Retirement. In which I go on hiatus.

This day has been a long time coming.

No, not my 8th grade graduation from St. Teresa's School in Sleepy Hollow, New York. That photo will forever haunt me (and send Mari into fits of tearful laughter). Thankfully, the less-than-fashionable glasses I started wearing shortly after the braces were cemented in did not make the photo session.

The day I refer to and that I am embracing today is my retirement. I thought I should take this blog-portunity (yes, still making up words) to pause and reflect... and to thank.

There have been many people involved in supporting me (often propping me up) these 29 years in education and, of course, in supporting me for the 22 years it took me to first become a working professional and a (mostly) functioning, contributing member of society.

The nuns, priests, and a handful of dedicated lay teachers at St. Teresa's helped me reach this day and helped shape my early moral, religious, and intellectual identity.

I am forever grateful.

I suppose I should probably start from the beginning, though.

There was a kindergarten graduation although I think the stylish mop-head posing here is smiling at us from our first grade school pictures snapped in the fall of 1972.

How I wish I still had that hair!

I don't remember a whole lot about kindergarten except I remember beginning school a few weeks after the regular Labor Day start, a few days after my birthday on the 16th because I had only then turned five. I also remember that first day hanging up my jacket in the cubby on the hook opposite Karen Weaver's because I thought she was very sweet and, of course, very pretty. I also remember being disappointed when I returned from recess to discover my jacket had been moved and Mrs. Einloth pointed out that the cubicles were labeled and in alphabetical order by last name. I would have to be satisfied with my jacket's placement a few hooks away from my kindergarten crush for the remainder of the school year.

Who'da thunk my love life would be foiled by someone else's OCD at such an early age?!

I was fortunate to experience kindergarten and the ensuing eight years of elementary school with the same group (family) of 20 students. There were a few students who came and went throughout our transformative tenure, but there was a core of us that began and completed those years together and that goofy metallic smile up there alongside that golden tassel (which I still have on display at home) is a result of nine years of enduring friendship and support.

Moving on to public high school was a bit of a culture shock, but great friends, dedicated teachers, and, of course, my quirky sense of humor helped smooth the transition.

Aime (at right) joined our little St. Teresa's family in third grade and we became fast friends. She was a constant source of friendship and support and much needed laughter all through high school as well. We met Angela (at left) our freshman year and I will always treasure this graduation photo of my two best friends taken on a warm June evening as the sun set on the football field of the Sleepy Hollow Headless Horsemen and on our halcyon high school days.

I hadn't expected my stroll down memory lane to necessarily involve graduation photos, but my rites of passage seem to have been measured with certificates and commemorated with ceremonies, so I am happy to revisit these moments and share them with you so many years later.

Five years after Sleepy Hollow came another ceremony and I'm so glad I found a photo with my parents.

We are standing at the foot of the statue of Father Sorin at the heart of the Notre Dame campus.

There are lots of stories and lots of moments leading up to this photo with Notre Dame's founder.

My parents were raised in a seaside farming aldea in Portugal. If you have read my previous Mother's Day and Father's Day posts honoring them, then you know how proud I am of their strong work ethic, their love for family, and their spirit of adventure. Without any one of those qualities I would not be who I am. This photo is the culmination of a life's work, my family's life.

Obrigado. Sempre obrigado. Para tudo.

Five years following my college graduation came a second graduation at Notre Dame. This time my parents traveled not from New York, but from their new Florida home where they had just begun enjoying their well-deserved retirement.

South Florida seemed to have influenced my dad to trade in his suit for a Member's Only jacket.

I confess I never expected to become a high school teacher and I know for a fact that was furthest from my parents' goal for me, too. I've previously told you the story of my major college major change after I had just about completed three years as an Accounting major.

In short, I experienced my mid-life crisis a bit early (at 20) when I realized that I'd be miserable albeit successful as the CPA I always imagined I would become.

