...I dragged myself out of my cave

I have never been and will probably never be a very social person. I don’t like… people… I don’t like talking to them, I don’t like being near them, I don’t like it when they take an interest in me… Or so I thought. See, lately I’ve come to realise I’m starting to develop a… social life of some sort…? 

It shouldn't be anything new to me. I used to have a social life. Back in the good old days. When I was still young. And living in Japan. I had an amazing social life in Japan… but that was a whole other matter entirely. You’re always a different person when your in another country. God knows Japan-Grete and Estonia-Grete are two completely separate entities and if they would ever meet in real life they probably wouldn’t even get along. In this blog I’ve mostly told stories about Japan-Grete who is a fun-loving, carefree, dimwitted but good-natured oddball who just likes to have fun (and has occasional bouts of rage). But let me tell you a bit about Estonia-Grete. 

See, Estonia-Grete is a misanthrope. Yeah, that’s the best (and the polite) way of putting it. Estonia-Grete is a solitary creature that prefers to make its home somewhere on the edges of a human settlement. There she will find an unoccupied apartment that she could turn into a dark, dank cave where she will stay undisturbed by outsiders. She will spend at least 75% of her time in that cave and will emerge only to hunt for food or do human things like… work… Estonia-Grete is quite territorial and paranoid, not letting any outsiders into her domain. If anyone tries to bait her out of her cave she will see the person as a predator and try to confuse them with barely believable excuses and retreat into the farthest corner of her cave where she will camouflage herself to look like a blanket. Needless to say Estonia-Grete doesn’t get out much… and that’s how she likes it. 

Things are… slowly changing, however. Maybe it’s my age creeping up on me but lately I’ve started to… actually enjoy hanging out with people? Yeah, I know - crazy, isn’t it? I kind of have a social life now. Kind of… almost… I mean, it’s not a very active social life but… it exists. I’m not sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing but it’s… a thing. Yeah… It definitely is a thing. No, this is not me bragging about my social life - it still barely exists - this is me being confused by these new unexplained feelings. Suddenly I feel like… I want to hang out with people…? And that is just weird to me. 

I’m visiting old friends, I’m reaching out to people I’ve lost contact with, I’m going to the movies with my coworkers… It’s almost as if I want to be around people. Maybe it really is my age creeping up on me. I mean, nobody wants to die alone and unloved so I guess this is me making sure there will be someone to carry my coffin. Not that I think about dying or plan to do it anytime soon but truth is I’m not getting any younger and one of these days my heart (or the black hole that’s in the spot where my heart should be) will stop pumping coffee through my veins and I will perish. What’s that? You say people have ‘blood’ in their veins? Yeah, that just sounds crazy! 

In any case, everyone that knows me is as surprised by my gradual change as I am. Whenever I decide to go somewhere with them or hang out the first thing they say is:

‘Wow, I didn’t think you’d show up!’

‘Yeah, I didn’t think I would either…’

And whenever I call a friend I haven’t spoken to in a long time, they freak out, convinced the world is ending. 

‘Hey, I’m just calling to-‘

‘OHMYGOD! What’s wrong?! What happened?! Are you okay?!’

‘Uh… yeah… I’m fine. I just wanted to talk.’

‘Okay, I’m here for you! Just calm down and tell me what happened! You know you can talk to me about anything!’

‘Umm… Yeah… Honestly, I’m fine! We just haven’t talked in a while and I wanted to know what you’re up to.’

‘Are you dying?’

‘No…? Not that I know of. Really, I just wanted to talk. Nothing is wrong!’

‘Is it drugs? Are you on drugs?! I told you: coffee is a gateway drug! You should have just stayed away from it! The devil’s nectar!!!’

‘What…? Are you on drugs?’

Okay, maybe I made up that last part but that’s basically the reaction I get every time I’m the first one to reach out to someone. If I write after a long time my friends think I’m going through something terrible. If I call… well, then they’re ready to get out the crucifix and holy water because I’ve obviously been possessed by a strangely social demon who probably felt sorry for my lack of social life and decided to ‘fix’ the situation. I don’t need your help, demon! I am just fine living alone in my dark cave! I love my cave! It makes me feel like batwoman (can you believe that my asshole chauvinist computer just tried to autocorrect ‘batwoman’ to ‘batman’?! That’s so sexist of you, computer!) except that I’m less of an awesome superhero that kicks ass and saves the day and more of an actual bat… living in quiet dark place, sleeping during the day and drinking blood to survive… I mean… just ignore that last part. 

