...I got in touch with my wild side

And by 'wild' I mean feral.
Yes, this is kind of about Japan again but this story takes place in quaint little Finland. Let's go back in time to the year 2014. It was August and I had just returned from Japan (and also Hawaii). I remember this because while returning the airline managed to lose my suitcase so I had lost a year's worth of clothes and memorabilia and I was pretty broken up about it. But there was something that made my day a bit brighter: I was going to meet a bunch of my friends in Finland. See, one of the Finnish girls, Reetta, had invited me, Tytti and Mary to her summer cottage in the Turku archipelago. Mary was doing a Euro-trip with her family and she had convinced them to join us for a few days. I couldn't miss this opportunity so I gathered what little clothes I had left, stuffed them into a duffel bag and headed to Finland.
The trip to Turku wasn't too exciting so I'm going to summarize it in a few lines: I got on a boat, a train, was confused by the language (so much like Estonian but so... not), met up with my friends and took a quick trip around Turku. It was great seeing everybody again and I almost felt as if I hadn't left at all. The next day we headed off to the summer cottage to enjoy the end of Summer as northerners do: with sauna, barbecue and beer - a winning combination. I have a distinct feeling there was something other than beer being served at the cottage but I honestly can't remember.
Anyway, the day started off pretty tame. We had lunch on a small open terrace next to the house, took a little walk around the forest and just enjoyed the beautiful (although a bit chilly) weather. As it got darker we popped open our first beers and heated up the sauna and the grill. I'd been away for a year and realized just then how I'd missed the little things I love about Estonia: the forests, the clean air, the food, sauna and just the general atmosphere. I guess that's what made me get in touch with my more... primitive side.
It all started with dinner. We'd gotten some steaks and started to grill them as the sun was already set and it was almost pitch black outside. The crowd that was with us in the cottage had split into smaller  groups with some of us in the house and others outside. Me and Tytti were outside, waiting for our stakes to cook, staring at them with ravenous eyes. We were pretty hungry and the meat looked just so delicious... As soon as the stakes were ready we grabbed some plates and...
'Uh... where are the knives and forks?'
We were both trying to find them on the wooden table on the terrace but they weren't there. They were supposed to be but apparently someone had forgotten to bring them outside. Or perhaps they weren't even supposed to be outside. I guess by that point we had had a few drinks because neither me nor Tytti realized that it would have been incredibly easy just to go inside and grab some utensils. Instead, we solved the problem in our own way.
'What are we supposed to eat these with?'
'Our hands?'
'What...? Should we?'
'Why not?'
....
......
'Yes, we definitely should.'
It was a sound plan. A sound, disgusting plan. See, this is why I'm 100% sure there was more than beer involved. Perhaps vodka. Perhaps tequila. Perhaps both... simultaneously. In any case, the next moment I found myself with a huge chunk of meat in my hands, ripping it apart with my teeth like some kind of feral animal. I'm pretty sure I growled. In hindsight, it was one of the most unfeminine things I have ever done. I would've been ashamed as well if it hadn't been for the cover of darkness and the fact that I wasn't the only one going primal on a piece of meat. In the dark no one could see the grease running down my fingers or the BBQ sauce covering my face. They could hear the animal noises I was making but they probably thought it was a rabid bear or something. I'm pretty sure I sounded like that. I've got to say though that it must have been one of the best steaks I've had in my life. It was gone in a matter of minutes and I was left with greasy hands, a full stomach and an overwhelming sense of shame... which disappeared relatively quickly with the help of a bit of Salmiakki (the only drink in the world made of demon bile).
Next was the sauna. It had been a long time that I'd been in a real sauna and I was loving every moment of it. It was hot, dry and there was a lake just a few steps away. Jumping into the ice cold water after a ling stay in the sauna I felt alive and full of energy. I didn't even realize how much I'd missed that feeling until I experienced it. I felt... strangely free. Everything was amazing. And the weird part: I don't usually enjoy dipping into cold water after sauna. I'm more of a snow girl myself.
I wasn't the only one who was really feeling the sauna. Even the Hawaiians were on board with it, even though the whole concept must have sounded insane to them when they first heard it, and Tytti was doing flips when jumping into the lake. I don't remember how long we stayed in the sauna but it must have been one of my longest sauna sessions. I don't even remember when I got to the small cabin I was sharing with Mary. All I know is I had an amazing night that made me feel truly... Estonian again.
Aaaaand then there was the morning after.
Well... yeah... I remember the ground felt unstable hours after waking up. I didn't feel sick, just... unsteady. I wasn't the only one suffering though. We were all tired, groggy, a bit sick and very, very slow... Oh, and Tytti's face looked like she'd had a one-on-one with Rocky Balboa the previous evening. Apparently, while doing her flips she had miscalculated a bit and attacked the lake with her face. The lake won. The bruises didn't disappear for a few days but hey, what doesn't kill you...
I had to head back to Estonia that very day and the trip was... not really as bad as it could have been. I survived and by the time lunch came around I felt like a human being again. Despite the morning after being what it was I don't really have any regrets. Not about eating meat with my hands or taking a topless dip in an ice cold lake. Nope, it was a great night and remembering it makes me miss that Summer more than ever. Oh, to be young again...

