Reading this reminds me how insecure I’d been as a teenager, like everyone else, but IknowI wasn’t born trying to hide my body. It makes me think of all those awkward formative years spent comparing myself to other girls, thinking how I’d be happy once I slimmed down this bit or waxed or tanned or straightened that bit.
As I head to the bathroom to apply the dye to my mousey roots it strikes me that over the years I’ve slipped back into those old bad habits and I realise that I can remember pretty much every single negative comment anyone’s ever made about my looks or my shape, but I had no memory at all of him saying these nice things to me, or indeed of any of the nice things other people might have said to me over the years.
There must have beensomecompliments, but only the bad stuff sticks in my mind and I replay it all to myself every now and again when I’m feeling crap; like the time Cole suggested that I lay off the red wine and tea as he handed me a leaflet about cosmetic teeth whitening, or that woman with the tape measure in the bra fitting cubicle who told me I could ‘minimise my back fat’ with the right kind of support. Cheeky cow. So basically, I end up trolling myself with this stuff, which really isn’t on. But he – oh, all right,Stellan– didn’t believe anyone had imperfections or flaws, and he just saw me. I repeat this to myself in the bathroom mirror with a smile and a shrug as a blob of red dye plops down my forehead and onto the tip of my nose. He just saw me.
After I rinse the colour off and blast my hair dry, I quickly check Facebook once more, telling myself this really has to be the last time. And… nothing. There’s some photos of Mum and Dad grinning in front of the Empire State Building and a message from them hoping I have a great trip, but there’s no new ‘friends’. I shut down my laptop, also trying to shut down the hopeful little butterfly feelings in my stomach telling me how much I’d hoped to hear from him before jetting off.
The thing about nostalgia for the past, I find myself thinking as I get ready for bed, is that everything is rose-tinted; you recollect the best bits and magnify them, and no wonder, really. I’d rather remember Stellan – and Cole for that matter – in those first exciting, happy days, when we were just finding out about each other, and when everyone’s on their best behaviour and still very much wearing their nicest underwear.
Maybe the problem with all this Stellan nostalgia is that we never had the chance to get to the saggy old pants stage? I never saw him asleep and drooling on the sofa wearing sweaty gym gear on a Saturday morning. I never had to squeeze past his muddy track bike and umpteen pairs of his expensive trainers in the hall as I struggled inside with the groceries. I never had to accompany his grandmother on her trips to the chiropodist because nobody else could be bothered taking her. Yes, you’ve guessed it, all things I experienced with Cole.
Nostalgia only works for those with the luxury of never having seen the humdrum reality of how things would have turned out. And even though Stellan ran off and broke my teenage heart, I still manage to remember him making me supremely happy and being an utterly delicious human being. If I don’t let myself think about how it ended, I can accurately claim the relationship was one hundred per cent blissful, until it suddenly wasn’t.
I put the diary back where it belongs in the box marked ‘university’, folded away with the photos and Stellan’s T-shirt, and I shove the box into the back of my wardrobe. It’s been fun, in a way, looking back, but I’ve done so much of that lately. Stellan could be anywhere in the world now (goodness knows, he spoke so many languages, he’d be employable pretty much anywhere), and of course, he’ll be in love with someone, and no doubt he’s a devoted daddy too.
I shut the wardrobe door. It’s for the best that I leave the fantasy of Stellan in the past where he belongs with the scatty, happy, drunk-with-love nineteen-year-old Sylvie. The grown-up me is going on a cosy retreat with her best mate to the land of Christmas trees and snow trails, husky dogs and hot spiced wine, and I’m so excited I doubt I’ll get any sleep tonight.
Chapter Seven
Hello readers, Nari Bell here!
It’s late, and I have an early flight to beautiful Finnish Lapland tomorrow, so this’ll be a quick one.
After a conversation with S, my closest friend, I got thinking about Finland and one national stereotype in particular I feel like busting open…
But first. Researching this trip I discovered the following: A UN report has found for the second year running that Finland is the happiest country in the world (based on quality of life stuff, wealth and schooling). It’s also the most forested place on the planet. Trees = happiness, no surprises there. It is also the safest country in the world (low crime, safe roads, good hospitals, that kind of thing). People don’t mind paying higher taxes to get these things too. It all sounds pretty perfect to me: beautiful place, and kind, generous people.