So, my point. I’m sure I had a point when I started writing this thing… I guess my point is that I’ve actually started to kind of almost… like people now. Maybe it’s the job. I work with people day after day after day and maybe I’ve just gotten used to being around them. Maybe this is what happens to everyone when they get older. Or maybe Japan-Grete and Estonia-Grete aren’t as different after all. All in all, if anyone reading this finds a message from me in the days to come, don’t freak out. I’m not dying, I’m not possessed, I’m not drunk (*I might be slightly drunk but probably not) - I just realised there’s a part of me that wants to socialise because it’s a natural human thing to do and at least a part of me is human. 

So yeah, lately I’ve been finding myself hanging out with colleagues after work, writing to old friends and even visiting them. In Helsinki! You might think this is normal human behaviour and nothing to boast about but keep in mind this is me we’re talking about. I rarely do anything that causes even the slightest discomfort to my own person and traveling is all about discomfort. I have never met a person who truly likes traveling - and I mean the process of traveling. See, I love traveling but I love the part about being in another country, seeing new things, experiencing a different culture. I hate the part where I wait in line with a heavy bag on one shoulder, a purse on the other, a wallet, my ID and my ticket in my hands while I slowly shuffle along towards the security gates. I don’t know anyone who actually likes the ‘travel’ part of traveling. But I’m getting off topic here.

Maybe this is a phase and I’ll return to my usual misanthropic self when the first leaves begin to change colour and the swallows fly south… But for now I’m just going to roll with this newfound un-antisocial (yes, I know I could just say ‘social’ but that’s not a word I would use to describe myself so just deal with this perversion of word) person that resides in my body. It'll be hard but I think I can make it work... at least for a while. Come winter I will retreat back to my cave... at least I think I will. It wouldn't be Estonian of me to have a social life in winter. 

...I tried to explain Eurovision

Ah, it's that time of the year again (or it was)! The time of the year when all of Europe (and Azerbaijan, Armenia and Australia????) comes together and sings in a beautiful festival celebrating the unity of all the people in Europe. Or, to be more accurate, it's the time of year when we all try to pretend we don't hate each other and that all the wars, genocides and other horrible things haven't happened (unless you're Ukraine). No, but for real though. If you ask any European during any other time of the year they will tell you how much they hate the citizens of their neighbouring country (maybe not hate hate but strongly dislike) but during Eurovision we're all such good friends. 

Living in Europe you grow up with Eurovision and it becomes a natural part of your life. Even if you don't follow it you still hear people talking about it, see it in the news or read about it in the papers. It is almost impossible to avoid it completely - believe me, I've tried. There was a time I hated Eurovision because it seemed completely pointless and boring and for a while it really was because we all knew which countries would vote for which songs. Germany giving 12 points to Turkey? What a surprise. Serbia voting for Montenegro? Who could have seen that coming. Russia getting points from every single Eastern European country? Shocking! Everybody knew what was coming but we were still watching it, even if we pretty much knew the outcome of the show. 

Now, when I went to study in Japan I pretty much expected to miss Eurovision entirely and I was okay with that. However, since there were so many other Europeans (and by 'many' I really mean 'a handful') in the building, we decided to make a night out of it. Besides, it was the perfect chance to introduce a bit of European culture to our American friends. First, however, we had to get them on board with it. We tried to prep them for what they were in for.

'Well, there's this singing competition we have in Europe... except that it's not only about singing...' we tried to explain.

'So, is it like a political thing?' the Americans asked.

'No! Well, a little bit. Well, yeah, but you can't be political... like your song can't have a political message.'

'So it's all about the songs?'

'Uh, not really... We just... every country chooses a song to represent them and then we compete in a very friendly manner.'

'Okay. And the best song wins?'

'Hahahahahahahahahahahaaa! No.'

'The best... singer wins?'

'Nope. Not at all.'

'Then... who wins?'

'The song that gets the most votes, of course.'

'So it should be the best song, right?'

'That's such a... sweetly naive way of looking at things...'

'Hey, I've heard it's like 'The Voice' but with European countries competing with each other!'

'Hahahahaha. No. Nothing like that. At least the contestants in 'The Voice' can usually sing.'

'So.... you don't have to know how to sing to compete?'

'Not really.'

'Then... what do you need to do to win?'