...I was on a road trip with roaches

This happened a while ago, waaaaay before I became Dietrich's owner. Oh yeah, that's the name of my car. Because he's a Volkswagen... Anyway, it was during my second trip to Hawaii, when I went there for two months... for 'tourism'. Back then I didn't have a car of my own so the only time I had the chance to drive was when my mom lent me her car. And that didn't happen very often. So by the time I reached Hawaii I hadn't driven for over a year but I didn't think about it too much. After all, the likelihood of me having to drive there was relatively low.
Little did I know...
I went to Hawaii with my sister and her best friend and at first we hung out together on Kauai. They decided to go island hopping while I decided to mooch off my friend Mary and try to find a 'volunteer' job. While they were island hopping my sister and her friend decided to turn to couch surfing for accommodation. If you aren't familiar with it... google it. Basically, it's a website where people offer housing for travelers for free. It's a great way of meeting new people and traveling when you're broke.
Long story short: after my sister and her friend started island hopping they had some issues with one of their couch surfing hosts. I don't remember what happened there but suddenly they found themselves on Kauai with no place to stay and no way to get to my friend Mary's place. They called us and asked for help and that's when it was decided that since everybody else was busy I should take one of their cars and go pick them up.
That was... wonderful... (I'm being super sarcastic here). I hadn't driven for ages and I had never enjoyed it. Besides, this was a completely unfamiliar car (a PT Cruiser) and a completely unfamiliar place. Thankfully Kauai only has one highway that goes around the island so it was unlikely for me to get lost (although I can be pretty gifted at getting lost when I want to be) and Mary drew me a nice little map of Lihue (where my sister-guys were currently stranded). Okay, I was panicking a bit but I had to do it. It was my job to help them out and besides, the car was an automatic so it couldn't be that hard, right?
'Oh, by the way, there's a roach infestation in the car. Just thought you should know,' were Mary's parting words as she waved at me sitting in the car, 'And the AC doesn't work.'
Lovely. This was getting better by the minute. Not only was it hot as hell outside, I also had to deal with roaches. It's not that I'm afraid of roaches - I can handle them if I need to and they're nothing compared to spiders - but I don't particularly like them. Anything with more that four legs is an abomination in my eyes (well, maybe not butterflies but everything else - yes, even ladybugs).The AC was a bigger problem because - guess what! - it was really hot outside. Well, I guess I could just roll down the windows... except there were parts of the island that smelled like week old roadkill. Whatever, I just needed to suck it up and get to the airport. How hard could it be?
The first five minutes were terrifying... and then it got worse. I realized the PT wasn't a very powerful car. Driving uphill was a nightmare because the car moved like a 60-year-old morbidly obese grandmother about to have an asthma attack, whereas going downhill it moved like an Olympic skier. It rattled a bit and it got really hot and stuffy inside in a matter of minutes but hey, I'd driven worse. At least it wasn't stick shift (yeah, I've still not gotten on to that bandwagon). The really horrifying part came when I saw a sight that told me that the speed limit was 25 m/ph.
Why was that so scary? Well, I realized I knew nothing of the rules and regulations of the area. Was my driver's licence even valid here? I mean, it should have been but one can never know. And how would I prove that the car wasn't stolen if someone decided to pull me over? How fast was I allowed to go on the highway? How fast could I go in town? Was there anything else I needed to know? I felt like I was driving blind. I had a faint idea of what I was doing but it still felt like I was lost. My only hope was that no one decided to pull me over. Until then I decided to go as fast as the people in front of me and act as if I knew what I was doing. That's kind of how I go through life anyway so I hoped it'd work for me this time as well.
The one highway thing really worked to my advantage here because it is like a conveyor belt - you don't really have many opportunities to pass the car in front of you because the road is curvy and there's a bunch of hills. That way everyone moves at almost the same pace. I just got in line with everyone else and tried to look as inconspicuous as possible until I reached Lihue.
Once I got there... well, by that time I'd gotten the hang of driving on the island but now I was faced with another problem. The map Mary had drawn me was... well, I can't say it was confusing but I felt as if it didn't represent the actual area all that well. Also, I met Rodney. Rodney the Roach. That's what I named him. He popped up when I was almost in Lihue. I don't know where he came from - he might have been crawling up my leg the whole drive - but one minute he was on edge of the windshield on my left, just happily crawling along, looking like he was one second away from jumping at my face.
As I've said, I don't mind cockroaches that much and I can leave them be if they're doing their thing in a dark corner somewhere. But Rodney was huge and he was in my face - almost literally. I tend to be a jumpy person so I was somewhat concerned that if he did decide to do a leap of faith and jump at me I would probably crash the car... and Rodney would survive that.
I think I don't need to say that I was pretty jumpy the whole time I was driving through town. I didn't know where I was going and Rodney didn't make things easier for me, being in my field of view the whole time. I did almost drive past the intersection where I was supposed to turn right but a last minute maneuver saved me from doing a lap around town. I did break some laws doing that but nobody seemed to mind. The sudden motion startled Rodney, however, who let go of the window and tumbled down... into my lap.
Gross. So, so gross...
In any other situation I would have jumped up and thrown him off of me. But I was driving so I didn't have an option to do that. Instead I just sat there while he squirmed and tried to get back on his feet again. It felt disgusting and I couldn't help but feel a bit... violated. In a few moments, however, Rodney got to his feet and jumped off of me, landing god knows where. Almost at the same time I arrived at the airport where my sister was already waiting. I traded places with her promptly.
The drive back was better because I wasn't sitting in the front seat anymore and even if some roaches found their way to me I could swap them off. I remembered again why I disliked riving so much and hoped I wouldn't have to do it again in a long while. A fool's hope. A few days later I took the car again to drive to my 'volunteer' job. It got better after a while and at some point the roaches were exterminated from the car but the memory of Rodney still stayed and I couldn't help but feel a bit squeamish every time I got in the car.

...my style was considered too 'dangerous'

This is going to take a while before it get's going so just bear with me guys. I'm going to rant a lot here and I know it's a controversial subject but... just deal with it. I'm really not trying to make a statement here - it's just something that came up in a conversation a little while ago and I want to get it off my chest (no pun intended). 

Let me start this off by saying I am by no means a feminist. Well, at least not the militant type. I guess you can say I am a believer in gender equality. I do believe that women can do anything if they put their mind to it and they deserve equal opportunities and equal wages. That being said, I know that men and women will never be - can never be - completely equal. That's just nature for you. We can change society but we can't change nature - we can't change who we are. Nature intended women to carry and nurture their young while men went out to hunt. That's how it's always worked and while stay-at-home dad's are becoming more common as time goes along (and there's nothing wrong with that) it's only natural for women to be more family-oriented and men to be more career-oriented. Genders have different roles to play and there's nothing wrong with that. We should just accept it as it is instead of trying to change something that's basically set in stone.