Then I found a survey, and OK, it was a dodgy looking thing from an online news source from a decade ago, but it said that Finnish men who date women are twenty-five times less likely to tell their partner they love her within the first six months than Swedish men. I’ve also discovered that Finnish women are increasingly marrying men of other nationalities. Can the two be connected? Are my Finnish sisters getting sick of non-committal, undemonstrative boyfriends and hooking up with hot Americans, sexy Scots, or those declarative Swedes who are, allegedly, dropping the L-bomb all over the shop?
So, I dug a bit deeper, trawling dating and travel forums and YouTuber blogs so you don’t have to, and there did seem to be plenty of anecdotal evidence supporting the theory that Finnish blokes really are more reticent about talking about their feelings, and this can be pretty frustrating for their significant others.
When it comes to generalisations about this kind of thing I’m cautious, but curious. I know the idea’s blown out of the water by the mixed demography of Finland that shows us this tiny population’s a melting pot like any other European place, a huge variety of languages are spoken there and, I guess what I’m saying is, there’s no monolithic Finnish Man. And yet, Disgruntled Girlfriends of The Internet are telling me their Finnish boyfriends need to get with the programme when it comes to sharing their feelings. They describe attractive, calm, reserved, respectful, taciturn men who love nature, value solitude, have a connection to the land and the seasons, love to feed people, and are prone to joking at your expense as an easy way of showing affection. So, all in all, these Finnish Men, whoever they are, if they even exist, sound pretty good.
Now, you know I left my dating blog behind a long time ago, and I’m determined to get thetravellowdown on Lapland for you all, but if me and my friend, S, happen to discover if there’s any truth to the myth of the shy Finnish fellas, all the better. Check back soon for an update when I’ll be touching down in snowy Inari.
#NariInInari #Girlsholiday
Chapter Eight
‘Just look at this place!’
Nari lifts up one side of her sleep mask in acknowledgement of my excited dig at her elbow. The flaps have just opened and the loud clunk of the wheels coming down somewhere underneath us finally jolts her to full wakefulness.
Low mountains brood over the Lappish plains. Stretched out in the grey-blue expanse below are the strange shapes of fir trees bent under the weight of snow and what I first assume are white roads, before realising they’re frozen rivers. From up here it looks as though there are no motorways, no streetlights, and no buildings as far as I can see, just miles and miles of wide open, infinite space.
Back in Castlewych you can’t walk for ten minutes without railway lines or canals dissecting your path. The town’s horribly cut up by B-roads and claustrophobically cut off by motorways, housing developments, and the out of town shopping centres that are slowly replacing the real, old town centre. This place, on the other hand, seems endlessly wild and unpopulated. Everything looks barren and alien, and our flight is making its descent into the strange snowy world.
Nari barely glances towards the window. She’s such a seasoned traveller. She even remembered to slather on moisturiser and down a bottle of mineral water as soon as she buckled her lap belt, and within minutes she was sleeping soundly, even during the bumpy six a.m. take off through blustery Manchester sleet. I tried to sleep too, but ended up uncomfy, crick-necked and grumpy, so I’d reaching for my battered old copy ofThe Kalevala, once a treasured possession during my nerdy early-teen obsession with Scandi myths and legends. I’d struggled to read more than a few verses in the low light of the noisy cabin, so I gave up, watching old episodes ofFriendson the in-flight entertainment system instead.
Nari looks fresh and rested as the plane smoothly touches down and she slicks on lip balm and ties her hair back. I know I look a fright but it hardly matters, we’ll soon be covered from head to toe in bulky snow gear.
As the plane door opens, the entire fuselage fills with icy arctic air and everyone, except the Laplanders travelling home for Christmas, exclaims at once.
Soon we’re walking across the airstrip, breathing in the strange mixture of frigid air and jet fuel. Note that I didn’t call it an airport. There’s a terminal building – basically a large-ish glass shed – and that’s it, the only building for what looks like miles around.
As I slide my feet along, trying not to fall over on the icy tarmac, I pull my pink bobble hat down over my ears and stuff my thin undergloves and snow mittens on as fast as I can. The cold is already biting and I’m shivering.
So this is snow.Realsnow. There are ten-foot drifts of the stuff piled up at the sides of the runway. How the hell did the plane land in this? And how come this place stays open in these conditions when Heathrow seems to close after the lightest dusting?