Good question, that one. Sometimes you need to wow people with glitter and gold, literally (looking at you, Azerbaijan). Sometimes you need to shock people with crazy costumes (I think we all know what I'm talking about here). Most of the time you need to be Swedish. It really helps if you're a minority singing about being a minority. You guys remember when Serbia won the Eurovision? Do you actually remember the song? Yeah, me neither. But we all know why it won. To be fair, it was right after Montenegro broke up with Serbia and I guess Serbia really needed the confidence boost (although lord knows the song was barely there). And hey, sometimes you just need to go all out and just dazzle people with... well, everything. People won't notice your song sucks when you throw snow, a priceless violin and an olympic skater at them. It helps to set things on fire. 

So, after describing the main... point... of Eurovision (pretty sure it was still a bit murky for them) we decided to show them a few of the past winners of Eurovision. After showing them several videos from the past years we were met with horrified stares and a lot of questions.

'What.... what even is this?'

'Why did this... shit win?'

'Is that a man or a woman?'

'Why is there a stuffed chicken on the stage?'

'What is going on here?!'

'Why is Australia participating again?'

Okay, they weren't really getting it but we still managed to get a few them on board. Some of them were even cautiously optimistic. Others... not so much. We thought we could make a drinking game out of it - take a shot every time a song is about love - but then decided against it because we realised we'd be passed out before half of the songs were finished. Still, before the show started we had to supply the Americans with alcohol because there was no way they'd be able to get through it sober. The Europeans were fine - we were used to the madness.

So, how did it go? Honestly... it was one of the most hilarious Eurovision grand finals I've ever sat through just because one of our American friends tried to apply logic to the show and it was like watching someone try to carry water with a sieve.

'They can't even sing! They. Can't. Sing. Why are they even here?! How did they make it to the final?!' 

'I told you, this is not about singing-'

'Eurovision SONG contest! What else is it about?!'

'Well...'

'This is shit! Pure shit! This is not even singing!'

'That's a bit harsh...'

'What the hell is this?! Why is there a guy in a dress on the stage?! This can't be real!!!'

'Hey, don't hate on Conchita. She's fabulous.'

'Why is this song winning?! This is shit!!! It isn't even a good song! He can't even sing! WHY IS IT WINNING?!'

Because of Eurovision. This is just how it works: you throw a proud minority into the bunch and you're bound to succeed. I honestly thought our American friend would pop a blood vessel in the end of the competition, especially after Conchita won. Sure, he had a point when he said that the only reason Austria won was because they sent a trans-person to the competition. It was memorable. It was different. And that's what Eurovision is all about. No matter how, you need to make people remember you. Otherwise they won't remember to vote for you. 

Can't say our 'cultural exchange' night was a great success. We managed to make at least one American hate Eurovision. It wasn't our goal but hey, sometimes things just happen. I have a feeling he might change his mind, however. Eurovision is like deep fried oreo's - so bad for you and you hate it but secretly you yearn for it because on some deep subconscious level you hate yourself and want to suffer....... But maybe that's just me...

...all work and no play made me doubt my sanity

Have you ever been so tired that you don't remember the date or the day or the season or even your name anymore? So tired that you're unsure whether you're asleep or awake anymore? So tired that you can't stop laughing at the dumbest things just because if you were to stop you would probably start crying? No? Well, lucky you then.

So, let's backtrack a bit. So, in the beginning of April I participated in a course which lasted for three weeks. It was a very good course and a very necessary course especially for a pt working with stroke and brain injury patients. I knew I needed this course if I wanted to continue working with neurological patients so I signed up without hesitation. Ok, there was some hesitation but I've never made a decision without hesitating even for a moment. I have commitment issues, alright... 

Anyway, a few months pass and I finally get a letter from the course instructor. She sent all of the participants some articles, information about the course and the schedule. The first week didn't seem so bad. Sure, the days were longer than I'd expected (from 8.30 to 17.30) but only an hour so I thought I'd survive it. The second week... was worse. It started on Monday and ended on Saturday... Well, I wasn't looking forward to working on Saturday but... I thought I could handle it... Then I looked at the last page of the schedule. Week 3 started on Sunday... 

'Wait!' I thought, 'If week 2 ends on Saturday and week 3 starts on Sunday... That doesn't make sense... Where's my weekend?' 

It took me a while to do the math (because I suck at it) but I finally figured out that we'd be working two weeks straight with no breaks and then I'd have to return to work for two days. No rest for the wicked. I was... less than happy about it. I was downright enraged. Okay, that's a bit dramatic but I was pretty upset. In fact, I was convinced that by the end of the course I would murder someone. My sanity is questionable at the best of times - add in fatigue, sleepless nights and an overload of new information and you get a maniac ready to snap at the drop of a needle. I was convinced that those three weeks would be hell. There was no way I'd be able to enjoy this course. No way!