That, however, does not mean we should accept sexism. See, sexism and gender roles aren't the same. Sure, sometimes it's hard to tell the difference and there are people willing to grab their torches and pitchforks as soon as someone dares to point out the differences between genders - or dares to point out that there are differences - but those people are fanatics and I'm not going to go off on a rant about that. I honestly didn't plan to go on a rant at all but due to the nature of my story I feel like I have to. And that's sexism for you.

Yes, I know that both men and women are affected by it and I am aware that often we tend to gloss over sexism that's directed at men. We have debates about the wage gap, public breastfeeding and domestic abuse directed at women... while barely acknowledging that many domestic abuse victims are men. We all agree that rape is a terrible and serious subject... unless it's a woman raping a man - then it's apparently funny (I'm looking at you 'Wedding Crashers', you disgusting piece of rubbish). We glorify girls who are tough and fight to achieve their dreams, we admire them and look up to them while looking down on boys who cry. I could go on and on about how women aren't the only ones oppressed and how sexism works both ways but today I'm going to talk about me.

I think we can all agree... okay, maybe we can't but let's just pretend. Let's pretend that we can all agree that women have to deal with a lot more than men. We have to pay more attention to how we dress, who we hang out with, where we go and what we do - apparently it's a woman's job 'not to get raped'. We are the ones who have to make sure it doesn't happen. Not the men who - you know - actually do it. It's strange but it's true.

From a very young age girls are taught to be modest. We are taught to cover ourselves and not let too much show. If you wear clothes that are too revealing, too tight, too sexy then you're apparently asking for something... and that's your fault. I don't know about everyone else but when I shop for clothes I tend to label them in my head: too ugly, too prudish, too slutty, too ugh!, too girly... Sometimes I really like a dress or shirt or a pair of pants but I choose not to buy them because 'it would make me look like a whore' and I don't want to give someone the wrong idea about me. I know it's stupid. The clothes do not make the man - or the woman for that matter. Wearing a shirt with cleavage doesn't make me a slut - I'm still the same person acting the same way I always do - but still, I have to avoid looking a certain way if I don't want to be mistaken for a whore. And that's something men don't really have to worry about.

You might wonder why I started this rant and if it's actually going anywhere. Well, I'm getting to it... soonish.

See, I have a... somewhat curvy figure... and I like to wear clothes that show that off. I'm not trying to impress anyone - it just makes me feel good about myself when I look into the mirror and like what I see. Sadly, most of the clothes that suit my body and make me feel good about myself have cleavage... and when you have cleavage you tend to turn a few heads... and then those heads might make some rather crass remarks about your body...

Let's go back to Japan for a moment. The year was 2014 and it was Summer. Summer in Japan is super hot so for most of the time I would wear long, flowing skirts and sleeveless tops. I liked my clothes and by European standards they were pretty conservative. Not totally conservative but I wasn't wearing skimpy mini-skirts like all the Japanese girls around me. Apparently in Japan it's really popular to show off your legs so girls love to wear mini-skirts. And by mini-skirts I mean belts. Seriously, those skirts were so small you could literally see their underwear while they were walking up the stairs... or down the stairs... or just walking... or standing... or doing anything really. I didn't like to have random Japanese girls' panties in my face every time I went up the stairs but it was something I had to get used to. Nobody else seemed to mind so why should I... 

So one day, in Japanese class, I was sitting around in my long skirt and top when my teacher came up to me and said:

'Oh, umm... Grete... about your clothes... I feel like I have to say that your way of dressing is a bit... dangerous.'

I blinked and stared in amazement. I understood she meant that my style was too provocative and therefore dangerous for me but... why? I wasn't showing off my legs, I was wearing flip flops and my top - while it did have a stooping neckline - was far from sexy. It was just a normal summer top! I have never in my life tried to look super sexy or be very provocative. I just knew my strengths and weaknesses and preferred to show off the former while disguising the latter. 

'Here in Japan girls don't... show off their chest like that. I'm sorry, I don't want to offend you but since your mother isn't here I feel like I have to be like a mother to you and protect you.'

Uh... great... Yeah, that was really sweet... Except that it really wasn't. Why the hell were girls allowed to walk around practically pantsless while I had to burn all my V-necks? In fact, why was it anyone's problem what I was wearing?! It was hot, I was suffering and I wanted to have as little clothes as possible! But that was a big no-no. I was dressing too 'dangerously'! And that kind of ticked me off. Why wasn't I allowed to wear what I wanted? I was hot and it made sense to wear small tops (that might've showed off a little bit of cleavage). Why was anyone bothered by it? It was none of their business! 

After that I started realizing that apparently my clothes really were too 'dangerous'. I would see guys staring at my chest on the subway, at school, on the street... Thankfully this was Japan and me being a foreigner made me more scary than sexy. Like a flesh eating zombie with a nice rack - confusingly sexy but you wouldn't want to touch it with a ten foot pole. The stares were getting annoying though. I learned to live with it - it was really nothing new for me.

What was new was the time I was in Kyoto and a random middle school student ran up to me and took a picture of my cleavage. I was just standing around, taking in the wonderful view when suddenly there was a short Japanese boy in front of me. He had a camera in his hand, pointed at my chest. There was a small 'click' and before I could even react he ran off, never to be seen again. I didn't get angry. I was just confused... and surprised. Was my chest really such a big deal to deserve a photo? Well, apparently it was. Who knew. 

