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The New Imperialists Finnish girls exhibit three distinct characteristics: they are surly; they like booze, and they definitely do not like me. It makes sense. The Artic Circle is freezing; it is always dark, and me? Well, I’m a bumbling drunk, whether home or abroad. I spent part of last summer in Estonia, on the Baltic Sea -- a 90-minute ferry ride from Finland and the more urbane Finnish city of Helsinki. Estonia won its independence in 1991 from the Soviet Union; it is a tiny country of a couple of a million people trying to shake free of its communist economy overhang. Things in Estonia are pretty cheap, so Tallinn, the capital, has become a stomping ground for the Euro-rich Finns. As the Finns gobble up sea-side real estate, cases of tax-free vodka, and bargain-priced Estonian prostitutes, Estonia grasps for economic salvation within the EU. As you can imagine, the Estonians are not enamored with their vodka-swilling, sauna-going neighbors. The Estonian collective bites its lower lip as the Finns maraud Estonian strip malls. They shake their head in shame as over-educated Estonian women spread their legs for $50 to pleasure their neighbors. Their eyes well with tears as they surrender old family homes to Finnish gentrification. All this for economic progress promised by their young, democratically elected Estonian government. It was a rainy Thursday night in August, and I was strolling down the streets of the Old City in Tallinn with a new deviant buddy, Leo, from Australia. Two things you will always find when traveling abroad, no matter the country: Australians to drink with, and Irish pubs to drink in. We entered one and started banging back some drinks in the desolate bar. Two girls walked in and ordered drinks next to us. We opened up the rap, but it was off to a slow start. We learned that the girls were 20-year-old Finns spending the night in Tallinn. The conversation was painful, and I let Leo take the lead. The girls started to speak Finnish, and Leo interjected, “Mates what are you talking about?” (Australians really do say “mate” all the time.) “Oh, we are going to sit down at the table and talk with each other,” said Finnish Girl #1 -- Tuula, with the blond hair. Her diplomatic statement was meant to distance them from us, the lecherous Yank and Aussie. Boutras Boutras Gali would have been proud. “Great, we will sit with you,” Leo responded, either oblivious to their desire to ditch us or simply really determined to get laid. I cringed as we joined them. I sat down next to Finnish girl #2. Saara was a cutie with long dark hair and ample Scandinavian breasts. I tried to engage her and her friend in witty banter but was met with blank stares and general ennui. Finally, the tide turned. Someone said the word “shot,” which apparently has international connotations. Saara’s and Tuula’s eyes lit up. As noted, the Finns like their booze. We started with a concoction called Lemon Drops, then moved on to Jaeger Bombs... The conversation flowed; the girls giggled and guffawed. Next, Saara suggested the four of us proceed to the local disco. We walked the streets of Tallinn like old friends. Saara looked at me, “I just want to tell you my stepfather will be at the disco.” “Really,” I responded, not knowing how this would affect the evening. We strolled into the disco, and I immediately was confronted with the Paul Bunyan of the Finnish forest. Step Papa was a strapping giant of a man -- north of 6 feet, with a shaved head and a build like a diesel engine. His hand enveloped mine. “So you want to knicker my daughter tonight?” he boomed his first words to me in broken English. “Very difficult; good luck.” Did I hear him right? “Excuse me, sir?” “You want to knicker my daughter. Good luck; very difficult,” he echoed again. He slapped my back. My head spun. I have had conversations with fathers stateside and there was absolutely no similarities to this conversation on the Baltic Sea. I decided to win him over with alcohol. I started banging back vodka shots with Step Papa. Next, Saara grabbed me and Step Papa and dragged us to the dance floor to join Leo and Tuula. Step Papa immediately dropped to the floor and started crab dancing -- kicking his legs out to the beat of the music. At that point I noticed he had a square patch of hair on the back of his head, with a long pony tail sprouting from it. Leo, Saara, Tuula, and I danced in a circle, with Step Papa in the center still doing the crab. His pony tail swung from left to right.
Step Papa The disco closed and the five of us proceeded to another Irish pub. Step Papa sat down with some random girls. The rest of us grabbed a table. I decided to make my move on Saara. “Hey, Saara, you know it would be great to cuddle and snuggle tonight. I have a hotel room about ten minutes from here,” I whispered in her ear. “That sounds good; let’s go after these drinks,” she responded. Then Tuula started speaking to her in Finnish. “What were you guys talking about?” I asked nonchalantly. “She is tired. She wants to go home now,” Sarah replied. Apparently Leo the Aussie didn’t interest Tuula beyond his willingness to buy alcohol. Like an Estonian merchant, he could be engaged at the Tuula’s whimsy and released with the same indifference. “You said you were going home with me,” I said to Saara. I saw my evening crumbling in front of my eyes. “Well, you can come home with us.” I nodded my head. The three of us left the bar as the sun started to peek out. Tallin was nearly deserted, with the occasional club-hopper weaving his way down the street. Majestic Russian Orthodox onion-domes poked into the dawn sky. Red tiled roofs evoked an earlier time. It was hard to imagine this former medieval kingdom, once graced by powerful lords and ladies, was the same city that was being befouled by the inebriated new overlords of Estonia: the Finns -- and on this night, one drunk American. The girls and I walked down the winding, cobblestone streets. Poor Leo could not salvage a deal with Tuula, and he was left behind.