And then I did...

The first week was pretty bad though. My head was still operating on 'work mode' and I was bombarded with tons of new information every single day for eight hours in a row. There's only so much my tiny brain can take before it starts to overheat. I honestly felt like my brain was smoking inside of my skull. Or bleeding. Or both. Old information was thrown out to make room for the new. Old information like the location of my car keys or what I needed to get from the store or grandma's birthday (didn't miss it but went to visit her a day early, which is actually the better option). By the end of the first week I was already disoriented in space and time. I remember sitting at work one morning, staring at the computer in front of me and being convinced that somehow I was still in bed. I knew I was sitting up but I felt like I was wrapped in a blanket and staring at my laptop, trying to find a new TV show to watch. I wasn't sure if I was awake or dreaming. If it was a dream it was a boring one. If I was awake... well, then I was screwed because I was barely functioning anymore. A part of me wished I was at home... Okay, that's a lie. The whole of me wished to be home. I guess my mind was already there because it sure as hell wasn't with me.
The second week... wasn't as bad as I'd suspected. We got to work with patients again and even though my brain was on fire most of the time, I was slowly getting used to this new rhythm. At least I thought so, although I did feel like my sanity was slowly slipping away. I started laughing at everything and anything, giggling like a maniac at the most random things. Like birds. And pillows. And food. Pretty sure my bloodstream was 80% coffee by that point. I remember sitting at my kitchen table one evening with a tomato in one hand and a fork in the other, trying to figure out why I was there and what the future had in store for me. I think I was in the middle of making a salad but then got distracted by god knows what and ended up trying to stab the tomato to death with a surprisingly blunt fork. Somehow that also seemed hilarious so instead of making the salad I just spent five minutes laughing at the tomato. Then I ate it. It didn't make it into the salad. I was tired. So very, very tired. The part of my brain keeping me sane had stopped working entirely.
So, I've known for a while now that if there's a hell, I will be going there. I'm just a terrible, terrible person. My heart is as black and bitter as the coffee I drink and my soul... well, I'm pretty sure they forgot to give me one when I was born. Guess there was a shortage of everything back in Soviet times. Couldn't even get good souls anywhere... Maybe I'm secretly ginger, I dunno. But this course made me realize something: if I do go to hell, I won't be going alone. I found out that at least two of my colleagues have a similar dark sense of humor which is bound to land them in a fiery pit of doom eventually. Maybe this place attracts people who... look at life a certain way... Or maybe it's my amazing influence that withers other people's souls... although I'm not really conceited enough to think that's true. In any case, I found that I wasn't the only one making jokes about things no human being should laugh about - and that made me feel a little bit better about myself.
I still felt like a horrible person though... but I was okay with it. At least I wasn't alone. Also, I have the distinct feeling that to be a PT you need to be a somewhat horrible/sadistic person. Because if your patient isn't in pain then you're not doing it right. Okay, maybe its not that bad but truth is, sometimes in therapy you need to put patients into positions they're not comfortable with. You need to push their limits, take them out of their comfort zone and whenever you stretch them they will be in pain - that's how it's supposed to be. Taking pleasure in causing pain is not part of the job... but it makes it a lot more fun. I can't remember how many times I've had the following conversation while stretching a patient:
Me: 'Does this hurt?'
Patient: 'Not really.'
Me: 'What about now?'
Patient: 'Its- Okay, yeah! It hurts! It really hurts!'
Me: 'Excellent!'
Patient: 'You can stop now! I don't think my leg is supposed to bend that way!'
Me: 'Shhhh... It'll be all over soon.'
Okay, maybe that last part isn't true but usually, when they say tell me it hurts, I try to stretch them a bit more - because as long as they can still talk they can handle it. Once they start screaming I slow down a bit. The funny thing about stretches is that even if you make them scream and cry out in pain, patients are always willing to come back for more. During the course we had one patient who we had to stretch every single day - he was moaning in agony every time, turning red in the face, sweating and cursing under his breath - and after every day he still smiled at us and told us he would be back the next day and that he enjoyed himself.
By the end of the third week I was... kind of at peace. I didn't understand the concept of 'free time' anymore but that was okay. I forgot to go to the store so I mostly fed off of cookies and frozen food that I had in my freezer. I once had a jar of cherry jam for dinner. Yeah, that was it. Just a jar full of jam. And I kept making extremely inappropriate and immature jokes about... well, not important. Let's just leave it at 'I'm going to hell'. And somehow someone having short arms seemed like the funniest thing ever. I was on the brink of insanity (which isn't really saying that much since I'm always there) but despite everything I was sad when the course ended. Despite the fact that it almost drove me mad with exhaustion I felt that there was so much more I could have learned. I felt I needed more time... in more ways than one. More time to learn and more time to think about what I've learned. But all good things must come to an end and before I knew it I was back at work, trying to disguise the fact that I hadn't slept in days and doing my best to function in this old new environment that seemed so foreign on my first day back.
In conclusion I can say that despite the fact that it almost ruined my sanity, I did like the course and I'm happy I participated. Would I do it again? Probably. Would I do it again anytime soon? Nope. I value sleep too much. And having a shadow of a social life is nice as well. 