I can't say it didn't affect me though. Sure, I wasn't going to change how I dressed just because people were staring or warning me or even taking pictures. I loved my clothes and I liked the way I looked in them. It wasn't anyone's business how I dressed or how much skin I was showing. But still... Isn't it sad how a piece of clothing can turn a person into an object? How a shirt or a dress can be considered 'dangerous'? How I have to critically look over every article of clothing I have and decide whether it's okay to wear it outside? The worst part is that it shouldn't be my problem. My Japanese teacher was wrong: my way of dressing wasn't dangerous. An article of clothing can hardly be considered dangerous and me wearing it poses no threat to anyone. What's dangerous is the person who interprets my choice of clothing as a message. Who looks at me and thinks I'm trying to get attention, that I'm looking for something - or someone -, that I'm asking for... for what exactly?
I know I tend to wear clothes that may be considered too 'revealing' and I've gotten used to the fact that sometimes guys forget where my eyes are when they're talking to me. I don't even mind it that much anymore. What I do mind is people telling me I should change my style because it's either 'distracting', 'provocative' or 'dangerous'. Instead of me changing the way I dress some people should just change the way they think. Why don't we just spend more time teaching boys that no matter what kind of clothes a girl wears it doesn't mean she's easy or a prude. If a girl wears revealing clothes it doesn't mean you have a right to call her names, try to grope her or snap a picture of her breasts. I know sexism won't go away just because I want it to - it has always been there and will never disappear completely. But really, could we just get over the subject of clothing already? Can't we just all agree that women have the right to wear what they want without being treated as a slut or a prude or a weirdo by men and other women? No? Well... okay then... Guess some things never change...
I guess I should be happy though. At least I won't get stoned to death on the street for flashing my neck... and showing off my ankles isn't a public scandal anymore. Times have changed and I realize I live in a relatively liberal time. But for some reason I still feel like women have to deal with the same prejudices we've always had to deal with. I don't know if there's any way of actually changing that. Lectures don't work. Increasing awareness doesn't really do it. Radical feminism definitely isn't the answer. I guess... all we can do is start to improve thing little by little by telling our brothers, sons, friends and others to treat women with respect? Sure, yeah, let's do that. Oh wait, that would require everyone to agree that there actually is a problem and that's never going to happen. Not to mention that there are plenty of women who are bigger chauvinists than men. Women who do believe that a woman's place is in the kitchen. That a lady shouldn't go to a bar. That a victim of assault probably 'had it coming'. I would love to say that conservative homemakers are a dying breed but they're not. As long as there are people there are going to be chauvinists and sexism will always be around. Guess I should just be happy that I get to experience more freedom than a lot of my peers around the world. 

...it snowed on Christmas

'What? When was that?' I hear you all gasp in disbelief.

Yeah, I know. It's kind of sad, isn't it. I live in cold, cold Estonia - a frozen wasteland for most of the year. It starts snowing in October and if we're lucky the snow melts in April. But for the past few years there's been no snow on Christmas. Because that's just what the weather is like here. For the past few weeks it's been snowing, raining, snowing and raining again. Sometimes it doesn't rain or snow but the ground freezes over so everything is nice and slippery. It's the weather's way of saying 'I hate you and I hope you die but I'm not going to work super hard to achieve it.' Yup, Estonia: a place where even the weather is passive aggressively trying to kill you.

But let's rewind a bit and go back to Japan. 'Another Japan story?!' I hear you moan in disappointment.  Yeah, another Japan story. This is my blog so just deal with it.

The year was 2013 and I was in Japan. Christmas was approaching fast and the semester was ending. This meant that a lot of our friends were leaving Japan and a lot of others were going back home for the holidays. There was only a small group of us left which meant the apartment building was going to be pretty empty and quiet. I didn't have the time or the money to go back home so I opted to stay. That being said, I did feel a bit sad and uneasy doing it. A lot of my close friends were leaving the apartment building and I had no plans for Christmas - it looked like I might be spending the holidays alone and that was a whole new level of sad for me.

Thankfully, one of the Finnish girls - Minna - contacted me and proposed we hold a Scandinavian Christmas Party for the other students. I was all for it. After all, I didn't have anything else to do and I was pretty psyched about the fact she considered Estonia to be a part of Northern Europe. Take that, people who call us Eastern Europe! We're further north than Denmark! Also, take that, Denmark!

'Why don't we cook some traditional Christmas foods and invite everyone over,' Minna suggested, 'I'm sure you know some traditional Estonian recipes that everyone would like.'

'Yeah... let's do that...'

Traditional Estonian Christmas foods, eh? Umm... sauerkraut? Oh wait, that's German. Bloody sausages and black pudding? Pretty sure those are German as well. Meat... jelly...? Ugh, I wouldn't even know where to start with that and I haven't eaten it in ages. Pretty sure it's disgusting. I honestly had no idea what to cook because... it's pretty hard to find traditional Estonian recipes that are purely Estonian. Historically we were slaves! We didn't have food, let alone recipes! We ate twigs and dirt and the occasional rat on Christmas! Okay, maybe it wasn't that bad but seriously - Estonian cooking has a lot of German and Russian influences and to find something truly original is a difficult task. What exactly is a 'traditional Estonian dish'? Kama? Uh... sour cream? Rye bread? Sadness and misery? Pretty hard to plate that though... 

None of those things were freely available in Japan. In fact, if you want real sour cream in Japan you have to send out a 100-man search party and hope they return within a week. Or you can go to a bigger mall and spend an hour (at least) looking for it in the dairy section only to find a miniature packet stuffed between a box of sesame-flavored soymilk and some sort of weird string-cheese looking product that's apparently made of seaweed. Because most food products in Japan are either made of rice or seaweed.

Anyway, it took me a while to finally figure out what to serve during the Christmas party. I couldn't figure out any traditional Estonian foods that I could have prepared without an oven and with the raw materials available to me so I decided to do what I always do in these situations: bullshit my way through it. I made a salmon dip with cream cheese, smoked salmon and onions, cut up some rye bread and I guess we also had some mashed potatoes and meatballs. And mulled wine, I think... Honestly, it's all kind of fuzzy but I do remember the 'authentic traditional Estonian salmon dip'. It was great and technically it was a traditional Estonian dish because it was traditionally made by me - an Estonian. That's how it works, right?

