Want an interesting way to spend a day in Tampere? (For a pronunciation clue, that all rhymes…)

It’s not that hard to figure out what to do – for Tampere, Finland, is the home of Moomin Valley, the Moomin museum! Moomins are comic book trolls created by Finnnish writer Tove Jansson. The series has achieved renown particularly in the Nordic countries, but also holds something of a worldwide cult status as the Moomin books and comic strips have been translated from their original Swedish and English into many languages. So all you youngsters and the young at heart – make tracks to the basement of the city library, and descend into the wonders of Moomin Valley!

Quite possibly one of the cutest museums I’ve visited, it’s a bit like a smaller-scale version of Tokyo’s Studio Ghibli Museum or Angoulême’s CNBDI (Centre national de la bande dessinée et de l’image – Comic Book Museum). The Moomin Museum is a collection of Moomin illustrations, miniatures, tableaux and a mini Moomin house.

I went there with my brother and boyfriend when we were all feeling a little hung-over from a previous evening of enjoying Finnish hospitality. The subterranean lair feels half informative historical collection, half interactive department store Christmas window decorations. With the subtle lighting and assorted collection of figurines, needless to say, it was suitably surreal and not cerebrally taxing on the collective mush we had dealt out in out heads.

We couldn’t resist mucking around with the dress-up box and posing for endless costumed photos against the cartoon backdrops. Even better, we ignored the half-sized doors and squeezed through into a little room and played Moomin quoits all afternoon.

The museum staff had to kick us out at closing time, a half smile on their faces at how much the “big kids” had enjoyed the museum…

Always one to copy trends rather than set them, I decided to have my own Paris transport strike. I was on a ticket-buying “grève” after the last metro strike, and I figured that if any inspectors stopped me for a ticket, I could always just show them my rendered useless Emir Kusturica concert ticket – it should be worth about 30 carnet tickets.

This “political” act didn’t last very long, because the truth of the matter is that I’m a bit of a wuss. If I don’t have a ticket, my shiftiness is written clearly across face. I dabble in it, but I’m not made for prolonged fare-evasion.

Anyway, my strike had me thinking about my favourite European fare evasion stories, and what I’ve done to get out of paying the fines. There was one time in Graz where we just forgot to get tram tickets (honest!) and an imminent train to Vienna saved my skin, but not that of my Austrian companions.

Another time in Berlin, I had a non-validated (intentionally) child (unintentionally) ticket. My friends there suggested that I do this on the way back from the airport, and as we realised that I was pinged, we subtly separated and they merged into the crowd. As I got off with the ticket inspectors, they discretely disembarked and waited for me a safe distance away. I – alone, in English and all mock sincerity – feigned that I was genuinely surprised that I had to pre-buy my ticket and I was waiting for the conductor to come around, like in St. Petersburg trams.

My academy award winning performance, however, would have been on a tram in Sarajevo, Bosnia. I was caught by the ticket inspectors who gave me a grilling in a mish-mash of Deutchlish (or is it Engleusch?) and I did my confused innocence routine. They asked for my address, I didn’t know it. They asked for my money, I didn’t have it. In the end, I suggested they come to my Turkish Quarter hostel, because I only knew it from a bit of left-right-left ad hoc navigation. They kicked me off at the next stop, but first brought me up next to the driver, who obviously didn’t realise they were in the middle of a bad cop-bad cop routine. He started gesturing with hand signals in no uncertain terms that they might have fancied me. Oh man, could it get any worse? He could have just said it; I wouldn’t have understood… but instead he thought it would be far more ingenious to mime it… ai-ai-ai!

Come to think of it, I have been fined once – on the Helsinki metro. I had no qualms about giving them my Russian address. There wasn’t any way that was getting paid – it was once a blue moon that our mail actually made it to me anyway!

I’m surprised I’ve managed to write so much on this blog without having devoted a post entirely to the Eurovison Song Contest. I’ve mentioned museums, old town squares, recycling and even discount airlines, but nothing of the supreme pinnacle of European culture.

I must rectify the situation.

