Frozen
It was a dark and cold night. The kind of night who's existence is forgotten by the average citizen. The kind of night you wouldn't want to be digging a grave in because the ground was frozen solid. The old frozen snow blanketing everything in sight seemed more like a permanent feature than an incident of weather and it was more like the actual soil itself felt frozen far beneath that thin sheet of ice. The sure sign of a place that knows a long and deep winter. There was no moon in the black sky, just the tiny pinpricks of bright stars crisp through the cold air and some low lying clouds reflecting street lights back down to earth. The cold was tangible, I could almost taste it in the air and the wind cut through most of the clothing I was wearing as we stood at the bow of a ferry breaking out of an icy harbor. I hadn't packed for zero degrees, I'd packed for thirty and this was about the downward limit of my worn jacket and leggings. Still, it felt good to be cold again. Especially in contrast to the tropics and deserts my last two months had been spent around. The loss of dexterity in my fingers and shivers running across my shoulders felt good to me. We were both leaning over a waist high guard rail to watch the cloudy white chunks crunching under the bow as the ferry made way. Every so often it would hit a larger chunk of ice and a piece of it would go spiraling forward through the air just to land back in the water and have it happen all over again, like a football player juggling the ball towards the goal with short violent taps. I wasn't entirely aware of the silly chain of events that'd led me onto this vessel at midnight. Or how this beautiful Finnish girl had come to be so close by my side. We were pressed up against one another as we looked forward, mostly just our shoulders touching, but it was a firm touch. It wasn't helping to keep either of us warm really, but it was comforting and a little bit electric which I think helped to warm us indirectly through through a quickening of the hearts. Only a couple hours before then I'd been hunkering down in the airport for the night when, then and all of a sudden, I wasn't. All of a sudden the stars were piercing above me, there were these light blue eyes, pupils huge in the night, that kept looking at me, and this lovely Finnish accent floating in frigid sea air. We weren't talking about anything super deep, about family and things. About travel, the stars, and what it feels like to be on the ocean. How pleasing the sound of crunching ice sounded to us right then and what this country was like. Making jokes and and exploring humor. Those were the small things we talked about as we neared the mouth of the harbor. There I could make out small houses on small islands and then the end of the ice field as we we neared a channel a little too large for the ice to have reached. It was a hard line in the water, one side imprisoned by ice and the other had freedom to dance in waves. It became almost eerily quiet when the boat slipped out of the ice field and the steady thrumming of frozen water on steel was gone. All we could hear was water slapping up against the hull now and the wind blowing from somewhere off shore. She pointed a short distance away to a large building with a bright light whirling around the top and explained to me it was actually a Russian church left over from the occupation and not a lighthouse at all. It was built on an island with a name I can't remember and probably couldn't pronounce either. As we approached I could see snow blanketing the ground and clinging to the bare trees hat were following a large stone wall that looked like it had belonged to a castle at some point. It looked peaceful in the yellow lamplight, like an illustration from a child's story book about Christmas. It was old and magical as if it was a scene from a long time past. Some how, I think, everything is more beautiful in the cold.
Saana was her name, and she was taking me to this island because she finds it beautiful. We'd gone out together earlier that night to listen to a Finnish band playing gypsy music, but when the performance was over neither one of us were quite ready to part ways. It was to be my last night in Finland and there would have been no chance for us to simply meet another time. That's how we found ourselves, a little past midnight, on a sparsely populated island, full of old fortress and sea walls, walking through what I could only describe as a story from a fairytale.
She was right of course. The island was beautiful, and the stars were too even though we couldn't see the fainter ones with Helsinki so near. It was quaint, cute, dark, and empty. After leaving the ferry dock we didn't see another person for the remainder of our time. The small community built here was full of old wooden docks and stone bridges with an icy gravel road that wound from building to building. I followed her as she wound her way around the island. I had no idea where we were going, but I could see that this was an old familiar path she'd walked thousands of times before. I couldn't help but glance at her often during our walk and I could imagine it. I could imagine her wearing a sweet summer dress and walking this island in the long summer days, laying on the boulders to read, or swimming at the small beach facing towards the harbor and Helsinki. As we walked she told me small stories about this or that which happened here or there and some of the funnier things that had come to her through this island. But she had this way about talking, she would start on a story and in the middle of that one get lost in the explanation of another or of some subtle Finnish thing that I would previously have never been aware of. It wasn't a bad thing, because she told the stories so well! It made me want to listen to that adorably soft accent and it made me want to learn Finnish just so that I could better understand her. With the few silences that made appearances I found a lacking and a longing in the air where her voice had just been.
She led me across a small bridge to a stone building with old arched doorways leading into the dark. They were rooms that could've been used for anything in the past. The kind found in all old castles and fortresses, strangely empty and, at this time, very lacking in light. She didn't use her phone as a torch when we stepped from the dark night into the darker hallway, she merely hooked her right arm through my left. I was a little surprised at the sudden touch and closeness of her, but pleasantly so and I clung to the darkness all the more for this small excuse to be in physical contact with her. We took hesitant steps down the hallway, from one empty room to the next, walking gingerly because we couldn't see our feet or where they were landing. I was less focused on where we were walking now and more so on her arm in mine. I lightly placed my right hand on the arm she had hooked through mine. We were softly joking about murderers and ghost as we shuffled down the stone and then wooden walkway until we reached a dead end and had to turn around. I'm not certain, but I think we walked slower on the way back. I didn't want to let go of her arm as we stepped out into the night. I did let go, of course, less because I needed to and more because I'm shy, but I hadn't wanted to.