So we got our stuff ready, spent half a day cooking and in the end we had a relatively large group of people attending our Christmas dinner. Everyone was sitting on the floor and eating off plastic plates but we were pretty content with it. At least we weren't alone and it wasn't as cold anymore. We listened to some Christmas songs and just enjoyed each other's company and in the end headed off to karaoke, like we always did. My memories might be a bit fuzzy but I'm pretty sure it started snowing as we were walking to the carwash-karaoke place that we always frequented. Pretty sure...

The snow was pretty much gone the next day but it didn't matter much. At least for a moment we had a white Christmas and that made Japan feel much more like home. Sure, a part of me still missed my family and friends but at least it felt like Christmas. What did not feel like Christmas was the karaoke. Sure, we sang some classic Christmas songs like 'All I want for Christmas', 'Last Christmas' (by Wham!!!!!!) and 'I'll make a man out of you' (What? That's not a Christmas song, you say? Well, I say it is and you can just shut your mouth when you're talking to me!) and it was great fun but it was definitely one of the more unconventional Christmas things I'd ever done... Not to mention that we preformed what must have been the worst rendition of 'What does the fox say' in human history. Truly - we took a snapchat and sent it to one of the student who'd already left. She hated that song... and we loved that. Oh, good times! 

But what was the moral of this story? No moral, really. I just decided to remind myself of simpler times. Back when the grass was green and... oh wait, it still is.... in December... a few days before Christmas... Oh well, I guess it's something we need to get used to now. Honestly though, even though I'd love to have a white Christmas it's not 100% necessary for me to enjoy the holiday. What's important is spending time with your loved ones, keeping old traditions alive and just having a good time. So yeah, even if it doesn't snow this year I'll still have a good time because I'll be spending the holidays with the people I care most about in this world. And that's all that matters. 

...I rediscovered the joys and horrors of driving

I got my driver's licence right before graduating from High School (technically). The year was 2009 (I think) and I barely made it. No, seriously. During the final exam there was a moment when the guy next to me turned to me and said: 'You know you could have killed us right now, had you moved even an inch further'. Yes, I knew. I also knew that I was a horrible driver. So how did I get my licence? Well, I had had a pretty bad cold a few days before the exam and when he was lecturing me on how reckless I'd been I couldn't help sniffling a bit. My eyes were also red and a bit puffy so I probably looked like I could start crying any moment now. I didn't feel like it - sure, flunking would've been bad but it wasn't going to kill me (reckless driving might probably do that) - but he didn't know that. I think he just felt sorry for me. Or maybe he was tired. In any case, he let me pass and I got my licence.

Did I have a car, though? Nope. Both my parents did but they drove automatics. I'd learnt to drive stick. But hey, it was easier to switch to an automatic. Not that I had many chances to go driving. Long story short: for eight years I basically avoided driving, doing it only a few times a year and even then I kind of sucked at it. I really, really hated driving. It just made me feel nervous and insecure and stressed out. So it was no wonder that when my parents told me at the beginning of Summer that I had to re-learn how to drive stick-shift, I was less than happy. I was downright terrified. Were they insane?! I could barely drive an automatic, let alone a stick-shift... But then again, I really needed a car and the only one available to me was a stick shift...

So one weekend my dad came over and promised to teach me to drive. It would be my first time driving stick-shift again since the day I got my licence... eight years ago. What could go wrong! Some say that it's like riding a bike: you never really forget how to do it. I wouldn't know. All I know that as I got behind the wheel and got everything ready I felt more than rusty. I knew that I should know how to do this but... my body was not used to three pedals... What was that third one called? A clutch? Ugh, what a stupid name for a stupid thing.

Honestly, learning to drive again kind of felt like my first days on the job. I knew I should've been able to do it. I had studied it before... And everyone else made it look so easy. In theory I knew everything I needed to do. But in practice... I was clueless. All the time I was driving my mind was going: 'Am I doing this right? I'm not, am I? I'm going to get myself killed. Why am I even doing this? Do people even realize how inept I am at this?' But nobody did. Or at least they didn't say so. My dad even told me I was learning fast... but then again, he is my dad, meaning he's prone to praise me.

For the first few times I was driving, my dad was sitting next to me, giving me pointers and just reassuring me that I wasn't completely messing things up. It worked out pretty well. So when I finally had to drive on my own for the first time I was understandably nervous. It wasn't a short drive either: three and a half hours from one end of Estonia to the other. That did not seem like a fun endeavor but it was one I couldn't avoid. I needed to get back home to Haapsalu and go to work the next day.

My first drive alone was... relatively okay. I didn't feel comfortable and was kind of terrified most of the time but I survived. I didn't enjoy a minute of it but I managed. 'Great!' I thought, 'Now that this is over I can finally relax and get back to my life.' Except that I couldn't relax. I had a car now. And my parents lived over 300 km away. If I wanted to visit them I would have to drive. No taking the bus anymore. I would have to accept the fact that I was the not-so-proud owner of a car and I couldn't just leave it sitting around uselessly.

The first few months were pretty hard to be honest. I barely drove anywhere but since it was summer I didn't really have a reason to. I drove to see my parents maybe once or twice a month and that was basically it. I went to work on foot, went to the store on foot. My car was slowly sprouting roots... There was this weird nagging feeling in the back of my mind, like there was a certain reason I wanted to avoid driving but I just couldn't remember it.

Fast forward a few months later and I finally realized why I wanted to avoid driving. I have road rage. And I'm a pretty bad driver. Those two things don't work well together. The road rage I got from my mom. I hate it when people who drive in front of me are going slightly slower than I am. And I hate it when people are driving behind me. Like in general. They don't have to be close or anything, just the fact that I can see them from my rear view mirror pisses me off for some reason. Get off my road, you ass!

Sorry... I just can't help myself.