...I was a giant nerd

Oh wait, I still am one. I wish I could say I've gotten less nerdy now that I'm a pseudo-grownup. Oh, how I wish I could say that... 

Want to know the nerdiest thing I've ever done? Well, prepare for a less-than-exciting story about the time I went full 'fangirl mode' and did something I'm not really that proud of but also don't regret... because it was kind of awesome. 

So, I'm sure you all know 'The Phantom of the Opera' - the book/movie/musical/musical-movie/hidden-object-game etc. Well, apparently I'm a Phantom fangirl. A phangirl, if you will. And yes, I know what a cheesy pun that is but I'm writing this after work so give me a break! Anyway, 'Phantom of the Opera' is one of my favorite... things of all time. I remember being a little kid and listening to the recorded soundtrack of the musical on my parents' cassette player (CD's weren't a thing back then... yes, I'm old) and loving it. I remember watching different POTO movies, starting from the original one with Lon Chaney. Bear in mind that this was the 90s... in post-Soviet Estonia so watching things online or downloading them wasn't a thing. I had to make do with what was shown on the TV - on the only three TV-channels we had - so I managed to maybe see a Phantom-movie every two years or so. But when I did I was glued to the TV... Fun fact for you guys: most of the movies based on 'Phantom of the Opera' are absolute rubbish. Still, I watched them because they were about the Phantom... I had a dream: I dreamed that one day I would see the musical live, on Broadway with world-class actors playing the parts... but that seemed like an improbable dream.

Fast forward several years. The movie based on Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical came out and I loved it, despite it's many flaws. At least it was flashy and took me back to my childhood. By that time I'd already read the book, seen several movies and played the game based on the book. Yes, there's a hidden object game based on the Phantom. I also owned a two disc copy of the original soundtrack and had memorized almost all the lines of most of the songs. I wasn't obsessed with the Phantom but I was pretty interested in everything and anything Phantom-related. My dream of seeing the musical on Broadway still seemed like a far-off dream but I'd come to accept that it probably wouldn't happen. After all, New York was far-far away and I wasn't crazy enough to travel there just for a musical. Or so I thought...

It was the year 2010, I believe, when I happened to come across a random ad online: an ad for 'Love Never Dies'. At first I didn't believe it was real. You can never trust anything on the internet to be real. Still, I started doing some research and though information was scarce I managed to ascertain that what I'd found was real. It was really happening: they were making a sequel to the POTO musical. Yes, they were making a sequel to a musical. I don't think they've ever done this before. You don't see them presenting 'Les Miserables 2: The Curse of Eponine' on Broadway. I was skeptical... but it was a sequel to my favorite musical of all time. For the first time in a long time I wanted something so desperately I was willing to find any way of getting it. I just needed to see it. Not a recording of it, not a movie based on it - I needed to see it live, just as it was intended!  I can't even describe how much I wanted it. It was like an itch I couldn't scratch and I knew I couldn't be at peace until I'd seen it. Guess what I asked for my birthday that year. 

