...fumbling with public transportation

Growing up in minivan haven, aka the suburbs, there was not much need for public transportation. I had plenty of soccer moms willing, or more likely, obligated by their motherly contractual duties, to drive me to and from practice, the movies, the mall, etc. Don't even mention walking anywhere-that would have just been embarrassing. I mean, what if one of my cool middle-school friends saw me walking on the street? I would be branded a fool...Monday at school...just like Danny Zuko. Why do you think they had to renovate that piece of junk car into Grease Lightning? Because it was uncool to walk.

Now, fast forward through the synchronized dances and catchy tunes into modern-day Finland. Not quite the same as the carnival scene at the end of the movie, but it's close enough. Here I am dancing around the house excited about my first excursion to downtown Helsinki. I'm mm-bopping and getting ready, which consists of changing out of sweats for the first time, when my host mom (Teija) walks in with my bus card. She is so sweet and put money on it so that I am all set for my big day out. She explains how easily the card works, just take the 650 to the last stop, use the card to pay when you get on and you are all set! Great! Kiitos! (Thank you! One of the few words I know). She shows me exactly where to get on and at exactly-ish what time, approximately 1:30-35, and I am confident that I can master this first bus meeting on my own. How hard can it be?

First lesson learned-don't miss your bus. That makes it difficult to get anywhere if you miss your darn bus. Seems like a given, but you know, sometimes lessons are best learned the hard way. For example, when playing beer pong, don't hold your beer out for a free shot, because if they make it while you're still drinking, it is known as the death cup and you lose and you feel like a giant, dying loser. The existence of this particular rule was unbeknownst to me prior to this event, which may or may not have actually occurred, however the explanation of why my friend would demoralize me in such a way was, "Well, now she'll never do it again. She's learned the hard way." Okay, that's true. And similarly, I hope to never miss a bus again because it's added stress to an already stressful situation when I have to walk outside. The thought of rushing AND walking just gives me anxiety.

With my first bus missed I decide that the best next option is to just stand there staring at the back of the bus as it pulls away from the stop without me on it. Mouth open, laughing at my stupidity and thinking that this would happen to me, I stand and continue standing until I start to freeze. Moving helps the onslaught of hypothermia so I walk up to the bus stop and ask a friendly looking girl if the next bus will get me to the train station. I say a silent prayer that she speaks English and ask her in the simplest, most dumb-down manner about the bus. She responds in perfectly clear, hardly-an-accent-English and flips that dumb-down card right back onto me. Oops, I'm lame and feel rude now. I side-step the awkwardness that I imposed on my poor companion, who, thank goodness, doesn't seem bothered.

Of course I jump all over the fact that she can speak English and I begin to chat her up like she is my best friend who I haven't seen in five years. I act as if I am some highly acclaimed anthropologist doing my research among the local breed of Finnish bus travelers with the questions I was throwing at her, "what's the biggest difference between Finnish people and Americans?" In retrospect, I see that her response probably was supposed to halt my onslaught of inquiries, but as usual I was oblivious, "Well, we don't really do this...(hand gestures pointing back and forth from me to herself)...this small-talk like you Americans. When we talk, we generally get to the point because we have something to say." Ohhhh, right.

Choosing to ignore that I continue my assault and ask if she's ever been to America. She has?! Nice. Florida is beautiful...weather is a little different from here, huh? ha ha. September 9, 2001 for three weeks? Wow! How was that being a foreigner in America during 9/11? It must have been so crazy and interesting for you to experience something like that. (Again, I am channeling my inner journalist, or anthropologist, or annoying prier, and anticipating the most eloquent, philosophical answer about humanity as a whole) "Ehh, everything was closed that we went to see and since we are white skin, pale Finnish people no one cared about us. They knew we weren't terrorists."  Ohhh, right.

Not quite the elaborate answer I was hoping for so I decided to shut it and just get on the bus, which had just pulled up. The bus card is not as easy as I thought it would be, so the bus driver has to come help me, the eyes glaring from the back of the bus were not amused and I was targeted as an outsider. Though no one said anything, their eyes were screaming, so I clumsily shuffled to the first open seat by my new friend.