Tallinn Square, at a more decent hour “Where are we going, by the way?” I inquired. “Step Papa’s apartment,” Saara responded. “Ahh, won’t that be a bit awkward?” I asked nervously. “Don’t worry, Step Papa will not come home.” Five minutes later we entered Step Papa’s tidy apartment. We placed Tuula on the living room couch. Saara led me to the bedroom; we lay in the big bed. “Who’s room is this?” “It is Step Papa’s bed,” she stated. I immediately felt queasy. On the one hand, I might have a new Finnish girlfriend; on the other, I might be added to the State Department’s growing list of missing U.S. travelers. I put the thought of Step Papa’s pending return out of my mind and undressed Saara as quickly as possible. She sported a navel ring and matching nipple rings. I forgot about Step Papa for the time being. My hand slipped down to her thong. “We can’t have sex tonight,” she warned. I said nothing. Who was I to complain? Then she rolled me on my back, slid my boxers down, and situated herself between my legs. After she took me down, she looked up at me. “What else can I do for you?” I looked at her dumbfounded; this girl should have been cloned, her copies distributed across the globe. Even though it was 7 a.m., I could barely contain myself. I had so much nervous energy, I could not fall asleep. I never encountered anything like this in the States. Women like Saara could throw off the entire global sexual economy. Forget about the Estonians, giving it up for minimum wage, how would U.S. women compete? I half-slept until about 10 a.m. I could not wait anymore. Saara woke up. She mumbled she had to use the bathroom. I waited. Five minutes, 10 minutes, 15 minutes passed. I heard Saara speaking to Tuula in the living room. She wasn’t coming back. I waited 10 more minutes. Nothing. The timing really could not have been any worse. I climbed out of bed and bent over to slide my pants on. The door swung open with a bang. It was Step Papa, staring at me. My mouth dropped wide open. He gabbled something, maybe English, maybe Finnish, and then slammed the door shut. My travels soon would be over. I would be killed by a Finnish Samurai mountain man. I dressed but waited another 10 minutes. I cautiously opened the door to the living room. Step Papa was entertaining the girls. He looked at me. “Stringy, Stringy?” he asked. “What?” I stammered back. “Stringy, stringy?” he reiterated. I then realized in my drunken state, that Step Papa’s pants were down on the floor. He was wearing a thong, pulling at the string. I was again simply dumfounded. “Boxers,” I meekly responded. He pulled up his pants. “I back in one hour. We take sauna, drink vodka.” I nodded my head. He left the apartment in a storm, grabbing a bottle of vodka. God bless him. He had a lot of energy. I started talking to Saara and Tuula. It was a replay of the early hours of the evening before: no smiles; one word responses. After 30 minutes, I called it quits. “Okay, I guess I am going,” I headed toward the door. The girls sat on the couch. “Bye.” They chirped together. Saara did not move. “Okay, I’m leaving.” “Bye,” Saara said. “Great meeting you,” I walked closer to the door. I was expecting Saara to jump off the couch and kiss me goodbye. “Bye.” She still was not moving. “Bye, girls.” I stepped out the door and closed it behind me. I heard movement in the apartment. Maybe Saara was coming to get me and tell me not to leave. I heard her approach the door; I turned to face her, then heard the click of the double bolt. Finnish girls do not like me. And in Estonia, if you’re a Finn, everything is disposable. As an American visiting different regions abroad in 2005, you expect a certain amount of backlash from people in the countries you visit -- and the stereotype of the drunken, lusty, ignorant American is not mitigated by our present foreign policy. But we’re not the only offenders. If the world is content to generalize Americans as pillaging hoards, it should apply the stereotype equally. Finland, famous mostly for the Artic Circle, cell phone maker Nokia, and reputed Scandinavian do-gooderness, might really be America on a smaller scale. Just as America barnstorms its way across the globe, so do the Finns on a regional basis. Their only agenda may be the single-minded pursuit of a good time, and on an individual level, they may not see the consequences. But the results are the same. Sure the Finns donated a larger percentage of its GDP to tsunami victims than did the United States, but Finnish probity takes a back seat after the 90-minute ferry ride to Tallin. Yet if changes in the new world order come with complimentary Finnish blow jobs, the rest of Europe -- and even the rest of the world -- really may not mind.
Rutt Simpson spent most of 2004 drinking his
way around the world. He'd write more stories like this one, but he
doesn't remember them. |
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