NORMAL LIFE: The Weekend In Oulu

It all started about four months ago. I was chatting online, when a photographer from Oulu (500km north of Finland) started a discussion aimed at taking professional photos of me. Having told him my vital statistics (we were talking about sports), he assumed I had a body worth capturing on camera. I am far from toned, I explained, but kept him engaged in a discussion more focused around my own interest in digital photography.

We swapped email addresses and kept the communication going, later on resulting in an invitation to attend an informal, three day photographic workshop. At first, I thought the guy was loopy, a potential mass murderer, but after alot of discussion, it was so obvious that photography was his thing (he even had a really professional website to prove it) and a mentor in the arena of photography really was what I was looking for.

I accepted his invitation, booking the flights (accommodation was provided) and, before long, I was checking in online for the morning's flight. After a restless night, I woke up at 6am, showered and dressed and was out by 6:15am. Bree and I sat quietly during the car journey, neither of us yet quite awake. By 6:50, I had dropped off my bags and by 7:45, the 100-seat Finnair Embraer 190 was in the air.

Unfortunately, I had the misfortune of sitting next to a fat guy whom, everytime he moved, meant that I moved too. Such was his mass. I was fortunate, however, to have a window seat and halfway through the one-hour flight, I glanced out of the window to see a rainbow encircling the sun (what do you call that, a rainbow halo?) while listening to Ian Van Dahl's 'To Fall In Love'. Magical!

I landed at the tent constituting Oulu's rain-drenched airport (10C), even smaller than Tampere's Pirkalla airport. With just two jets on the tarmac, the luggage came shuttling through on the converyor belt and I was just in time to catch the Number 19 bus to Oulu's town centre. As instructed, I got out of the bus just after seeing the Stockmann's sign and waited for Kimmo, my host, to arrive.

Once we arrived at his place and I dumped my bags, we took a cab to the studio, some five kilometers from the town centre. Armed with spare batteries, memory cards, my new Canon 450D and some inspiration in the form of a powerpoint presentation I had prepared, I sat down with Kimmo and Jouni, another amateur photographer.

Before the arrival of the first model at 11am, the three of us reviewed the presentation of images I had compiled just to get our creative juices flowing. Our first model was Mert, a camp-as-Christmas seventeen year-old wannabee model. Admittedly, he had the face and the next couple of years could potentially bring forth the physical attributes associated with a top model. One quarter Estonian, one quarter Turkish and half Finnish, his genetics comprised to remind of the suave Hispanic type.

Two images stuck in my mind with this model. Brad Pitt posing for Tag Heuer with Jonathon Rhys Meyers posing for Biotherm (see below).


Combining these two images with Mert was always going to be a challenge. First of all, he was seventeen and, secondly, we were in a studio whereas the inspirational images had been taken using natural light. The resulting image, however, blew us away and it seemed we had, indeed, gotten off to a good start.

My photography of Mert

During that day, we had taken hundreds of pictures, mainly using an over-exposed white backdrop to really separate the subject from the background. It was great, know that with the right equipment, I could actually achieve photos of a great standard. The evening was spent having dinner at Rosso, dessert at McDonald's, a walk with Kimmo along the waterfront and an 'early' night around midnight. It had been a long day.

DAY 2

After grabbing breakfast from a nearby supermarket, we took a cab to the studio. As we ate, we reviewed the powerpoint presentation for more inspiration. Our first model of the day made an appearance just before lunchtime, the very eye-pleasing, masculine hunk of a man, Jarno. Thirty-four years of age, Jarno is a fitness instructor who also spends his spare time working out. No wonder the guy is in such great shape. With just four years between us, however, it was amazing how much older he looked, but who cared what his face looked like with a body like that, eh?!

When he first came into the studio with hit skin-tight Nike shirt, I have to admit that my blood pressure went up a bit, but we went quickly to work, positioning the lights, taking readings with the light meter to get the correct aperture for the scene. Inpiration came from two places: an image I found on a Gay personals website as well as a picture of New Zealand rugby player, Jonah Lomu (see above). The results didn't blow me away, but the combination of lighting and his tan, tattoos and compliance made Jarno very easy to work with.

My photography of Jarno

The second model of the day was twenty-one year-old factory worker, Pekka. A brief discussion revealed that Pekka liked swimming and cycling and this showed in the tall fella's physique.