My 1994 MA in Communication Arts was mostly "just for fun" but also allowed me to spend seven weeks every summer (for five years) surrounded by the nurturing and summer lush campus which had become so dear to me, especially as it had been the nexus of my relationship with Mari.

You also know the story by now of how Mari and I met then re-met two years later (after I had changed majors). Had I not suffered my mid-major crisis when I did and realized I had a calling to teach, I would never have re-met the woman who would become my wife.

I am always grateful to Mari for her support and encouragement throughout my career, but especially when I suffered a just-past-mid career crisis as I began my 20th year as a public high school teacher. I was looking ahead again, as I had when I was a junior in college, and realized I would probably regret not making a change before it was too late. For me, that change was becoming a school librarian.

Books and libraries have always been essential to my existence. You also know about my previously blogged relationship with the Warner Library in Tarrytown, New York and how much it shaped the student and individual I would become. My high school and college job at the library was much more than a job and when I realized I had an opportunity to become a school librarian and emulate and pay tribute to the role models of my childhood and young adulthood, it was an easy decision to make, even after 20 years in the profession and 15 years since I had last stepped foot in a college classroom.

Back to school I went.

No graduation photo this time because my previous MA allowed me to achieve certification on an accelerated path. Just in time, as it turns out. When the universe magically and poignantly placed me, a freshly-minted librarian, at the same high school campus I had grown to love for 21 years, I was thrilled to serve my family of teachers and staff in a new capacity, as school librarian.

That's the dedicated, talented, and lovingly supportive library staff I joined in August 2010. My sincerest thanks to my team members, my co-workers, and my dear friends for your hard work, loyalty, and love.

Mari and I began our careers in education together at Memorial High School in McAllen a few months after college graduation. Although she no longer teaches at my campus, Mari is aiming for an even 30 years with our district and will be working one final school year starting in August. Despite my self-diagnosed OCD, the "twenty-nine" doesn’t bother me (that much).  In a few years I’ll just round it up to 30 anyway when asked.

Although I had decided prior to the current school year that 29 would be my last, it never really felt like it was "real," that this would be my last year as an educator, a working professional. Even though I was following the process, doing what I was supposed to do, it still never felt like it was happening to me. I registered on the Teacher Retirement System of Texas website and requested a TRS retirement “packet” (which sounds a lot more exciting than the paperwork they actually mail you). After filling things out (which includes rolling the dice on how long you expect to live post-retirement so you achieve a balance between your monthly pension and your spouse's benefit upon your premature demise), getting notarized, then eventually receiving a letter from the superintendent of schools thanking you for your (29) years of service along with confirmation of your last day of employment, I still felt like it wasn’t really happening to me.

To paraphrase one of my personal and classroom favorites, it's been exactly like Holden attempts to describe in Catcher in the Rye when he's at his most justifiably agitated, that feeling "like you were disappearing everytime you crossed a road," only with me I kept expecting to walk into work and have everyone stare at me (as if I had forgotten to pull on my khakis or at least my signature argyle socks) and have my principal ask me, “You? You really thought you were going to retire this year? What a laugh!”

But then, about a month ago, I received my invitation to the district’s annual retirement banquet and my misgivings were (somewhat) mollified. The beautiful glass plaque commemorating my retirement after 29 years (the school district did not round up) is sitting temporarily on my desk at home until I can shuffle some collectibles around for this ultimate and very hard-earned collectible.

Having my photo snapped with the school board and superintendent of schools almost clinched the deal, I could just about confirm the legitimacy of my impending retirement, but then there was one final rite of passage which cemented things, cemented with frosting.

It isn’t until you have your retirement cake in the library and fight back

some sobs while giving your speech that you accept retirement.

I am fortunate that even after this past Thursday's cafeteria luncheon on our last day together as a faculty that I still have five more days to complete on my librarian’s contract. That time will help me to gather my belongings (and get my shit) together without interruption from the 100+ hard-working teachers and staff members (a few former students among them) who have surrounded me with their comfort, kindness, and support daily for the past 29 school years.

