her green eyes alive with delight. I laugh. It’s a laugh I have not heard in a long time. Free and clear and innocent.

Moments later, I am told to take the place of the women, as another tradition must unfold. The throwing of the bride’s garter. The groom bends low on the ramp and burrows beneath the rows of embroidered cloth while the bride again offers up a knowing and suggestive wink. He stoops before emerging, triumphant, with the circular ribbon in his hand. With little ceremony, he turns his back on his congregation and tosses the garter skyward. This arc is more at the mercy of the breeze and falls short to the front row. A grunt and grab are all it takes for the winner to step forward. A round of applause and a bow and this part of the festivities has come to an end.