This time, one source of inspiration came from an advert for Davidoff aftershave I had found on the internet. Using oil and water to replicate the Davidoff scene, I was a bit disappointed by the result. We had used a sofa when, ideally, he should have been lying on the floor. But that brings another load of problems with it with regards to positioning of lights and cameras.

The second source of inspiration was a Hugo Boss advert where a model was engaged in horizontal lunges of a kind. Pekka patiently got into position and, while the finished result may not have had the glow I wished for, I was happy with what I could achieve with my limited knowledge of Photoshop.

My photography of Pekka Just as Pekka wrapped up his session, Milla comes into the studio. Milla is twenty-four years old and is studying dance at the local university. When I formally introduce myself, she spoke very pleasant English. It was very easy to work with her, suddenly taking on the role of stylist, photographer and set designer all at once. It was such fun!

Inspiration came in the form of a classic Kylie image, perhaps one of my favourite of all time. The image was the cover of Kylie Minogue's album, Light Years. Super-imposing Milla's image onto a decent background was always going to be a challenge, but I didn't think that far ahead. I just wanted to see if could capture her femininity the way Kylie's had been. Using an over-exposed background, we succeeded.

After Milla's ninety-minute session, we had both Milla and Mert in the studio and I had a brain wave. Mert is gay, Milla is gorgeous, but straight. Milla has just found out that Mert has cheated on her Jerry Springer-style by sleeping with a married man: let's capture the anger on camera, I suggested. We needed mood, some darkness with sideslights to capture the anger on their faces. And, by god, didn't we do well?The day's shooting had been an eye opener, covering subjects such as the basics of taking photos, classic ways of lighting, the use of reflectors and grids, diffused lighting with softboxes. We had also covered the use of lights and backdrops to create overexposed backgrounds. And, during the day, a very creative part of me had 'come out'. I now understood the difference between being directed and being the director: being the director suits me so much more!

It was nearing 7pm so we wrapped up, ordered a cab and headed downtown. We dumped our stuff at Mikko's place, then went to the local Chinese for dinner. Back at Mikko's, we had a sauna, followed by several cans of sweet, Finnish cider before heading to the only gay bar in the North, the infamous Bar Becksu in Asemankatu.

It was after midnight when we arrived and, to my consternation, La Viva Espana was playing. I was thinking: beam me up, Scotty! That kind of wiped out my enthusiasm for the evening if that was going to be a benchmark for the night's music. I was enjoying a sweet cider when a young 26 year-old guy had hit on me, much to the disappointment of the older photographer who fancied him like hell.

As we were talking, I realised (for the first time in my life) that I was actually the 'older one' and, for the first time, I actually felt like I was in my thirties, being hit on by men younger than me! I felt powerful, wise and strong, but unused to this kind of attention. Speaking fluent English (he had studied for a while at Exeter University in the UK), he laughed his way into my good books; for a Finn, I was shocked by his ability to talk and make jokes, his confidence. He was good-looking with cropped hair, dimples on both cheeks (like me), perhaps ten kilos lighter. I realised I was talking to Mini Me!

I told him I was partnered and he tried hard to hide his disappointment. Regardless, he wanted to talk to me, saying it was so good to talking to an Englishman. Gotta give him credit for trying. And for not giving up! We drank, chatted, exchanged email addresses: I will never forget Niinkömies - he was always asking 'really?'!

DAY 3

When I woke up the next morning, I was amazed how well I had slept given the twenty-four daylight that had been getting into my bedroom all night. The day was spent in the studio with Mert, taking very unimpressive photos. The fun part was now over: we discussed photography, image in general, capturing moods, how it can me improved/enhanced. We tried a double exposure exercise with Mert, where two of the same person appear in the same message which was useful to learn.

After lunch, it was time to take a cab to the airport. I thanked the other photographers at the workshop, hugged Kimmo goodbye, thanking him for the opportunity to learn and experience life in the studio. I chatted with the very social taxi driver the rest of the way, marvelling at how happy they were 'this far north'. He laughed, probably because he was paid to, but I didn't care: I was tired, on the verge of crankiness. I just wanted to check-in, get on that plane and sleep.

I suprised myself when I managed to get what I wanted. With no fat man sitting next to me, I fell asleep before the aircraft took off and landed as the plane bumped onto the tarmac at Helsinki one hour later. When I got home an hour later, my mobile phone beeped: one guy in Manchester had sent me a message to ask if I had decided to move back to England yet which, hello, had never been on the agenda. I wish my photographic skills were in demand as much as I was. Who knows, maybe they will be one day.