Second lesson, don't sit backwards on the bus. It is shaky and bumpy and even the toughest of stomachs can only handle so much rattling. I have learned this lesson now, and yet every time since this first bus trip, I hurry to find a seat because every time I have yelling eyes from the rest of the passengers because every time I can't get my stupid bus pass to work on my own. So, backwards I ride, EVERY TIME! It hurts. My ego is bruised that once again I can't get on the bus by myself, my self-esteem is battered and I feel ashamed that I am so inept to press the right button dictating where I am going, so it must be a subconsciousness decision to punish myself to endure the discomfort of sitting backwards.

Third lesson, don't be that person on the bus who can't get on and then insists on talking throughout the trip. Again, learned this the hard way.

I won't even start with the story of my first bus ride to soccer practice. It ends with a 45 minute walk in the snow, sans gloves, to the field from a bus stop that is about 10 minutes away. How embarrassing...people saw me walking.

I'm off to Sweden tomorrow for our first pre-season tournament. The games are going to be tough, so it will be good preparation for us before our league and Champions League starts. I'm anxious to see where I play-I've been moving all over the midfield and even a little in the back line as center back. Any goalie that has ever played with me just choked on her own spit at the mere thought of me back there. My keeper here actually made a point of telling me in her strong Nigerian accent that I am "no good there, you do not belong back there. I will tell the coaches you need to play somewhere else." Burn! Clearly it is not a pretty scene, but wherever they need me is where I'll play.

I am spending two extra days in Sweden to travel around Stockholm, so maybe I will have some more luck on the Swedish public transportation. A girl can dream!

Thanks for reading and all of your support!
Peace and Love,
Cat

PICTURE TIME:

Once I finally made it downtown, a few teammates took me around Helsinki and out to lunch. They were so cute and took me to an American inspired restaurant called Memphis. This picture is afterwards, freezing outside with ice cream in hand :) 

This is in front of  the Helsinki Cathedral. It's HUGE!

This has nothing to do with my post, but I would like to introduce you to heaven in pancake form. This is Finnish pancake, which is baked and eaten with jam or syrup. It is dangerously delicious! 

...Trippin' in Finland

       "Sometimes the lights all shining on me;

        Other times I can barely see,

        Lately it occurs to me what a long, strange trip it's been."

Well said, Dead. Please look beyond the drug innuendos in "trip" and the reminiscent lyrics of simpler times when "sweet jane" was a gentle, fulfilling frequenter to the band, and see the deep poetry in the words. It occurred to me while listening to my Grateful Dead Pandora station that those lines accurately sum up my soccer career thus far. I definitely have not had the easiest road, thanks to my body's need to be a statistic on the pie chart of women soccer players with torn ACL's (I contributed twice!), but what hours on the road cruising to soccer tournaments with my dad have taught me is that you have to keep truckin' on. And somehow after hours of rehab, painful months of recovery, and multiple moments of near insanity I have found myself in Finland--talk about a strange trip!

I have been here now for just over a week and am positively convinced that Mr. Jerry Garcia made at least one or more trips to Finland. Sure those trips were probably LSD induced, but reality is just our individual perception anyway, right? So as far as he was concerned and I am concerned now, he was here, physically sledging through this dang snow. Walking home for Jumbo yesterday (the mall that has become my big adventure nearly everyday) was the first time in my life I had the pleasure of finding myself ankle deep in a 7-11  slushy. Yup, that cold, very cold, icey concoction was drowning my sock in its arctic waters. Though my right foot was suffering from hypothermia, my left was able to avoid the dangerous, glacial waters and toe-heel onto higher ground. The dry ground is a red gravel that is dumped onto the streets everyday to save oblivious or inexperienced travelers like me to avoid sharing the same fate as the Titanic. (Coming out in 3-D in America? Jealous.)

My left foot lands and I am safe. Or so I thought. Enter scene: right, fully saturated shoe. Not much grip on the bottom of my trusty Uggs when they are in this unfortunate state. And what is really unfortunate is the intense fear that overcomes your body when you feel like you are about to eat it hard on the ice pavement. In an instant my life flashes before my eyes and a giant, donut-shaped, pool flotation device rolls across my vision. It floats by haunting that my future, due to my broken tail bone of course, will consist of hours sitting in its uncomfortable ring.