For all those not yet practising members of the cult of Eurovision, here are some excerpts from one Eurovision drinking game to give you an idea of the proceedings:

Sip your drink for any costume change, use of props, wink at camera, mime heavy guitar solo, song in language other than English or native tongue, or if UK gets no points. Sip for ‘ethnic’ dancing, but drain glass if hip hop dancing. It’s also a sip for use of fireworks, but bottoms up if singer catches fire. Of course, if your country wins – drain your glass!

That’s just a taste of it – here’s another.

This is Dima Bilan, an established popstar in Russia and their entry in the 2006 Eurovision Song Contest. He had the misfortune of going up against the overwhelmingly popular Finnish heavy metal group, Lordi, with their ‘Hardrock Hallelujah’, and managed to take out second place.

But as you can see, this clip has all the essential Eurovision elements (it’s just unfortunate that there was rebellion in the ranks and the Finns had an unorthodox victory). There are elements of national character – with the Euro-mullet (or perhaps skanky post-Euro-mullet) and ballet dancers, how much more Russian could you get? The Eurovision pop-kitsch measures are appreciated as well, a huge white piano prop and lots of “yiiihh” when gasping for breath at the end of the lines. One can’t go past the song lyrics either. I love them. “Baby now it’s happened with us, we are dancing on broken glass, can’t stand anymore” – ahah! A pop pun! And nonsensical grammar!

The original film clip features some ‘bonus’ features including 1. a better accent, and 2. more attempts of street-cred dance moves by Bilan, some little jumps rendered pathetic next to the assumed years classical training undertaken by the ballet dancers.

Bring on Eurovision 2008, I say!

Now maybe it’s because I’ve seen that Ikea in Paris sells Swedish meatballs (I’m never one to shy away from a good food conversation), or maybe because I’ve just heard from a friend in Finland that she’s recommended my blog to her boyfriend to help improve his English (oh no, good luck)… but this post is going to be devoted to the Zetor tractor restaurant in Helsinki. I hope I won’t be the subject of too much mirth for this – but if the truth has to come out, it must! I’ve been thinking of reindeer stew with mashed potatoes and lingonberries recently!!!

For anyone who is familiar with Zetor, it’s a “traditional Finnish” themed restaurant, named after a Czech tractor. A word of warning though, you should only enter the premises after a week of fasting – you won’t leave empty stomached!

Not only is the food as good as it is sizeable, Zetor is also home to the funniest menu in the Europe. (Any contenders please feel free to leave a comment, but it’s going to be a stiff competition).

Here are some excerpts that I found online:

I also had a chuckle at the “Snack for the DDR Women’s Shotput Team” which consists of ‘sausage, country potatoes and home-made mustard. Nothing green!’

But my favourite dish? It would have to be the “Oath to the Nation”

‘…I hereby promise to uphold these values: beetroot and blue cheese casserole, a succulent vegetarian dish of beetroot, blue cheese, Emmental cheese and onions, served with country potatoes and fried rye bread.’

Yum, yum, yum! Sounds like a national creed to me!


Overture of the Zetor Opera played by Zetor-veljet (The Zetor Brothers) and conducted by Lasse Tervonen on Sawolaiset perinnekonepäivät 19.6.2004 in Koljonvirta, Iisalmi, Finland

An obvious side-effect of a Eurocentric education is an inkling to set forth across the continent, mapping out places where events from history books took place in Technicolor and not just in fine-print packed into paragraphs and henceforth crammed into young heads. This curiosity more often than not develops into the more serious condition of wanderlust, and then, as I’m lead to believe, into dromomania, a passion or uncontrollable impulse to wander or travel, a malady (or blessing) by which I’m seriously afflicted.

The first time I went alone to Europe was when I was 18. Having finished high school and saved my pocket money, I was determined to somehow stretch this meagre amount to last for a whole year without working. Thanks to numerous relatives, generous students willing to share their dormitories, Eurolines and Eastern Europe, this was possible. I was also lucky enough to have well-travelled parents, with well-travelled friends, who had sent their teenage sons and daughters to stay at my parents’ house, and thus the doors of Europe where open for me.

My favourite places in Europe – what I think of as the majestic golden triangle of Vienna, Budapest and Prague; countries of the former Yugoslavia, the Baltic states and Scandinavia, anywhere in Southern Europe blessed by an ocean, and most definitely anywhere with either a picturesque mountain range or a comprehensive recycling system or bicycles as a recognised and supported form of public transport. Have I covered it all yet?