To be honest, it wasn't easy getting my parents to agree to it. The tickets weren't all that cheap and I also needed a plane ticket to London and back and a place to stay. I was a student and I hadn't found a job yet, meaning I was completely reliant on my parents. I remember doing a fair bit of begging and pouting and promised to forfeit my Christmas present if they'd just give me that one thing... And in the end they did. So yeah, I flew to London for three days for a musical. Yup, just one little musical that lasted about two hours. For that one thing I packed my bags and flew to another country... for three days... Pretty sure it was the nerdiest thing I've ever done.
The trip itself was pretty great actually. It was Spring so the weather was nice and since I had like two and a half days in the city I had the chance to look around and visit some of the most popular sights. I'd been to London before with my parents but I'd been a kid then and I barely remembered anything. So I spent most of my first day just walking around and getting acquainted with the city. I thought it would be a good idea to act like a sophisticated adults and visit some museums. I'm not usually into museums but then again, there are museums and then there's The British Museum. I thought I might make an exception this time, especially since admittance to the museum was free. I didn't regret my decision - the British Museum is an amazing place filled with all the things I find interesting: mummies and medieval torture devices. I spent a good two-three hours there just exploring and staring and dead bodies. Yup, no regrets there. What I did regret, however, was not taking a map.
See, I don't like looking like a tourist. I just... there's this weird sense of false shame I get when I stand on the street with a map in my hand, looking like I'd just stepped off a plane. That is why I didn't take a map with me when I left my hotel. I'd consulted the map beforehand and felt pretty sure I knew the way to the museum. And I did! I made it there in less than twenty minutes and I was incredibly proud of myself. I was sure getting back to the hotel would be even easier: I just needed to go back the same way I came. How hard could that be?
Very, very hard, is the correct answer. One would think that going back the exact same way I used to get there would be a piece of cake but nooooo, not for me. Half an hour after leaving the museum I was... somewhere... I was still pretty close to the city center and I was sure I wasn't too far from my hotel. It was just... I had no idea which way to go. Where had I gone wrong? How in the world could I get lost so easily? For the first ten or so minutes I had gone the same way I'd come from but now...
Now I was standing in the middle of the street, staring at a map on the side of a bus stop and trying to figure out which way was which. It didn't help that the map was covered in graffiti. I was pretty sure I needed to head left down the street that led me past a shady-looking pub and a furniture store... Pretty sure... Except that ten minutes later when I was consulting another bus-stop map I felt like I'd gone to the exact opposite direction of where I was supposed to head. Oh well, I guess I needed to head back the way I came from. Because that had turned out so well the first time... At two separate occasions during my odyssey I ran into tourists who turned to me for directions.
'Excuse me! Do you know how to get to Trafalgar Square from here?' they would ask shoving a map into my face.
'Oh, I'm sorry. I'm not a local so I really have no idea,' I apologized and kept walking. A smart person would have admitted they were lost. They would have asked to see the map to find their way back home. Yes, a smart person would definitely have done that... But I was far from a smart person.
Despite all odds I managed to find my way back to the street where my hotel was located. I then proceeded to walk to the exact opposite direction... until I realized I was going the wrong way and turned back in shame. When I finally reached my hotel room I was tired and slightly cranky but still pretty proud of the fact that I'd made it to the museum and back without using a map even once... except for those several times I tried to make sense of the graffiti-covered maps on the bus stop pavilions... But it didn't matter! I'd walked back from the museum all on my own and I'd done it like a local... moron. Like a local moron with memory issues.
Oh, but how was the musical, I hear you ask. Was it worth it?
Well... yes and no. If I hadn't gone to see it, it would have haunted me for years to come. I'm happy that I saw it as it came out, on the big stage, with the original actors. It's a memory I'll treasure forever. The musical itself though... Well... It was there. It wasn't horrible but... It wasn't great either. I hated what they'd done to some of the characters - how they'd changed their personalities completely and turned a sweet little girl into a homicidal maniac, a romantic hero into a sleazebag with a gambling addiction and Christine into a... well, I'm not going to say it in fear of ruining the 'totally unexpected surprise plot-twist' for you guys (and yes, that was some heavy sarcasm... I'm still rolling my eyes). Still, there were some memorable arias and some good special effects so I wasn't too angry. Had it been a completely separate musical, not a sequel, it would have been decent. As a sequel however it failed to capture the essence and ideas of the original musical and thus was a mess. It ruined the bittersweet ending of the original musical and it almost felt like the author hadn't even seen the original... which is weird considering it was the same person. Honestly, there's POTO fanfiction better than the plot of 'Love Never Dies'. Yes, I've read POTO fanfiction. A lot of it. Shut up! I know I have a problem.
I could go on for a while, ranting about how the sequel-musical didn't do the original justice but this little story has gone on for long enough. I still don't regret the trip, or getting lost, or seeing a sub-par musical that left me a bit cold. At least my heart is at peace now and hey, it was still a pretty fun trip. Oh, and I did see the 'Phantom of the Opera' on Broadway eventually. Took me a few years but i found my way to New York. And that time I didn't get lost. 

...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.