Please note that I did not fall and my tail bone is still fully intact. My heart? Back to its steady, controlled beat, though it is still  recovering from the psychological damage it encountered on its journey from my throat to near birthing. Not that I know what that sort of trauma really feels like, but from what I see on TV it looks the miz. I apologize for the graphic imagery of birthing a heart, especially to you boys. It's a man's world, so I hear, but he's nothing without a woman. And women give birth. To her heart, when she is about to shatter her face and/or tail bone into a million pieces on frozen gravel.

A tad dramatic perhaps, but accurate in that my likelihood of remaining injury free while the ice lasts is dismal . Fingers are crossed and I desperately am trying to be aware of my every step, but I feel like the clock is ticking and it is a race between my safety in the arms of spring and my downfall from the slippery snipers below. Who will win out in this epic battle between good and evil?

Again with the dramatics, but now you know my daily, mini heart attacks that are created by a mere jaunt to the mall. It's hard out here for a pimp and these Vantaa streets keep me on my toes. Literally.

Sorry it took so long to write this week. I've been really busy catching up with my man Ashton during his glory days of hosting Punk'd. Thanks for all the positive feedback and your ongoing support.

Peace and Love,
Cat

             PICTURE TIME: Looks unassuming, huh?

...the token (fill in the blank)

(American).

"Why, Cat? Whyyy?" begged my Swedish teammate, Ansko. Playful, but sincere expressions gazed at me patiently, waiting to be blessed with my answer that would solve one of life's most challenging questions,  why do American footballers insist on wearing their shorts too short and their ponytails too high?

ehh...High Fashion?

Other than avid Tosh.O fans, no one appreciates that answer, including my Swedish, Nigerian, and Finnish teammates. According to them, they can pick out any random girl on any given team and identify her as American or not. Are we really that obvious? Apparently so to the rest of the world. Though I am not the only token American on the team, I had to laugh at their confidence because, as timing would have it, I was simultaneously whining about the shorts being so baggy, while elevating my pony tail to the peak of my head. (Seriously. It really happened that way.) Well, feck. How am I supposed to refute allegations that I unknowingly already proved true? Innocent until proven guilty means case closed for me. I'm guilty, your honor.

Besides the snow replacing the sand, Finnish replacing English, scarves replacing bikinis, and domed turf replacing photosynthesized grass, life in Finland isn't so different from what I know in California. And honestly, most of my biggest speed bumps to adjusting come from old Uncle Sam being off his rocker. Or maybe pesky Sammy is striving to make things a bit tougher in hopes that it will increase our population's average IQ scores? Making us smarter than Japan and therefore enabling our women's national team to stinking beat them. The ballot is out.

Here is a list of what I have gathered so far that America does differently than the world:

1. Short shorts, high hair, no heels on planes. (I'm still not over that, sorry for partying in comfort.) The girls ardently argued with me tonight at practice that longer shorts where the crotch is practically hanging below my knees are better to play in. Never. I feel restricted, uncomfortable, slighty claustrophobic, and somewhat paranoid that my shorts are going to rip down the seam. And if your pants rip down the seam, you want to cry from embarrassment. If you cry from embarrassment, you run off the field, slip on ice,  get an eye patch and wake up in a ditch. Don't wake up in a ditch. Get shorter shorts, Finland.

2. Feet, yards, miles. No to meters? You sure? Okay, great. We'll be the only country to be constantly dazed and confused whenever we travel anywhere outside our borders. Yesterday at practice we had to run 50 meters and then 30 meters, which according to my calculations is precisely 54.68 yards and 32.8 yards. I just did that off the top of my head, no big deal.  They may as well have been speaking another language! Oh yeah, that happened too. Needless to say, cones were vital.

3. More measuring moments: inches and pounds. We had to fill out a sheet with our basic information like height, weight, blah blah blah, today for our weight coach. Without hesitation I wrote 5'7'', and let's just throw one out there, ummm....115. Whoa, how'd that get so low? It must be this anti-Atkins diet I'm on out here, weird. Anyway, curious as to what I was writing for my birthday (30/12/87, according to Finns. I did that all wrong, too), another teammate of mine started laughing. Out loud. Then generously pointed to my height (thank you!) and said that my answer means nothing to her. Perplexed, I looked at her like she had lost her dang mind. Then, a-ha, I'm not in Kansas anymore, it's centimeters. And 115, or whatever, is dangerously obese for a 70 cm. girl. Jokes were made, ha ha ha, all in fun of course. And thanks to our desire to be so hipster and "different," I'm the dumb American. Again.