It still simply feels like summer vacation, though. It probably won’t be until that first “back to school” sale that dares rear its ugly head shortly after the 4th of July promotions have left the airwaves that it will feel right. Instead of that gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach that makes me run to the calendar for the gridded reassurance of five full weeks of vacation remaining, I might actually browse a back-to-school ad and envision myself buying a bouquet of fresh pencils or a box of crayons or yet another Minions notebook.

On that mid-August day when teachers and staff members regather to ignore motivational speeches and to over-analyze student standardized testing data, I can sit back (safely sans khakis) with an extra cup of coffee and watch The Price is Right live, instead of via DVR.

I will probably feel retired the most on that first cool day in the fall which will probably be October (or more likely November around these parts), maybe it will be raining and still dark and our cat will jump into bed and start trying to wake me up for work like she always does, but I can just say, “Ahh, I think I’ll just stay in bed this morning.”

I will definitely feel retired that morning.

Although I have the utmost respect for my brother's personal privacy, I can't help but thank him in this public manner for standing beside me all these years through all these caps & gowns and all these transitions.

He is the person I have known and loved the longest, my entire fifty-one years. I could round that down to 50, but he deserves every last moment.

This is the two of us on our first adventure together.

Our first plane trip and our first visit to meet our grandparents and our Portuguese aunts, uncles, and cousins. At four and seven, we were each other's best friends and he was my first English teacher as only Portuguese was spoken in our household until he started school. Although I often thank Mari in my hypertextuals, I don't always have an opportunity to thank my one and only brother for all his love and support throughout these five decades that have helped me reach this milestone and become the person I was meant to be.

Thank you, Tony.

So begins my hiatus. I hope you will return with me in August, dear reader, when I would normally be getting psyched up for "back to school." I'll probably still be looking for bargains at back-to-school sales, but I will be taking a look back with you at my all-time favorite flea, the Aloha Stadium Swap Meet, which Mari and I will be revisiting next week to celebrate my retirement and our 28th anniversary.

Another adventure awaits us in July as we revisit (after a 28-year absence) another old favorite on another coast.

More stories from flea to flea-ing flea next time.

Copenhagen, episode 10. In which Karen Blixen had a farm in Africa.

The beautiful home in the background of Mari's selfie of us in our (almost) matchy-matchy shirts has tremendous historic, literary, and (of course) personal significance, all of which I shall dive heartily into today as part of my final Copenhagen episode in which we are finally back in Copenhagen after our Baltic cruise adventures. I am quite a bit sad to be leaving Copenhagen behind, just as I was on that postcard perfect day back in July of 2017. Our final full day in Copenhagen will long live in my storied memory as one of the most favorite days of my life.

Allow me to storytell.

I will never forget the first (of many, many) times I watched Out of Africa. My many-splendored story necessarily includes two wonderful friends, one of whom did not actually watch the movie with us, but more on Miss Coni later because she is categorically central to the epic adventure of two college friends and major movie buffs trekking to see Out of Africa for the first time.

I knew Ted and I would be good friends when he first moved in across the hall from The Wicker Lounge in August of 1985, my sophomore (his freshman) year. His wonderfully warm mom gave me a hug when she first met me as Ted's family dropped off its oldest son for his first year of college and, before returning to Kansas a few days later, gave me another wonderfully warm hug and asked me to look after her son. When Ted later told me that his Midwestern mother refused to allow a microwave oven in her house, he cemented our kinship and we became even faster friends. Our eventual extended study-avoidance discussions about movies clinched the deal.

I was a great admirer of Ted's cinema knowledge and of his own personal acting and singing talents and Marissa and I are eternally grateful to him for singing so beautifully at our wedding. I don't remember whose idea it was to trek to the theaters at the mall formerly known as Scottsdale in south South Bend, but I know we were both excited to see Out of Africa upon its Oscar re-release sometime in late February of 1986.

