August 9. A short night later.

A short night later, Olga and I say goodbye and I drag my backpack once again through the metro system of Saint Petersburg, this time to hotel Oktobrskaya where the minibuses to Helsinki leave. Olga has even made a reservation for me and a very Russian looking man in a jean jacket approached me and mentioned my name. Yes, it’s me, thank you. I have a cup of coffee in the bookstore and the same guy comes in to sell me a ticket (1100 rubli). He forgets his big black calender and I bring it to him. Spasiba. The busride is boring and the seats not comfortable. Crossing the border to Finland takes a long time. I arrive in Helsinki at about 2pm and walk around. Go sit in a bar in Kallio, write and chat, yes, with my friends, until I am tired. Then I take my stuff and sleep on a grass-covered hill. It is a good night but I have to explain that to some people. O how much more important is love to a gentle soul / than a bed or a pillow / how much more does he gain / from a caring embrace than from any wealth his hands may collect? / how long can he be longing for love / before his very idea of love goes bad? So, there goes another day of useless existence. Other human beings have at least reviewed tax returns or sold some stock and I have done nothing…
…are we just traveling to collect memories we can grow fond of? Is it yet another strategy our mind plays in the face of death, our mind the friendly gecko crawling over the face of death.

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