Sweden (part I) - Arvo the Drunken Finn (Nov 76)

Photo - In the breathtaking Sognefjord, on Norway's stunning west coast

Photo - One of several farms I worked on in Norway

The silver Saab raced across the border into Sweden.  Sitting in the passenger seat of my ten minute hitched ride, I turned and looked over my shoulder as Norway faded away.  I was now leaving this country behind…but the images of its staggering beauty would never leave me:  from the spectacular fjords Sognefjord and Geirangerfjord, to the quieter breathtaking gems Naeroyfjord, Fjaerlandfjord and Hjorundfjord.  All of them enchanting with their narrow deep inlets, set off by towering walls of granite, rising straight out of the water, accented by cascading, crashing waterfalls.  I was filled with a sense of wonder and awe.

But I also was filled with a sense of traveler’s pride.  I had traveled

Norway for thirty-seven days, this arguably the most expensive country in

Europe, and had only spent forty-one dollars.  I accomplished this by working on farms, usually for two to three days each.  My jobs on these farms ranged from:  picking apples, digging for potatoes, painting a barn,wiring fences, and even baby sitting.  It was of course a good way to save money, but also to eat well and make good contact with the Norwegian people, who were kind and simple.

          

        It was now mid-November.  The weather was turning mean.  Darkness would set in by three o’clock.  I had been traveling now over four

months.  As much as I relished the constant movement of travel, I found it beginning to wear on me somewhat.  I now was hoping to set my pack down and stay in one place for awhile to find a job, sleep in the same bed, kick back and recharge my batteries.  I had my sights on a specific destination to accomplish this…and that was the university city of Uppsala, Sweden.

I must be honest.  I had an ulterior motive.  The reason I sought gainful employment in Uppsala was for one reason…the women.  As I traveled, the young male travelers I would come across and befriend, our conversations would cover various topics from favorite European cities, delicious tasting beers, clean inexpensive hostels, best beaches…But sooner or later the topic would always get to women, European women, and which country had the most beautiful women…Well, I did not keep an official count, for I did not have to, that was how wide the margin of victory was.  To my fellow male backpackers, Swedish women were it. (Most of those guys I spoke with had met Swedish women not in Sweden, but while the Swedish women were outside their country on vacation).

With this key piece of information in mind, I thought, yes, that sounds pretty good. I am going to go to the source, Sweden itself, and check it out.  My initial thought was to try to find work in Stockholm. However, no, what would probably be more fun and offer a greater access to Swedish girls for me would be a big university, and that of course meant Uppsala.

Uppsala is the fourth largest city in Sweden. The university, which was established in 1477, is the second largest in Europe with over 20,000 students.  The city is lovely, very green, running along a river and with an impressive red stone castle overlooking the city.

After a day of just walking around doing nothing but looking at tall long legged blonde women, I acknowledged that my fellow male travelers were correct. Sweden was amazing; the women were stunning.  However, I had to pull my racing hormones to a halt and get focused.  Any thoughts of good times with Nordic beauties would have to wait.  The job at hand was to find employment. It was early November and in this part of the world it gets dark around three o’clock, so I wanted to make the most of the light hours.

The first two days were discouraging.  I tried several restaurants, either as a dish washer or busboy; the university as a custodian.  I spoke with garbage collectors.  I even went to a dog pound to be a catcher of stray dogs…But nothing.  And I was also disappointed that I did not get any leads really from the people I spoke with (and in Uppsala, most everyone I talked to spoke some English). I would ask repeatedly, “Have you heard of anything?” or “Do you know anyone I could talk to?”  But the response was always cool, and they could not help.

There was a hostel in Uppsala, but at fifty kroner ($10), this was too expensive for my meager budget. So each night I would roll out my sleeping bag and crash on the floor of the train station.  The station, unlike Uppsala itself, was dingy and dank, with some rather undesirable characters roaming about.

However, there was one man, named Arvo, of Finnish origin, whom I will not forget.  At first meeting he struck me as your typical hopeless drunk.  A man of average height, about fifty, unshaven, tattered clothes, smelling of body odor, and of way too much liquor.  He upon seeing me nestled down in the corner of the station in my sleeping bag, waddled over, his bottle waving back and forth like a track conductor’s lantern.

“

Do you hate the Swedes?” he slurred out as he plopped himself down against the wall within a foot or two of my bag.  I felt a little uneasy, but I had slept in several train stations before and had never had any serious problems with the colorful characters that often milled about.  Just be cool, cautious and civil to those who approach you. (The three C’s).

I told him that I had just arrived and the Swedes seemed okay to me.  “They’re arrogant assholes, I tell you, and you know what else, they are stupid too.” “You are not a Swede, I take it,” I asking the obvious.  “Hell no, I am a Finn. My name is Arvo.  Let’s drink to Finland!”

