My throat is better today and my sinus has improved. I feel more rested than at any time I can remember over the last month and that is a good thing. The sun is out and it is warmer. We are scheduled to participate in a concert at the church at noon today, and we are scheduled to entertain in the saloon at the Wild West Village later today, also a kind of church, where familiar images of the American West have somehow taken root and been reborn as a hybrid of culture and stereotype that is somewhat peculiar.

It is a beautiful morning in the town where I am though I am still unsure of its name or where it is located. I have devised an impish little game for the purpose of my own entertainment and it goes like this. I will be walking and encounter another passer by. If our eyes meet I wave. If he or she waves back or acknowledges my gesture, I pause and ask, “Excuse me, can you tell me which way is north?” Sometimes the language barrier is too much. One guy tried to give me money. Most other times the guy will stop and look at the sky and then the tree line and point in this direction or that. I have pulled this ruse successfully perhaps a half-dozen times while here in the village whose-name-I-can’t-pronounce, and standing in front of the restaurant across the street from the lagoon I can now point you north in six different directions.

We are making do in our little duplex. On day one I blew the fuse on my adapter trying to recharge camera batteries, and have bungled many attempts at trying to access the internet with some ethernet rig Wasal has lent us for our stay. I have endured two cold showers before figuring out how to turn on the water heater and made a disaster of trying to operate the Mocha Master, a thing they call a coffee maker here in Finland. I have lost three flat picks and broken one string. The battery in my tuner died in the cold while on stage yesterday afternoon, and then after I put in a new one, the whole thing died during our set in the cold during the pub show last night at the restaurant. I wound up giving it to a boy who was perhaps ten years old. I asked him if he could point in the direction that is north. Without hesitation he pointed to the sky, by far the best answer yet, so I figured he deserved a prize.

Wasal Arar and Colby Maddox were jamming and comparing notes collected from two separate lifetimes spent bent over a mandolin in two completely different parts of the world. And to recognize how much they have found in common with one another is something to behold. Some of the same chops and riffs spill out of their instruments. They share some of the same chord voicings and scales, as well as a number of common musical friendships in the swirling world known only to those who pick at the mandolin. Details like string gauges, action, model numbers beginning with an A or an F were discussed and affirmed. Builders like Gibson and Kentuckian and others I have never heard of were addressed.

I made tea in the kitchen of John’s and mine apartment, enjoying the interaction. It is evident that Wasal loves all kinds of music. He is quick to point out some of the many things old-time music and bluegrass have in common. It is remarkable that Wasal has learned to play so well and has amassed so much knowledge considering the essence of his music is rooted a half a world away. He knows instruments too. He knows how they are built and how they ought to be adjusted. And he can articulate the subtle differences in the sound of one mandolin when compared to the next. I gathered then that Wasal has listened to a great many mandolins.

Now let me tell you something else. Sitting in my kitchen sipping tea, I thought I heard lightning sparking from the strings of Colby Maddox. His playing is at once powerful, subtle and rhythmic. His phrasing dances and struts with bluesy, syncopated vigor. Whoa.

I boiled another cup of tea water and listened to the music a while longer, then joined the two in the other apartment. “I am taking you all to the sauna this afternoon,” said Wasal. The word sauna hung in the air. Sow-nah. I guess you could say Colby and I said nothing, as it suddenly became awful quiet. “You’ll enjoy it,” Wasal went on, “It is something you come to Finland to do. All Finns enjoy their sauna.”

Twenty minutes later, the four of us plus Wasal trudged down the gravel road, towels draped over our shoulders, towards sauna. Sow-nah. Wasal explained some of the health giving effects of this age old Finnish tradition as we walked. He was sensitive to the shyness of his American guests, yet eager for us to take part in the experience. I wondered how many American musicians Wasal has coaxed and coached through their first Finnish sauna over the years. Sow-nah.

At once Wasal stopped in mid-speech. “Wait a minute,” he said, “I forgot something. Keep on walking and I’ll catch up with you.” The four of us kept on towards our sauna. John, who has traveled the world playing music, has enjoyed sauna in several different countries. Paul is generally eager to try new things and although this wouldn’t be his first sauna, he was fully looking forward to it. I’m pretty sure Colby and I said nothing, as it again became awful quiet.
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Ruotsinpyhtaa commuity sauna (click to enlarge)
and
Wasal came hustling up the road toting a twelve pack carton of Finnish beer. “We’ll need these in the sauna,” he said.