Late February in South Bend means winter (sometimes late April in South Bend means winter) and neither of us moviegoing dorm-mates had our own transportation so we did like most locals did and we got up and went with Transpo.

I always admired the catchy slogan of South Bend's public bus service, Transpo, "Get up and go with Transpo!" Sorry, Transpo, but "The new way to go" just doesn't... well... it doesn't make me want to get up.

Regardless of its slogan, Transpo's dependable service transported Ted and me the seven and a half slushily cold miles to the far south end of South Bend to the theaters at Scottsdale Mall which has since been unceremoniously razed and replaced with a colorfully nondescript collection of strip malls where I believe a Target bullseye stands watch over the former cinema on the mall's east end.

Our Saturday afternoon matinee did not disappoint and Ted and I immediately started making plans to revisit the tragically beautiful epically dramatic biopic during our return Transpo to the downtown bus station where we expected to transfer northbound back to campus.

We learned a valuable lesson from our driver that day, almost as significant and certainly more practical than any lesson in our college courses: buses stopped running at 6:00 PM on Saturdays (no service on Sundays).

In a pre-cellular world, on a cold, slushily wet, and winter-dark Saturday, I had no choice but to find a pay phone and beg my friend Coni (who had a car and her own apartment) for a ride.

Ask her today, 32 years later, and either she will say I have lost my mind because she doesn't remember this incident (huge favor) at all or she will roll her eyes and think, "Yeah, Lou, I dragged my heiny out of my Saturday night bubble bath for you boys... of course I remember!" If I know Coni, it is definitely (hopefully) somewhere in between.

Remind me to share with you the tragically embarrassing tale of

my first attempt at doing laundry and how Coni set me straight.

And if I know Ted, I have a feeling Out of Africa is right up there on his favorites list, too. I remember he spent quite a bit of time trying to find the poem Karen read at Denys' funeral, one of my favorite scenes in any film. Remember, this was pre-IMDB, pre-internet even, when you had to look subjects up in the most current Reader's Guide to Periodical Literature (that necessary scourge of all research) before finding the drawer with the correct microfiche!

I know.  I've lost half my audience.

In other words, you had to work really long and hard to answer a question that Alexa can monotonically retort to your request in just a few seconds, but Ted was determined and I remember how excited we both were when he introduced me to A. E. Houseman's "To an Athlete Dying Young," a beauty of an ode that was likewise brilliantly excerpted in the film.

Yes, I know. Copenhagen.

When we were first researching Copenhagen, Mari discovered with great joy that the Karen Blixen Museum was located just outside the city.

Onto my list went the family home of the celebrated Out of Africa author (published under Blixen's pen name, Isak Dinesen) and an extra day in Copenhagen inked onto our itinerary.

No sooner had we disembarked from our cruise and rechecked our luggage at the Admiral, than we were hoofing it to Central Station for a train to Rungsted, about 20 miles to the north.

If you do take the train from Copenhagen, the front entrance to the museum is less than a mile's walk from the station and not worth the time it takes to wait for the local bus advertised here (at right) to take you to its first stop.

There is also a shortcut off Rungstedvej Street which will take you onto the rear of the museum's lush and well-tended property, allowing you to walk the property before approaching the museum from the back yard.

For a lover of Out of Africa as well as another favorite based on Blixen's writings, 1988's Oscar-winning foreign language film, Babette's Feast, a visit to Copenhagen must include an afternoon at the Karen Blixen Museum. If Mari's photos aren't enough to satisfy your cravings, then please click on my YouTube video below to watch highlights from our visit. We tour inside and outside the beautiful estate, home to the beloved Danish author.

the phonograph given to Blixen by Denys Finch Hatton

It was an incredible thrill to walk through Blixen's home, where she was raised and where she lived once more upon her return from Kenya in 1931 until her death in 1962.