NORMAL LIFE: Catalonian Midsummer

18th June, 2008

It was an early start at 4am in the morning and we slept during the thirty minute bus journey to the airport. After a quick and easy check-in (I love Helsinki airport), we took our first flight to Copenhagen on an SAS Avro Jet 85), arriving at 8am. From Copenhagen, we boarded an Airbus A320, operated by Spanair, replete with an incompetent cabin crew.

As the Spanish cabin crew hubba-bubba’d among themselves, their food service was a shambles. You boarded the plane, which is nice and clean and, used to scheduled flight services operated by British Airways and Finnair, you suddenly have to start digging deep into your wallet for money to pay for food and drinks. And you call what they served food? Knowing how sub-standard sandwiches are on planes, I ordered a tuna-fish salad which came in a sealed tin, valid until 2010, no doubt rich with e-numbers. And it tasted downright bloody gross. Yuck!

During the flight, I watched Kylie DVDs on my iPod, stunned by how superior the Showgirl tour had been compared to the concert date Kylie pulled off in Helsinki just the week earlier. Bree slept for most of the 2½ hour flight. On arrival at Barcelona just before midday, we were somewhat confused as to where to go to collect our luggage. Top tip: read the instructions to baggage claim on the floor! It was also difficult to find the railway station due to a lack of signs. Bizarre!

Once we had located the railway station, there were no maps on display so we could mentally plot our journey. Fortunately, prepared for most incidents, I had printed a copy of the railway network. Ah-ha! When the train arrived, we boarded, welcomes by wafts of body odour! Typical of these countries, given the higher concentration of perfumeries Spain is known for.

It may have been 24 degrees outside, but we watched the featureless countryside roll by in the air-conditioned cabin. The sun was intense, the sky a hazy blue. We arrived at El Prat, from where we would take a connection train to Sitges, where we would stay for the next five nights. I noticed five young boys jostling roughly, part of me tempted to tell them to pack it in before someone gets hurt. Meanwhile, Bree noticed a guy with the hairiest legs we had ever seen, praying to god that he would keep the rest of his clothes on.

As the train arrived and whisked us away, the scenery turned momentarily industrial. From time to time, a modern-looking glass building would appear on it’s own and in the middle of nowhere, an odd spectacle. Within twenty minutes, we arrived in Sitges, about to face our next challenge: overweight and lazy taxi drivers. A group of taxi drivers debated who would transport us because some of the guys wanted comida (to eat). Lunchtime – and the siesta – was approaching, after all.

What lazy fuckers, I thought. The EU has certainly got a challenge on its hand if it thinks it can get the siesta changed in its bid to boost productivity. We checked into our four star hotel, the Best Western Subur Maritim. Although our confirmation said that breakfast was included, the reception insisted that it wasn’t which made me wonder how can a hotel be four star if breakfast isn’t even included? I didn’t have the energy to argue. When I saw our air conditions room with it’s own balcony, I was pleased.

After unpacking, and changing into shorts and sandals, we went for a walk along the promenade, which reminded me of Miami – the close proximity of the hotel to the beach. Two short beaches away, we stopped for a snack of toasted sandwiches, from a menu which was usefully illustrated with pictures throughout rather than any words. The rest of the afternoon was spent lazing in the shade by the pool – fantastic! One amusing moment was when two French guys were chasing eachother around the pool area. Not obviously gay, one was wearing a very thin and high thong which certainly raised a question mark.

Early evening came and after a shower and shave, we sipped a Bacardi & Coke on the balcony. Later, we walked along the promenade, into the heart of Sites. There were lot’s of tourists, with gays everywhere you looked. So it was true: this was a mecca for gays. It was so obvious that it even made me feel uncomfortable. We meandered the narrow streets, quickly acknowledging other gays, discretely passing two Finns we recognized – but didn’t know – un the street.

After buying some swimming shorts for Bree, we settled down in a straight restaurant on the main street. After a start of lobster soup, which I downed with a glass of house rosé! Yummy! I had been so engrossed in my starter that, when I looked up, it was as if the establishment had gone from straight-to-gay in the amount of time it had taken me to down a bowl of soup: a foursome to the left, a couple of front taking pictures of eachother with the cameras inside their mobile phones. A foursome of older gays sat to our right, but we all had one thing in common: we virtually ignored eachother. And I started to wonder: what do the straight people think of this, sitting in such a confined space with us, blatantly ignoring eachother like pompous gits?!