I hate it when people drive their tractors on the road. I hate trucks. I hate it when people go 90 km/h on the highway (which is the speed limit but... come on! Nobody drives that slow unless there's ice or snow on the road!). I hate it when people go faster than 120 km/h (What's your hurry, jerk! You're going to kill someone like that!). I despise people who tailgate! Seriously, if you are one of those people you should just not get into a car. Ever. Take a bus! And I hate it when people are afraid to drive: so what that the roads are covered in ice, we're in the middle of a snowstorm and the visibility is close to zero - that's no excuse to go under 90 km/h! Oh yeah, and I realize that I'm a hypocrite because in the beginning I was insecure and afraid but... I can't help myself. Basically, while I'm driving I hate everyone and anyone who isn't me. Road rage turns me into a terrible person and I don't really like it.What's even worse: I turn into a lunatic. I start talking to myself while driving... like a crazy person.

'What? You're really gonna cut me off here? How's it feel being a piece of trash, you bastard?! Hey, hey, you in the red Subaru, why are you going so slow?! Get off the road if you don't know how to drive! And where are you in such a hurry, Mr.Black Toyota?! You're easily going over 110! I hope a dragon eats you! Or that you get pulled over! You're gonna kill someone like that!'

That's how I sound like when I'm driving... alone. When someone is with me I do try to keep myself in check but when I'm alone I just go all out. I don't like it. I don't like the raging madwoman who I become while driving. Sure, I might not be the sweetest or kindest person even when I'm out of the car but at least I'm calm and understanding... kind of... But when I'm driving I'm just ready to see the world burn. Especially cyclists. God, how I hate cyclists! But to be fair, I hate them even when I'm not driving. They are just human garbage who do not belong on roads. Any roads. I curse the man who invented the bicycle! It is the devil's vehicle - in fact, I'm sure the road to hell is paved with and ridden by bicycles. But that's beside the point.

One thing I did discover after I'd gotten over my initial fear of driving, was that I actually enjoyed it. Sure, long drives are still annoying cause I have to sit still for three hours doing nothing productive but at the same time it gave me time to relax. I don't have to do anything (other than drive, that is) and I can just blast my music, sing along and take things slow. I don't have to worry about my job or my apartment being a mess or anything else - I'm just in my safe little driving-bubble and until I reach my destination nothing else exists but me and the open road. It is kind of therapeutic. Even with my road rage there are times I feel like I'm floating on clouds and nothing else matters. Not to mention that I love the freedom that comes with having a car. I can go wherever I want whenever I want - no more waiting for the bus or looking for a ride. I'm my own master and that feels amazing!

But...

There's always a but...

It's not all fun and games. Having a car is like having an expensive pet. You constantly need to make sure it's working properly, that everything is in it's rightful place, you can't leave it out in the cold for too long - when it's below freezing you have to drive just for the sake of driving to warm up the engine - and when you go to an unfamiliar place there's always the issue of parking: where, how and how much. But the worst part? I know this is going to sound cliche but it almost brought a tear to my eye the first time I saw it. Gas prices! Funny how I never cared about them before I became a car owner. They are horrible! Truly the worst part about owning a car! You just stand by and watch while you pour your money away. And for what? For it to be burned up in the next few weeks. Gone. Gone forever...

Sometimes I wonder if it's worth it. If I wouldn't be better off just walking everywhere or taking the bus... And then I realize that if I had to go back to the days before I had a car I would probably be pretty miserable. Once you get used to having a car  you can't really go back. Oh well, I guess I'll just have to suck it up and get used to the fact that once every few weeks I throw a huge load of money into a metaphorical fire. Doesn't mean I have to like it though. In fact I feel almost physical pain every time I see my money draining away while I fill my car up with gas. Can't we just have like... solar-panel cars already? 

...whiskey happened

Oh, whiskey night! Oh, the madness! The humanity! Oh, sweet, sweet whiskey night! So many memories... Should I even talk about whiskey night? I don't think I can actually put into words what happened on whiskey night. Sure, I can try to tell the story, describe what happened as best I can remember but it would only be a pale shadow of the real thing. Okay, before any of you let your imagination run wild, it was all (mostly) harmless fun. Everything was (kind of) under control. Nobody got (seriously) hurt. And we were all able to laugh about it later. So yeah, it was nothing too crazy. But it was by far one of the most awesome parties of the Spring semester. It was memorable for so many reasons. So, so many reasons... But let's start from the beginning...