That's all I have so far, but those are biggies and I have only been here 4 days. It's not all that bad really. It's kind of fun to be the token. I'm never the token anything! I'm usually middle of the pack, average Joe, nothing but mostly normal on my teams. (Except for maybe Boston. I was the token foreigner there, too. I said gnarly and wore sunglasses all the time; and generally operated on what my coach deemed "California time," which I am slowly beginning to accept as Cat Time more than California. Too many people in my life are well aware that I move at my own pace and I don't want to drag the whole state's reputation down with me due to my lack of punctuality. Let me continue on my tangent...)

We're done here. It's bedtime--no naps today, hot sauna after a hard practice, and a drop of Melatonin. Sounds like a recipe for success. Wish me luck!

Good night and thanks for your support,
Cat

...the 10 hour time difference

This whole jet lag thing is no joke. It deserves all the respect people have been telling me to give it. I thought the pain of jet lag was just an urban legend, suffered only by the old and grumpy. False! It's a big mother trucker and reeking serious havoc on my REM cycle. I should be catching Zs and enjoying an ice- cold Corona on some tropical island in dreamland, but instead I'm typing to the ether world...I  mean my family, few  friends and many Facebook stalkers...about my latest insomnia. I guess it's not so bad though, at least you are all awake now and it gives the constant To-Do list streaming in my head full attention. That list, by the way, has significantly decreased in size since getting to Finland. I don't have much to worry about here...except those precious hours of beauty sleep I am losing, which I desperately need. (Refer to my previous post about these European chicks. Stiff competition!)

To combat the beast I decided to sleep all day yesterday. Perfect idea right? Sleep all day during the nighttime hours in America to get myself acclimated to the time difference. Like my dad "accidentally" told a college coach recruiting my younger brother, "My daughter can play soccer, but she's not nearly the student that her brother is." Tough to choke down, but he was obviously onto something. So after my brilliant 5 hour "nap," I cautiously peeled myself out of bed, being sure not to wake up the family to discover that they were eating dinner and getting ready to go ice-skating. Discombobulation is also a major side-effect of jet-lag. To my surprise the day was not over, the night was young, and we were going to skate our hearts out. Try to anyway.

I had a quick bite to eat accompanied by a minor panic attack of not knowing what to wear (heels are inappropriate, right?), which was then  followed closely by the realization that I don't know what to wear because I don't know how to ice-skate. Breathe. Jeans, socks, jacket...smile. Good, now get in the car. And we were off to downtown Helsinki to crash and burn on the ice. That was my prediction at least.

Again, my dad was right and my prediction was wrong! I was surprisingly not bad. I didn't fall once. That's right, you read that correctly. I'll repeat, I didn't fall once. Martta was my teacher and proved to be a pretty damn good one. After a few successful laps, I figured my luck was running out and by that time my face was completely numb, so we went into the cafe to get hot chocolate. It wasn't all that hot, but it was delicious and much warmer than my frozen nose. Plus, JP (my faux-dad), bought me a karvapuusti (car-va-poo-stee), which is a cinnamon roll-like tasting pastry, but in the shape of a wider and flatter croissant. It was super tasty and I'm not even a Cinnabon type of gal! 

After skating, we drove around Helsinki for awhile looking at all of the big shopping centers and old, fancy buildings, which were truly breathtaking. I can't wait to go back during the day to actually walk around and spend this Monopoly money they call Euro. Somehow on the way home I reverted to my child self and allowed the warmth of the heater and the buzzing of the car slowly to soothe me to sleep, but my big girl self fought my droopy lids. I tried not to think too much into it, but sleep could be on the horizon and I was giddy.

We finally got home and I crawled into bed... and slept for 2 full hours! 

Oh well, there's always tomorrow afternoon. 