It was a thrill I hope to repeat some day because I dream, of course, of visiting the "other" Karen Blixen Museum (in Nairobi, Kenya), but that is another story, another selfie, another journey, another list for another day.

beans harvested from Blixen's Nairobi coffee plantation

The K1 Flea Market outside Nairobi and the Masai market in Karen (named after you-know-who) on the grounds of Blixen's failed coffee farm are also on that travel list.

For now, I must pack up my melancholia and bid a fond farvel to a capital city which welcomed us magnificently even as it transported us on journeys beyond its Baltic byways. Our multinational cruise adventures notwithstanding, Copenhagen was a pleasant surprise and a city incredibly rich with history and culture, satisfyingly creative and delicious cuisine (that includes the express meals and pints of wild strawberries we picked up at the local føtex market to help us stay on budget), and, of course, the welcomingly wonderful and wonderfully eclectic Sunday flea at Ravnsborggade.

I think my wonderfully supportive travel partner would agree that should we ever decide to pack it all up, go minimalist (but modishly modern), and trade in our cars for bicycles, Copenhagen would definitely be at the top of my list.

A special episode awaits us next week as I begin an intimidatingly exciting new adventure!

Copenhagen, episode 9. ¡In which finalmente viajamos a Estocolmo!

This photo has been a long time coming. Mari and I have been wanting to visit "Estocolmo" ever since watching one of our favorite films, Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown, nearly 30 years ago. I know, it doesn't make any sense, but like any memory worth treasuring, it only needs to make sense to you and (in my case) the love of my life who truly gets me and appreciates my ridiculously and stupidly simple sense of humor.

Ever since hearing the vigorous Spanish pronunciation of Sweden's capital city repeated throughout the film's third act, we've been anxiously awaiting an opportunity to visit "Estocolmo," I mean, Stockholm. This may not be the best photo to represent that Baltic burg, but the patinaed copper spire of St. Gertrude's Church was omnipresent in our souvenir photos as we enjoyed a few hours of free time wandering the busy streets and shopping centers surrounding the baroque beauty.

The Vasa warship on full display inside the museum (exterior views in my video).

Please click on my YouTube video below to watch some of my video footage from our Stockholm shore excursion which begins at the Vasa Museum, then moves on to the changing of the guard and some additional city views as we wander the colorful avenues and alleys of Old Stockholm on the island of Stadsholmen (a bit like sightseeing in Manhattan, only with actual royalty).

After our city highlights tour which included a stop at the Vasa Museum, we were dropped off at the 350+ year-old Kungliga Slottet (Royal Palace) for a free afternoon during which Mari and I enjoyed the changing of the guard ceremony, an unexpectedly gourmet cafe lunch full of local flavor (and incredible fresh butter for the incredible fresh bread), and an opportunity to inject some exchanged krona into the local economy.

That's our cafe whose outdoor dining space was unfortunately not available to two open-air-dining-deprived South Texas tourists famished for al fresco feasting.

In the upper left of my spectacularly skewed tablescape, sandwiched between my strong coffee and (what else was I going to eat during my one and only day in Sweden?!) Swedish meatball special is a misleadingly tiny (but bountifully potent) plate proferring my first of three servings of butter (with bread).

Yes, those are lingonberries riding astride the meatballs and parsleyed mashed potato mounds!

Lingonberries!

(And that is the mushroom soup that Mari has not stopped talking about for the past year.)

At right is a colorful display beckoning collectors into one of the street's tempting antiques shops. Warning: I am a big sucker for displays like this.

I am also a sucker (pun intended)

for candy shops like this.

I am reminded now to remind you about money exchanges.

Be sure to do your research before international travel.


Although their intention was to provide a universal currency for countries within conveniently close proximity, Euros are not universally accepted throughout Europe. Check your travel guides, websites, or even the country's wikipedia page well in advance of your journey. While Euros and British pounds are available at most large banks, you may need to order other currency from your bank in advance of your departure.