After the relative success of wine-and-cheese night we decided that we should have these small parties more often. But we wanted to have a different 'theme' every time. Turned out that a lot of us had never tried whiskey so the Americans decided to educate us poor fools. Whiskey night it was then. Just like last time we bought our own alcohol - I decided to go for a bottle of honey whiskey because the real thing tastes like  hatred in a bottle - and got some snacks (and some tipsy toffee again).
Now, to be quite honest I don't remember how the night began. I guess we had a few drinks, listened to music, talked about random stuff and just generally had a good time. I don't know when things got out of hand... or what happened first... Was it the lipstick? Or the epilator? Or the wall? I have no idea how things turned out the way they did! My memories from that night are disjointed and hazy, with occasional bright flashes in between. I guess it's best to start with the wall because that one is my brightest memory and I'm pretty sure it happened relatively early in the night.
Let me just set up the backdrop here.
My room was one of the biggest among the students and I had one of the longest balconies I've ever seen. It wasn't big, it was just really long and narrow. There was an apartment occupied by a random Japanese guy to the left of mine and our balconies were separated by a thin wall, just for the sake of privacy. Now, during the course of the night it got really hot and stuffy in my room - I think it was May or something - so we opened the windows and a few of us went to the balcony to cool off a bit. It was there that two girls decided to show off their dance moves. I was still inside so I'm not sure about the details but I saw some of it and heard the rest. Anyhoo, as the girls were dancing one of our male students showed up and told them that they had no idea how to twerk - so he decided to show them how it's really done. And he did. He started twerking, pushing the girls into the corner of the balcony against the separating wall. I guess the girls decided to hop aside at the last moment or maybe he was just too... uh... enthusiastic?... but what happened next sent us all running to the balcony. There was a long crash, a bang and next thing I knew there was a hole in the wall separating my balcony from the next one. A giant gaping hole...
It was just an unfortunate accident and I wasn't even angry (honestly, at the moment it happened I thought it was hilarious). Besides, these walls were made to break (in case of fires or earthquakes) so it was only a matter of time it happened. Still, even in my drunken state I was pretty sure my neighbor might get pissed so I tried to fix the problem... as well as a drunk person could. I got out some superglue and tried to glue the missing piece of drywall back to it's original place. A sober me would have known it was a futile effort but sober me was long gone by that point in time. After messing around with the glue for a while I only managed to get my hands dirty and glue a piece of paper onto my arm but the wall was still falling apart.
On to plan B then! Duct tape! Yeah, that worked about as well as the superglue, only now there was a piece of tape stuck to my pants and I was covered in dust. I remember someone trying to help me put the wall back together and someone laughing and taking pictures behind my back. Because that's what friends are for. I was just curled up in the corner of my balcony, trying to fix an unfixable wall, unsure whether I was crying or laughing (I was doing both.... because it was just that hilarious for drunken me). After a while I decided to abandon the effort and head back inside because I felt like something interesting was going on there.
I don't know how or when the epilator made it's way into my room. I guess it all started on the topic of pain and a few of the girls were determined to show how much more shit women have to deal with in their daily lives. So we offered to shave the legs of the guys just so they could feel what it's like to have your hair ripped one one by one by an electrical device. The guys... were not very happy with this turn of events because even the alcohol didn't manage to numb the pain. There was lots of swearing and screaming going on and ten minutes later one of our Japanese friends had silky smooth legs. He says that a few days after the party he was walking along the street and heard a couple of girls behind him comment on how nice and smooth his legs looked... so I guess we did him a favor? So yeah, whiskey night was also the night we shaved a guys legs with an electrical razor. Thankfully hair grows back...
The last thing that happened was lipstick. Not quite sure who's lipstick it was or how it all came to pass but we decided to have a little drawing competition... that only ended once the lipstick was almost completely gone. I'm not going to go too much into detail about the lipstick - things were written and faces were painted and I distinctly remember the guy who's legs we'd shaved looking like a creepy clown, topped off with a tiny had I'd bought for Halloween. And there was one girl going: 'I'm gonna make you look beautiful!' while she was drawing on people's faces.
The next morning was... just such a mess! Not only did my room look like a herd of stampeding buffaloes had passed through, I also felt like death had grabbed my by the throat and tried to suck the life out of me sometime in the middle of the night. I looked around my room wondering at first why I was even up. Then I remembered that I had to go to school. Then I wondered what had happened to my balcony... and I remembered. Then I wondered why there was lipstick on my curtains and walls... I decided to disregard it for a moment and headed to the bathroom.
What awaited me there was... a nightmare. Apparently there was more than one clown-faced person at the party. My first thought was 'Why is there lipstick on my eyebrows?!' followed by 'And why is there lipstick on my ears?! And arms?! And neck?!' I had twenty minutes before I had to go to school and those twenty minutes were spent in a frantic panic as I was trying to clean the lipstick off my face and body. There were still a few red spots on my arms when I left the apartment but I could pass it off as a rash if I needed to.
I thought I had it bad with my red eyebrows and painted face but honestly, others had it much worse. Some had lipstick on their legs, shoulders and god knows where else. And the same girl who'd been making people look beautiful the previous night looked pretty crestfallen in the international center. When asked what was wrong she shouted in despair: 'Someone drew swastika on my leg with my very own lipstick!'. Yup, that was pretty bad alright.
Suffice it to say that everyone was a bit... uh... ashamed about what happened last night. The guy who broke my wall looked very, very sorry. And everybody else tried to hide the lipstick-marks on their bodies. But in the end it was all good. We had fun, went a bit wild but everyone survived and we had another fun story to talk about for months to come. 

...I found what I was looking for

There are days I feel like a zombie at work... like nothing is going right and I'm just a huge failure as a physio... And then there are days when I feel like punching the air and going 'YEEEEEEAH!' and doing a little victory dance and maybe a back flip. Today was one of those days. I'm probably not making much sense but just trust me when I say that today has been a good day. One of my patients, who until now made little to no progress, started walking today and I can't even describe how happy it makes me. Sure, he needs a crutch and I have to support him a bit but he's finally walking! And I feel like all the work we did is finally paying off.

Sorry for the long introduction by the way, I just needed the world to know how happy I am. The thing I really wanted to talk about is one of the worst years of my life (so far). I know, with this utterly positive introduction it's hard to believe I'm going to talk about something so dark but just stick with me for a little while and it'll all become clear.

This is the story of how I started studying physiotherapy (or physical therapy for all you Americans out there... even though those two things aren't exactly the same...).

The year was... uh... 2012, I think. I had just gotten my BA in psychology and I even got accepted to the Master's program. Only problem was that I didn't know if that's what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I liked psychology but... There was always that 'but'. I felt like I wanted to do something more... practical? physical? I don't know. I was kind of lost and didn't know where to go. It was also the year I first went to Japan - for two months as a volunteer - and I've already talked about how lost and confused I was during that period.

The decision to start studying physiotherapy was honestly just a spur of the moment thing. Whenever anyone asks me why I chose physiotherapy I answer that I wanted to do something practical, something where I could actually see the results of my work and so on... Honestly, as I was making the decision I wasn't even thinking about those things. It was the last day to send applications, I was in Japan and I knew I could study for free - so I enrolled in the program. I hardly had any idea what a physio actually does, I just knew I didn't want to become a nurse or a health inspector or anything like that. It was one of the biggest but least planned out decisions of my life and I wasn't even sure why I was doing it. So yeah, that's the horrible truth: I never actually planned to become a physiotherapist.

Funny, how sometimes the road you take blindly is the one you're meant to walk on.