As we strolled through an open courtyard we heard a noise echoing down the brick alleyways. She gave a jump and grabbed hold of me thinking maybe it was one of the possible murderes we'd been making fun of. Even though we had been laughing about them, it was still night and there is always a feral fear of those things lining humor. Anyways, she jumped and grabbed hold of me. I was ecstatic for the touch regardless of the reason. Gloves, jackets, and other clothes between us didn't matter to me either. We laughed about her start, but we heard the sound again almost immediately. A little more distinct this time. Then a third time. It was an owl! One lonely owl out there who-ing away. We followed the noise until we made our way through some bushes and into a small clearing at the top of a wall. We had a clear view overlooking a shipyard and a small construction site and there, at the top of a crane, was our owl. Hooting like a metronome every 15 seconds. It almost sounded like he had the hiccups and couldn't shake them. We stood there in silence for a while as we watched and listening to him. It felt secluded behind the bushes like this. Like somewhere two lovers would hideaway to sneak a few kisses. I was nervously aware of how much closer we were standing now versus the distance between us at the beginning of the night. Her touch was still fresh in my mind and when she did speak to break the silence her voice only managed to draw me closer to her. We started joking about the owl as we stood there, but now it was a little different. She would lightly grip my arm when she wanted emphasis or I would give her a small and playful nudge when I made a joke. The small silences were a little tenser, almost as if something was expected, and we would smile and look into each others eyes. Sometimes tens of seconds would pass before one of us, usually me, would avert their gaze shyly. I doubted myself though. I wasn't sure if she was just being friendly or if maybe she was feeling the attraction I felt towards her. And I didn't want to impose on her either. I really didn't want to impose on her, or face getting turned down. So I didn't try to kiss her. I thought about it. I thought about it the whole ttime we stood there. I thought about asking her, 'Would you be terribly opposed to me kissing you right now?' Because I'm awkward like that. It was on my lips more than once before I bit my tongue. Maybe I'd been misreading the signs? She could just be this nice with everyone. She was gorgeous, but I couldn't work up the confidence and after an especially long silence she turned to lead me back through the bushes and out into the courtyard.
We walked back to the ferry dock a little early to make sure we didn't miss it. It was to be the last one for the night. On that side of the island we could hear the water softly lapping against the seawall. It sounded like one of those tapes people listen to for help falling asleep. With the cold and the snow all around us it was incredibly relaxing. Our conversation was light and she was funny. Really funny. I liked it. A lot. Her high heeled boots were making little prints in the snow as we walked along a path that followed the line of the water and I couldn't help but to continue admiring her. I realize now that I have not described her yet, so let me try to do so. She was neither short nor tall. She was well dressed. Not just in a cute shirt and coat but more coherently with her outfit all flowing as one and it looked almost as if she had stepped out of the directly out of a 60's swing dance. She had short golden blonde hair that reached to about her shoulders, a face that was petite with small feature and fingers that were slender. In the cold air her cheeks simply glowed rosy on her fair face and I could see that even in the dark. She was cute, precious, funny, and sweet. I think, that is all that can be said, because, in the end, it is impossible to really describe a woman. And, some how, I think, everything is more beautiful in the cold.
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An Amerrican boy and a FInnish girl were sittting on a bench by the water rubbing each others arms, partially to warm each other and partially just for want of being close to one another, when the ferry they had been waiting for snuck out of the dark. The vessel approached expertly, with no need for any of the crew to do anything other than lower the gangway. Two lonely people got off, eager to get home to a warm bed at such a late hour, and two young people took their places as the only passangers for the short ride across the harbor to Helsinki. They hurried inside the small ferry house in search of a little respite from the cold and the wind. As the props churned up ice and salt, the ferry purred slowly away from the dock and into open water. Inside gloves came off and hands touched, unhindered for the fiirst time, with the pretense of warming each other, but after one minute there was no more pretense and they sat pressed together, side by side, with hands lightly held. Her hands were small in his. He could only feel the smallness of them though, not see it, because he was busy searching her eyes. He was searching for a sign. For a flare. For any hint of temptation. For one small affirmation that what he wanted she wanted too. He looked for one second. Then two. Three, four, five. He squeezed her hand an imperceptible amount and leaned in a little closer to her. Hesitantly. Questioning. Six. A little closer, asking her for her permission not with words, but with his movement. And then she moved too, recognizing his question and answering in turn. Seven. She moves her face, nervously, towards his. Eight. Nine. Faces inching together they close their eyes. Ten. And cold lips meet for the first time. Softly and gently, like snowflakes lost in long eyelashes. And, some how, I think, everything is more beautiful in the cold.
Be happy,
Beacon