In the case of our Baltic cruise, Mari and I were in need of Danish krone (DKK) for Copenhagen; Euros (EUR) for Germany, Estonia (still sad about our missed Tallinn stop), and Finland; non-returnable Russian rubles (RUB); and Swedish krona (SEK). In addition to the krone and krona (not the same), we also had Icelandic króna (ISK) to consider for the next leg of our trip (and Pounds sterling GBP beyond that). I was a little surprised to find three different "krona" with three very different valuations as I began the process of ordering currency from my bank. One of the reasons we selected our bank is because it offers no-fee currency exchanges if you maintain a minimum balance. I was also able to order currency online and have it delivered to my home at no cost. Almost too easy.

Be sure, please, to do any currency exchanges well in advance of your trip and try your best to guesstimate what you will realistically need. This will help keep you on budget while traveling and also keep you from over-exchanging. Of course, you can always exchange (most) currency back into dollars upon your return, but you will invariably lose money in the process.

Now, another (more convenient) option is to rely on your credit card when you are outside the United States. You will be given the best and most up-to-date exchange rate when your transaction is approved, but you may also be charged a "foreign transaction fee" per charge. You realistically want to have a little local cash on hand in case you find an amazing jar of homemade wild strawberry jam from a local vendor who harvested the strawberries herself!

It was just before reboarding our ship in Germany that we came across our strawberrylicious find and we were frustratingly careful not to open the jar until arriving home two weeks later!


Let's get back to Stockholm and that photo of me at the top of my blog, the one I posted to celebrate my 100th episode back in January. That was taken at the entrance to an alley of antiques shops that Mari and I were thrilled to discover as we traipsed our trail around Old Stockholm. I knew I needed a souvenir photo with that rustically appropriate signage and Mari's artful eye and steady hand were right at the ready. Many thanks for a favorite souvenir photo!

The antiques shops themselves down this little lane were plentifully packed with local treasures including beautifully intricate antique furniture and household items as well as books and jewelry.

One of the reasons why I enjoy secondhand shopping so much, especially in other regions, states, and countries, is that you learn so much about a local culture based on what has been collected and recollected. From the fondue forks tucked safely away in the bottom of my luggage to egg cups old and new and even colorful celluloid cat pins, a portrait of a culture emerges that is as distinct and unique and beautiful as the crafters who created these items and the hardworking individual collectors who initially invited them into their humble homes.

To some it may be "stuff" or (gasp) "junk," but to me (to paraphrase my beloved Bard) the memory's the thing.

Allow me to share with you two glintingly graceful yet utilitarian memories plucked from that picturesque antique alley.

The lång gaffel at left is about 8 inches while Mr. Stubby with the 5 (five!) triangular tines is just over 5 inches. Both were on display among a beautiful array of service implements and although it was Stubbs who caught my collector's gaze first, I couldn't leave his buddy behind.

Hardy without Laurel?

Not on my watch!

While I still haven't had occasion to spear then savor pickled herring with my shiny Swedish-crafted silverware (it is most definitely not silver), the 20-kroner-apiece picked pickle implements do serve for me as delicate but durably practical reminders of our Stockholm stop (for all of four dollars and 58 cents).

Finally, we couldn't leave Estocolmo behind without picking up Pippi (Longstocking that is).

A favorite childhood read of Mari's, Astrid Lindgren's beloved nine-year-old adventurer is well known the world over, of course, and Pippi Långstrump is as well known throughout Stockholm souvenir shops as she is still treasured the world over.

As we made our way back up to our tour's pick-up point, Mari and I stumbled upon a Pippi souvenir shop as colorfully jam-packed with goodies as Pippi's playful countenance is covered with freckles.

Mari limited herself to just the brightly-painted enamel-covered metal bowl pictured here which has since seen plenty of practical daily use from colorfully fruited loops (whole grain, of course) to a favorite "Chicago" mix of caramel and cheese popcorn.

Pippi would have especially liked the fantastically flavored little loops.





Our final Stockholm souvenir selfie before sailing back to our familiar Copenhagen was snapped at the end of a very long day full of new adventures and an unfortunately brief glimpse at a spectacular capital city full of fascinating history and an equally auspicious future. Our colorful floating home became a welcome sight after every Baltic adventure.