The main course came along, a heavy seafood and chicken paella! As I ate, I noticed a family of four on the next table: Dad played with his PDA, while a young boy and girl banged away on their portable games consoles. Minutes later, and rather suddenly, Mum jumped up in search of her daughter. I had already noticed that her daughter, no older than six, was playing on the other side of a busy main road, more than forty metres away. All while Dad was smiling contentedly at his PDA and Mum drank her red wine and admired her perfectly manicured nails. Another Madeline McCann in the making, I thought to myself.

Foregoing dessert and now 10:30pm, we headed back to the hotel, nestled in the peaceful, residential zone of Sitges, a world away from the torrential rain of Helsinki.

19th June, 2008

Breakfast cost just €9 per person and turned out to be a feast. Afterwards, we walked beyond the imposing church in town, seeing a number of models pose on the steps. It was nice to watch the model pose, with the production team working together to minimize the harsh lighting, reflecting the light where they needed it most.

Behind the church was a small, inviting, outdoor market. Bree bought summer shoes before we made our way along the shore beyond the church, where we settled down in a shady café for a coffee. After a rest, we slowly made our way back to the hotel, intent on resting for the afternoon, maybe soak up some rays.

Making my way through a copy of the Daily Mail I had bought in town, I read about the first woman solider who had died in Afghanistan, the separation of Little Britain start, Matt Lucas, from his partner, marking the UK’s first gay divorcees, that gas was to go up £400, how two daughters shopped their drinking-driving Mum and the release of Abu Aatada’s hate-preaching book the day upon his release from prison. All positive stuff, I see!

Downing the depressing newspaper, I sunbathed while Bree went for a run. The wear was warm, but not too intense. I listened to music, absorbing every lyrics of Euroband’s ‘This Is My Life’, which was Iceland’s entry for this year’s Eurovision. Later, Darude’s ‘Ranta’ played and it was then that I noticed the fat on my thigh which was quickly followed by a recollection of being called ‘chubby’ by the boyfriend of one of Bree’s friends. It was ironic that, claiming that he couldn’t speak English, he knew the word ‘chubby’.

Ian Van Dahl’s ‘Rollercoaster’ told me to forget about the chubby comment, but with an underlying note to get on a diet when I got back home. The afternoon has been fabulous – it was a bit of an eyeopener when a burly, but attractive guy got out of the pool wearing blue speedos with SPANK emblazoned across the rear in large, yellow letters! It made me grin!

Returning to our apartment around 6pm, we showered before sharing a bottle of sparkling wine as we chatted in bed, in the cool of our air-conditioned room. After 7pm, we headed into town, for a pre-dinner drink at Parrots, the focal point of all the gay life in town. There, we met a New Yorker who, noticing we were looking for two empty seats, pointed out that he was just about to leave. As he settled his bill, he made idle chitchat, laughing falsely, the way Americans have excelled at. It felt more comfortable to be on this side of the street than walking along the street, another passerby on what could be described as a pedestrian catwalk.

After a Bacardi & Coke, we dined at La Oca. I ate paté, with Torres Rosé, followed by a mixed grill featuring cheap cuts of meat. A disappointing meal, but an amusing venue, given that all the customers were obviously gay. As we winded our way back to our hotel, there was a low hanging moon, copper in colour, just degrees above the horizon. In bed by 11:30pm.

20th June, 2008

After breakfast, we sunbathed, swam, sunbathed and swam some more. I listened to my iPod, wondering where everyone was. Must be a changeover day at the airports, maybe. I read a hilarious part of my book, Merde Happen, where fictional character, Paul West, wanted to see out of the window of a plane whilst not actually having a window seat assigned to him. The American occupying the window seat monopolized the use of the window, resulting in a brawl that attracted the cabin crew. Noticing Paul West’s newly acquired celebrity status, he was bumped up to first class, leaving the American guy with nothing but the window for company. Hilarious!

Late in the afternoon, a family of Americans arrived on the scene, a grandmother, grandfather, a daughter, a-son in law, a sister of the daughter and two young siblings in the form of a young, overweight teenage boy and a giggling three year old girl. What surprised me was how fat the teenage boy was – he was about thirteen or fourteen and had rolls of fall under his arms. It reminded me again of being called ‘chubby’ by the partner of one of Bree’s friends. Was this a warning sent to me in the form of an unsightly, ignorant American family?

