that tasted better going down

What a weekend! After Marta and Polly's long awaited return from Poland, we got to spend almost 24 hours at home together. Mind you, I was at work, but still. Then we left again. We just came back from a weekend trip to Helsinki.



I can't say I was eager to go. In fact, I had to be dragged to Helsinki, kicking and screaming. The dragging was done in that female, much more subtle style, though, so the kicking and screaming was mostly inside my head. Let me explain: first you're asked if you want to go. If you hesitate, the first attack to hit you is the guilt barrage. That'll knock you on your ass. To make it worse, they'll attack you from two fronts. What follows is the trick retreat: they pretend that it's ok if you don't come along. Only a very foolish man falls for this.



So what's left to do? Well, my strategy was stupid and useless: I kept complaining but went along. That way, they got their way and I got to spoil a lot of the fun.

The trip itself was actually enjoyable, though. Helsinki was nice and sunny. I bought a lot of books at a fabulous bookstore (Akademiska Bokhandeln) and had some fabulous fika at Fazer. In fact, I made the most of my Saturday, starting the day with taxfree M&Ms and finishing with some fine Swiss chocolate. As the boat left Helsinki last night, however, the winds that had started to blow cast an eerie shadow over our return voyage. And indeed: after I'd further doomed myself by having pasta for dinner* (see further details below if you're not sensitive) the rough seas provided me with temporary bulimia. I spent most of the long night cursing ships and trying not to think of all the sweets I'd consumed during the day.



A nice little result of the trip is that I got some key members of my traveling companions to join me in a chorus of "I'm never going by boat again -ever".



* An interesting and disgusting fact is that whenever I throw up, I've always had pasta. Don't get me wrong: I don't throw up when I've had pasta - but every time I throw up I've had pasta. See? The truly nasty detail is that once the actual bout of vomiting is over (for a while), I spit a few times, rinse my mouth and wash my face. Then I breathe in sharply through my nose to clear it and manage to dislodge, without fail, little bits of pasta once more in my mouth. I hate those little bits of pasta. Every damn time!