It was now about eleven o’clock, I was tired.  But I was also wound up being anxious and concerned about the job prospects in Uppsala. The man in front of me though a drunk, had something about him, his eyes had a knowing light, and one that I felt comfortable with.  And though normally not being a drinker of hard liquor, at this time I wanted to partake and see what this man was about.

By one o’clock we were still talking and drinking.  Though he did far more drinking of the vodka than I did, I still could feel its effects, and I brought out some fontina cheese with dark bread to share with Arvo, and to keep me from getting too wasted.

In the couple hours we shared I learned about his life.  He to my surprise was only forty years old. His weathered face looked much older.  He was a student of the famed classical music academy in Helsinki, where he studied composing and violin. “Do you like Sibelius?” I told him I did not know who or what that was. Was it a food?

He shook his head in disbelief, telling me he was Finland’s greatest classical composer. I told him that unfortunately my understanding of classical music was limited.  Then with unexpected reverence, Arvo put his bottle down and his face became serious and at times impassioned, as he told me about the life of Jean Sibelius: his genius, his repertoire of works (ranging from his seven symphonies, to shorter works such as Finlandia, and the Swan of Tuonel, and his Violin Concerto).  And how despite his success as a composer, he was a tormented soul addicted to drink and dark moods, retiring early in life to live as a recluse in Finland’s deep central forest. “To all Finns he is our hero,” adding that he passed away in 1957 at the age of ninety-one.

Quiet passed between us. No talk, no movement for a good minute.  Arvo looked lost in thought.  Then Arvo reached into his dark soiled rucksack.  I expected to see another bottle of vodka and was ready to respond that I had enough drink for the night, and that it was time to get some sleep.  But instead he produced a cassette and showed me the tape “Sibelius – Symphony #5,” performed by the Helsinki Philharmonic, conducted by Paavo Berglund.

“Listen to this.  Of the seven symphonies this is my favorite.  It is an amazingly original piece of work.” So for thirty five minutes we sat on the train station floor as we listened to the Sibelius symphony.  Throughout the piece Arvo often with eyes closed would move his hands slightly as if conducting, or nudge me when some especially beautiful or moving passage was to happen.

Travel is amazing I thought to myself.  Two hours ago I am on the floor of a train station accosted by a drunken Finn.  And now I am enveloped in this enthralling music, and learning so much from this shaggy dirty man, for whom I feel such warmth and a sense of wonderment.

The piece was now midway through the final movement and Arvo said, “These final few minutes are sublime,” and with that he turned up the volume.  By now we had about four or five onlookers watching us with bewilderment, but also seeming to enjoy the music. And Arvo was correct, the  closing was especially moving, dramatic, and explosive, as the music would soar, then pull back, and then when the music seemed to come to a climax, it would stop, total silence for a second or two. Then the power again, silence, until ending in a dramatic crescendo of a thundering drum.                       

“Oh, that was fantastic, and the power at the end with the drum,” I explained. “We call that Thor’s Hammer,” Arvo said.  “Could you play the final movement one more time, Arvo?” I requested. And once more I took in the final movement, this time swaying and moving about to the dramatic music.

          It was now nearing 3a.m., and we walked outside in the very brisk cold night air.  I offered Arvo a cigarette.  I do not smoke, but I carry a pack just for a friendship gesture in such situations as these.  I asked him about his career as a violinist, and he told me that he played for two years with Turko Philharmonic, Finland’s oldest orchestra, but had a bad marriage, got divorced, had a mean quick temper and drank too much.  It affected his playing and he was fired.  He said that drinking was a real problem with many Finns.

That was some seventeen years ago.  He never really made a go at it again, but instead spent several years traveling the world with the merchant marine.  He has lived in the States working for a lumber company up in the Seattle area for a couple years, and had now been let go from a job up in Sundsvall working on a factory line.

He seemed reflective and almost “what if” as he spoke.  He was making his way back home, hitching across Sweden to get back to Finland.  “I would like to play again, but I need help first.  I don’t have the discipline to play and the strength to stay off liquor.”  He went on to talk about his brother-in-law, named Jaska, who had a very good heart, and was well-off and wanted to help him, and get him into a clinic. 

I made a gesture with my hands that I better get to sleep and added that, “I am job hunting tomorrow.”  He wished me good luck, and said that though the money is good the Swedes are cold, stuck up people.  You won’t want to stay too long.  We’ll see, I thought.  I embraced Arvo, wishing him the very best and letting him know how much talking to him had meant to me.  I walked back into the station and slipped into my sleeping bag and slept deliciously with the notes of  Sibelius’ last movement dancing in my head, until the station became crowded with no-nonsense morning commuters.

~to be continued~