By now, evening was fast approaching and I retired to the apartment. I yanked up the air-con, closing the curtains to keep out the heat. I shaved my head, smattered on the aftersun and laid still on the bed as the afternoon worked its magic. Later, back at Parrots, I was downing a Tequila Sunrise before we wandered around town, checking out the gay establishments. Surprisingly, we found bar, Bear Bars, which opens at 2:30am – we certainly won’t be going there! Am I getting old, or is such a late (or early) opening hour just ridiculous?

We dined at the outdoor La Santa Maria. The waiters, obviously overworked, don’t have time to look you in the eye when you are ordering your food or drink and the way they threw the knives and forks on the table was rather comical. I had goats cheese salad followed by garlic-fried prawns in Spaghetti! Yummy!

Back to Parrots for a couple of Bacardi’s and coke. Next to us were four decidedly good-looking guys in their thirties. I guessed that one of them was from Cambridge. Bree’s curiosity got the better of him and he had to know so he asked the guy. Sure enough, the guy was from Cambridge although, rather interestingly, one of the guys hailed all the way from Alabama, USA. What was surprising was his English accent, somehow adopted from his friends.

In a way that only Americans know how to gatecrash, and just after five minutes of conversation, the guy asked: “Where are we going tonight?” I looked at my watch, which told me it was half past midnight. I said: “We are going to bed!” As we settled the bill and rose from the table, I noticed the American guy checking us out, the whole town, and not just he, evidently on heat!

21st June, 2008

We woke up just after 10am, the question being: shall we go to Barcelona today? I personally didn’t want to rock the boat. I mean, I had achieved such a state of relaxation unknown to me on any holiday ever that a trip into a city filled me with dread. But then it would be wrong not to go, I decided.

After breakfast, we grabbed a taxi into town, then bought return tickets to Barcelona. As amusing incident was when a trio of men started singing in the cabin, the exact moment the doors closed – there was no escape. Sporting a guitar and a recorder, the third sang a lively tune. I realized what a scrooge I had become when it seemed that I was the only one who didn’t give money!

Next to us sat a family of Finns: a mother, with her son and daughter. The three of them were doing was Finns do best: sitting in silence. When we arrived in Barcelona, we headed towards the exit, where we noticed the Barcelona Turistic bus stand. Shelling our €20 each, we proceeded on a ‘guided’ tour of Barcelona. When I say guided, the commentary was 95% music and 5% drivel. I disposed of the headphones, snapping away at anything that took my fancy.

It was 31C and I was quickly starting to flag. We first took the blue route from Barcelona Sants, taking in Olympic Park, which served in the 1992 Olympics, the National Museumn and Montjuic, where we got off. We walked in the direction of the cable car station, intent on taking the cable car up to Montjuic (173m), the site of several fortifications with impressive views of the city. From the top, Barcelona was nothing short of a sprawling mass, reminding me of Lisbon and it’s equally unplanned structure.

When we returned to base, we located the bus stop and continued along our journey on the blue route. On the seafront, we passed the World Trade Centre, a number of marinas, including the Olympic Port, later on heading inland once again. Traffic surrounded us, the heat on the upper deck of the bus intense. At the top of Barcelona’s famous Ramblas, we changed from the Blue bus to the Red bus, which transported us past Gaudi’s La Pedrera, a UNESCO World Heritage site completed in 1912, a wobbling, colourful frenzy of conrete. A bit further along the road, we disembarked to check out Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia (Nativity façade and Crypt of the Sagrada Família church).

By this time, succumbing to the heat, I couldn’t give a fuck who Gaudi was. The Sagrada Familia is, in my opinion, the biggest waste of space there can be. Get this: they have been building it since 1882, it is still very much unfinished and with no assigned religious denomination and with religion in decline, you have to ask yourself: why build it? And this was before I was charged €8 to get into a place that doesn’t accept credit cards – reeks of money laundering to me!

The €8 visit included a very limited view of inside the church, which a large exhibition in the crypt beneath. Spending money on exhibitions with no builders on duty seemed a bit daft. I mean, aren’t they running behind schedule enough as it is?

Feeling anti-Guadi and thus anti-Spanish (lazy builders, waiters throwing cutlery across the table, taxi drivers who would rather eat than drive), I gave into American convenience in the form of a Starbucks coffee shop. It was air-conditioned, they sold sandwiches and carrot cake and frapucinos and, quite frankly, it was what I needed. From a state of relaxation unknown to me, I had quickly reached my cultural limit.