The first year (minus one month) of my studies was the worst in recent memory. I was positively miserable. I truly hated every moment of it. See, back when I was in high school I didn't have to work very hard to get good grades. I just kind of breezed through high school without putting any actual effort into it. University was a bit more difficult but most exams were multiple choice tests so even that wasn't too bad. Physiotherapy however was another matter. For the first time in my life I actually needed to work hard to achieve something and I was not used to it. For the first time I had to stay up all night studying, had to revise something over and over again only to forget it a moment later, for the first time I actually failed an exam... and it was horrible! 

What made the first semester even harder was the fact that I felt like an outsider. I had just come back from Japan and a part of my soul was still there. Also, since I'd missed the first few weeks of school I didn't know any of my new schoolmates. I felt like they'd all formed groups already, hanging out and going to lunch together and I was kind of the odd man out. I'm a hopeless introvert so trying to make new friends is always difficult for me - that's why I barely talked to any of my fellow students for most of the first (and even second) semester. My heart was still pulling me toward Japan and I just felt that I'd made the worst mistake ever coming back to Estonia.

So, in a nutshell: I was unhappy with where I was, struggling in school, barely talking to any of my peers and longing for something I'd already lost. It was a bad time. I was certain physiotherapy was not for me and I'd made a mistake choosing to study it. Also, it was cold all the time. I was pretty bad off, especially during the Fall. I was constantly tired, stressed beyond belief and just really, really unhappy with the way things were. There were days I would go to school, come back and just crawl into bed, only emerging to go to the bathroom or get some food. I was just not feeling it anymore ('it' being everything). Yup, it was definitely one of the worst years of my life... or at least half a year. 

'Why didn't you quit your studies then?'
Because that's just not who I am. I'd made my bed and had to sleep in it. Sure, I wanted to quit. I really did, but it felt wrong. I knew it would make me feel like even bigger a failure. Still, by the time February rolled along I was so ready to bolt that I was looking for any way out of my situation... and that's when I stumbled upon the exchange program that would eventually lead me to Japan again. So yeah, my decision to go study in Japan was made because I was just not feeling living in Estonia anymore. But that is kind of another story. Anyway, for most of my first year of my physiotherapy studies I was miserable as all hell... Didn't help that I got a job in a bar and had to work nights. The only thing it did was make me so tired that I didn't have energy to think about how I was failing in life.
And then it was May.
May marked the start of my first internship. We had to do them every year in different places - we got to follow a physio around and try our hand as a physio. The first internship lasted for a month: two weeks were dedicated to children's physiotherapy and two weeks for adults. For my first two weeks I was working in a children's ward. Now, anyone who knows me knows that I can't stand children. I just can't stand them and try to avoid them as much as I can. Those two weeks didn't change my attitude toward children... but it did change my attitude toward physiotherapy.
Even though I wasn't doing much, even though I was only a student, even though I had been miserable for most of the year - despite all of that I suddenly felt... alive. I finally saw what being a physio was really like and I felt like this was what I was looking for. Even though I'd made the decision to study it for all the wrong reasons I had chosen something that in the end made me feel... useful and needed and just... happy.
Not gonna lie, during the next two years of studying there were times I wanted to bang my head against a wall just because what was going on in school but at least now I knew why I was doing this. I knew where I was headed and that helped me get through exams, long days in school and everything else that used to bring me down. It wasn't all fun and games and even the internships weren't all equally great. But I finally knew that this was what I wanted to do. It sounds corny but I just wanted to be useful. To... uh... make a difference, however small. Yeah, that does sound corny so I'm gonna move on.
 Fast forward three years and I'm finally working as a physio. The road here has been long and hard but I'm here and I'm happy. It's what I've been looking for. Sure, it's not always rainbows and sunshine. There are bad days. Then there are horrible days. There are days I feel like a complete failure... And then there are days that make it all go away and make me feel like a million bucks. See, I know that I'm no Mother Theresa and most days I'm barely making a difference but it doesn't matter. However small that difference is, even if I make just one person feel a bit more confident walking down the street, I already feel like I've done something that matters. And I can't even explain how amazing it feels when you see a person, who's this far been in a wheelchair, take their first steps with you. Even if those steps are small and unsteady and it looks like they're about to fall down any moment - even then it's a huge thing. Especially when you see that person's eyes light up as they're finally walking on their own. Any time someone says 'I never thought I'd be able to do that' I'm reminded why I chose to stick with this profession. Some days I really, really love my job. And some days I love it a little bit less - but I still love it.
Sure, I'm young and haven't been working for long. Who knows, in a year I might feel differently. In five years I might feel jaded. But right now I love it. I get to work with people and at least try to improve their lives. It doesn't always work but when it does it feels amazing. And the people... I've met some of the nicest most amazing people during my short time working as a physio. Okay, some of them are hard to deal with. There are those who aren't even sure why they've come to get therapy ('I dunno, my wife made me come') and there are those who don't care about changing anything ('Why should I bother with walking? My wife pushes me around in my wheelchair and I don't want to go out') and there are even those that become hysterical by the mere thought of walking. There are those who have already lost all hope and those who hope for miracles (and expect you to deliver). But that all goes away when you get that one patient who just brightens up your day, either because of their personality or because they achieve something they never thought possible. That one day you get a patient to walk or go up a flight of stairs makes all the bad days seem like a distant memory - like it never happened. It's those days that make me love my job. And as for the bad days, I guess they exist so I could learn from them.
So, to sum it up: I made a choice for all the wrong reasons and it turned out to be one of the best choices I've ever made. This 'worst year of my life' lead me to so many wonderful things. It was the year I was most miserable but also the year I made the right choice concerning my future and the year I decided to go to Japan to study (which was one of the most amazing experiences of my life). I guess what I'm trying to say is that sometimes something that felt completely wrong in the beginning might turn out to be exactly what you need, you just need to fight through the bad stuff and keep going. I guess that first year was like climbing a monstrous mountain: it was excruciating, hellish and there were times I thought it would kill me but once I reached the top and saw the view it was all worth it. Yeah, I'm happy I didn't quit halfway through. I guess sometimes clouds do have a silver lining.
Also, one of the reasons I love my job is the view. I just can't get enough of it.