We share a final Copenhagen adventure next time as we venture out of (Africa) the city.

Copenhagen, episode 8. In which we stroll Helsinki.

I have to admit that my first sauna experience took place in Helsinki. Actually, it took place aboard our cruise ship, but Helsinki was off in the distance so I will give credit to the Finns since they did invent and perfect the art of intentionally luxuriating in a hot room. I was just getting myself accustomed to staying a full 10 minutes without feeling like I was going to pass out when our cruise ended. You would think living in South Texas all these years would have me better climatized to pore-opening environments, but we Texans don't spend much time in our beloved love-to-hate-it hundred-degree heat unless we are running to our air-conditioned cars, offices, or homes.

As I was recently recollecting photos and memories of our day trip to Finland, Mari shared with me this New York Times article touting a particularly significant health benefit of saunas which I will now share with you.

We also learned from our native tour guide that the correct pronunciation is not "saw-na" as we Americans are accustomed to saying (butchering), but "sow-na" (pronounced as "how").

That's the way Mari and I hear it in our heads now and when we revisit this souvenir photo taken from Helsinki's Market Square, we remember Hanna telling us just how big a part of Finnish culture saunas are.

So much so that there's a sauna car at the very top of the city's ferris wheel!

You will catch a glimpse of that sauna-enhanced wheel in action and much more if you click on my YouTube video below.

Please watch some of my video footage from our Father's Day shore excursion to Helsinki which includes a few architectural city highlights as well as a busy stop at a beautiful monument to Finnish composer Jean Sibelius.





My five-minute video also includes some footage from Market Square during a busy Sunday flea at the weekly farmers' market which included many local crafts and souvenirs.

Market Square's central location is right on the Baltic and within sightseeing distance of famed city sights such as the Presidential Palace and City Hall. Even if you are not a shopper, it's a perfect place to roam for souvenir photos.

Although excited to happen upon a local market, Mari and I were slightly disappointed not to find antique, vintage, nor collectable goods for sale.

As we were initially bussed into the city from port, Mari and I were suddenly simultaneously taken aback by one of the most unexpectedly beautiful and bountiful sights that we were just too amazed to sight from our tour bus window. A ginormous (I've come to accept it, and if it can be used by The New York Times in today's Sunday crossword, you should, too) honest-to-goodness fleamarket that included Finnish furniture and Scandinavian collectibles yllin kyllin!

I love the Finnish translation of galore as much as I love saying "galore."

As our city highlights tour was coming to an end, we were given the option of staying behind in a fashionable and shiny new marketplace bustling with designer department stores and restaurants for a few hours so naturally Mari and I took advantage of some Helsinki free time.

We did not, however, spend much time with designers except to walk through the complex to find our way first to Market Square and then go off in search of that fabulous Finnish flea.

Unfortunately, despite our best meanderingly clumsiest efforts, including a fruitless unplanned "tour" inside Helsinki's architecturally phenomenal 100-year-old Central Station, we failed to find route information back to that marvelous mirage of a Sunday fleamarket.


One of our favorite stops in Helsinki was at the famous Rock Church, officially known as Temppeliaukio Lutheran Church. You'll know why it has been dubbed so when you see it (there is a bit of footage in my video in addition to the photo here).

Mari and I were disappointed (frustrated) that our stop was scheduled during Sunday church service as we would have loved to explore the church's unusual interior as well as walk around (and atop) the church's exterior. 

The cool and cloudy morning did lend itself to a healthily introspective walk up and around the exterior and the extra time with the natural surroundings did provide an idyllic opportunity to reflect and, of course, snap a few more souvenir photos.

I have learned, dear reader, to turn delays and disappointments, however small, into memorable moments of reflection (during which I often plant the seeds of future travel lists). A church closed for Sunday service is just another reason to return to Helsinki!

Next time, it's måndag so it must be Stockholm.