Fortified from the calorie-laden frapucino, I was prepared for the rest of the red-but-boring route, taking in the infamous football stadium and Park Guell, another bloody Gaudi place. By 5:30pm, the red route mercifully terminated at Ramblas. We walked along Ramblas, grabbing a coca-cola from McDonalds!

We watched street performers, saw bird and rabbit sellers, the caricaturists. We checked out the indoor food market, where all-ready chopped fresh fruits awaited in abundance. Stores were laden with nuts, spices and meat, a colourful feast of edible delights. Forget Gaudi and the Sagrada-bloody-Familia – Ramblas is the place to be! We took the metro from Drassanes to Barcelona Sants, taking the train from there to Sitges.

We didn’t get back to the hotel until about 7:30pm, but we headed straight to the pool, both of us jumping straight into the pool to cool our bodies. The skin on my arms and around my neck sizzled. Back in our room, we showered and applied aftersun. As we got dressed, we sipped Martini Bianco. The usual walk along the promenade ensued, dining at La Pinta, where I dined on Tropical Chicken Salad followed by Seafood Spaghetti! Yum!

Later on, we had cocktails at Parrots, refraining from the Saturday nightall nighter in favour of one more days hard tanning. On the way home, Bree playfully held my hand, putting his hand in the back pocket of my trousers, replicating the behaviour of the passionate, straight Spaniards! In bed by 1am.

22nd June, 2008

I was filled with worry as I watched the fat American kid stuffing his face during breakfast, being actively encouraged by his parents. The arrogant-looking French couple gave us cursory glances, as if regarding us as gay rivals in the breakfast room. Meanwhile, the four posh Americans were gracious and likeable and you were left wondering: why can’t they all be like that?

We spent most of the day resting, sunbathing, alternating between shade and intense rays of heat well into the late 20s. About 3pm, we walked into town. This Sunday had attracted hordes of natives to the beach, the town’s restaurants and bars packed. We stopped at a café, snacking on burgers, my sandals discarded somewhere under the table.

Suddenly, we were interrupted by a woman in her early thirties. Clearly in distress, she babbled something at us in Spanish, someone about her baby (mi bambino) and, combined with her inquisitive eyes, I guess she had lost her baby. Anger boiled in me, another parents who dropped her sprog and her priorities at the same time. Fifteen minutes later, there was relief all round as the under three-year old toddled back into the area – and into the arms – of a very emotional mother and father. Modern parents just don’t care enough.

Nearby, the three bald Finns downed sparkling rosé, partaking in what they partake in best – liquid meals of the alcoholic variety. As we slowly made our way back along the promenade, the afternoon’s intense rays drained me once again. When we arrived back at our hotel, I slumped onto the bed for ten minutes before joining Bree in the pool area, listening contentedly to the music on his iPod. I sat in the shade, listening to Ian Van Dahl’s ‘To Fall In Love’, my eyes closed, head shaking to the trance-like beat.

After one last dip in the pool, we got dressed, reading to spend some time wondering through town, before a final meal and a not-so-late night.

23rd June, 2008

We had no time for breakfast. We took a cab to the railway station, the wrong train to the middle of nowhere, go ourselves back on track and arrived at the airport just forty-five minutes before our flight. With the help of an airport worker, we checked in, cleared security and boarded our initial flight to Copenhagen.

Sweat trickled down the back of my neck as we settled down for take off. Suddenly, to our left, Bree and I saw an old guy checking his mobile phone which, hello, should be swtiched off! In his early seventies, he put the phone in his chest pocket and, the aircraft now moving, I gestured to a cabin crew member that someone had a phone.

The air-steward approached the passenger and it turned out that the old guy didn't know how to switch off the phone. It took four cabin crew to resolve the issue and Bree and I sighed with relief when we knew that no electronic signals were going to interfere with this flight. I felt like a grass, but come on, people!

Our flight landed in Copenhagen and we decided to have some lunch during the ninety minutes time we had before our onward flight to Helsinki. Two salads, in plastic boxes, cost an astonishing €37! Like the Norwegians, who do these people think they are?!

Our flight to Helsinki was a short one and it wasn't long before the SAS jet slammed down onto the tarmac in Vantaa. Grey, miserable and wet, it would be just four days until I was in the air again on a planned trip to Oulu (read about that here).