Peace and Love,
Cat

...the pain of the greeting train

Overall my first day here in Vantaa was pain-free. Don't let the title throw you off. It started with an early Skype-sesh with the parents to fill them in on their daughter's inadequacy to perform on the international travel catwalk, but also to ensure them that I was safe and sound in my cozy Ikea-esque new home. They weren't too bothered, nor probably surprised, that my ensemble of gray and white argyle socks protruding out from my brown Uggs combined with three layers of shirts didn't match up to the high-heeled, European fashionistas sashaying through the London airport. Who wears high-heels to travel anyway? My appearance may have been less than par, but I know I was more comfortable. Anyway, my clunky Uggs directed me right onto the plane for Finland, which really was all the information my parents were looking for this morning.

The rest of my day consisted of unpacking the three giant suitcases I packed to the brim. Just in case I ever feel the need to wear 7 scarves, I can. Somehow I managed to fit all of my stuff into the cute and compact dresser/closet in my room. Then my coach picked me up for lunch and we headed for the mall, Jumbo. It's pronounced Yumbo, they'll laugh at you under their breath if you say it with a "J," which clearly I did. There I learned that I don't recognize any store, except for the Body Shop and H+M, but at least i know I will be moisturized and smelling good and rocking trendy, Swedish-designed clothes. We went to the Coffee House for lunch where apparently water isn't free from the dispenser. This was news to me and the looks from the back passed that memo up the line stat. ,50 Euro for water! (How much that is in USD is something I cannot tell you. I haven't learned that yet, but Google knows everything.) After a lot of chit-chat and soccer talk she brought me home because I was long overdue for a serious nap. 2 hours later I woke up ready to go to practice.

First Finnish practice= first American black eye.

Hence, the pain of the greeting train. This friendly train was in the form of an elbow that choo-chooed its way straight to my left eye. She was thorough with her love tap because by the time I was home from practice the bruise was already forming. It was just a friendly hello from my new teammate and nothing to worry about. She was extremely apologetic and it was done completely by mistake...or was it?

Just kidding. The girls were all super nice and welcoming. Of course, Chatty Cathy over here started up talking to everyone as soon as I got to the field, so whether they wanted to talk to me or not, they didn't really have a choice. Most of the girls responded with as much personality as I threw at them. It was fantastic! They kept asking me how I was adjusting, if I was tired, and if I had ever played on a turf field. Great, yes, and yes, a little bit, respectively. So other than minor hiccups, practice went really well.  From what I saw tonight, I like what I see. Even if it is only out of one eye.

More posts to come. Thanks for reading and your support!

Peace and Love,
Cat

PICTURE TIME: This is the view from the back of my house. The far, flat area is a soccer field when it isn't covered in snow. It acts as a skating rink during the summer. Good news though is that the sun already melted some of the snow so it's not safe to skate on anymore. Spring is coming!

...good-byes and hellos!

Day one of attempting a blog and I already face-planted into my first block. No, not writer’s block, but a paralyzing inability to choose a blog name. I finally put my own anti-blog attitude aside to appease the multiple requests and insisting pleas of “but you have to write a blog” that I’ve received since I got the news that I am moving to Finland. So, though I still hold strong to my opinion that a blog is just a narcissistic tool to tell the world of the World Wide Web about stuff they don’t really care about, here I am. You’re first impression is right, I am a pushover. Nice to meet you.

Now that awkward introductions are over, let’s revert to my impending issue. What to name the blog? The suggestion box began to fill up with clever rhymes and alliterations from friends and family. The front runners were Kitty’s Chronicles, the Foreign Feline, and Cat Tales (see what we did there?), but nothing was winning my fancy. So, before I even started I was ready to give up and tell everyone back home to refer to my facebook to see my happenings. Then, I ran into a wise old man who said, “Cat! Why don’t you just start writing? It will come to you.”

This self-acclaimed, Pacific Beach guru was right. This first post was written weeks before both of my parents unknowingly suggested the same name, or at least the same basic idea, “Cat Scratch.” I don’t believe this suggestion was referring to being feverish or itchy, but to the fact that I am starting a new blog-post in my life. (I would say chapter, but that is cliché and clearly so ten years ago). The poetry in their simultaneous title proposal was just too rom-com to pass up. It won my sappy heart just like all the other Kate Hudson, Matthew McConaughey flicks, and the name was decided.

Welcome to my blog. It will track my travels through Europe as I start this amazing adventure and opportunity of playing professional soccer in Finland. Wish me luck, plane is about here! Talk to you from the land of ice and snow. (Hopefully they like Zeppelin too!)

Peace and Love,

Cat