We entered what Wasal called the dressing room, which is an interesting thing to call it, and we began undressing. “You can take your towel in if you like,” said Wasal. “You are all welcome to do what you are comfortable with. But if you take your towel in it will get wet and you won’t have anything to dry yourself off with.”

As we stood, one of the boys handed me an open bottle of beer. I folded my towel and placed it atop my stack of clothing and we exited the dressing room. Across the hall is the doorway to the sauna. As you enter you step past a container about the size of a small trash can. It is filled with what look to be man-made stones which are somehow heated by the container. Two gents, already sweating and pink welcomed us. We stepped up one at a time and the older of the two scootched around the u-shaped bench to make room. The younger one stayed on the end nearest the container and manned the pail. Periodically he splashed a ladleful of water atop the rocks. The water sizzled and evaporated, filling the sauna with heat and moisture.

A Finnish sauna is rather compact and is hotter than a traffic jam in Louisiana in August. Eighty degrees centigrade is a hundred seventy-six in our part of the world and you feel it immediately. Wasal explained something of the philosophy behind sauna. He spoke something in Finnish to the younger man who immediately splashed two more ladles of water on the stones. The water sizzled again and the heat increased. “There is an art to sauna,” Wasal explained. “You have to do things slowly and when you feel it is time, we will step out back to the river.”

Soon enough the time came. Dripping with sweat, we tiptoed out of the sauna down the short hall and tiptoed out of the doorway which led to the river. There we paused for a spell and I ducked back to the dressing room to deposit my empty bottle. I heard Wasal call, “Watch your step and ease in.” By the time I came back out, John, Colby and Paul were already in the water. “Some people like to dive right in,” Wasal said to me, “but try easing in and see how you like it. You may find it easier to back down the ladder into the water.” I turned around facing Wasal and backed down the ladder.

The water was cold but not icy. Steam was coming off my arms and off of Wasal’s shoulders. “Watch your step he said, the ladder is slippery.” I was in about as far as my knees and looked down to make certain my feet were steady on the ladder. I felt Wasal’s hand atop my head. He mumbled, “I hearby baptize you into the river of sauna,” and he pushed. I pushed off the ladder with my legs and fell back laughing into the chilly water. Wasal stepped down the ladder and joined us. “Don’t be in a hurry to get out of the water,” he said. “You’ll know when it’s time.”
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The Kymi River (click to enlarge)
and

One carries the heat of the sauna into the river with them. And the heat of the sauna remains when one climbs back up the ladder and out of the water. Colby and John fetched another round of bottles from the dressing room and there we stood, talking and drinking, watching dusk and stillness settle on the lagoon. A seagull screeched from her perch on a rock while her still fuzzy babies paddled in the water below.

Finnish sauna is refreshing, just as Wasal promised, and invigorating. The shyness of disrobing in public is only temporary. Sauna in Finland is as commonplace as cell phones are in Lincoln Square, and one falls into the custom quite naturally. I have felt more naked on countless other occasions while facing an audience fully clothed with guitar in hand and a good set list to boot. Sow-nah.

Colby began to shiver and I began to shiver. The process of heating up in the sauna and cooling off in the river can be repeated as many times as one prefers. Wasal recommended three, so three it was. Paul and Colby stayed for a fourth, while John and I showered, dressed and headed over to the restaurant for dinner. The room was crowded and by the time we arrived, a bluegrass jam had already assembled in the corner. We took the small table by the door and ordered, astonished to find out it was nine thirty. We had spent more than two and a half hours in the sauna.

6 06 09

This morning I am all of these and none of these. It is five o’clock and I have popped awake after only four short hours of sleep. The sky is gray, as it has been since we landed in Stockholm. Rain dribbles down, tapping upon shingle and window pane making a kind of music that is somehow familiar, but again unlike the sound of rain against my window in Riverside, Illinois.

Last night, Paul, Colby, John and I played a wonderful concert at Reunenan Gallery, a basement photography studio seven minutes walking distance from Helsinki’s city center. Juha Reunenan is a soft-spoken man and the proprietor. By showtime, he, his son and his daughter Laura, transformed their busy space into a funky elegant concert venue, complete with backdrop, stage lighting and a headless female mannequin torso partially clad in one of Paul’s short sleeved shirts and a black scarf.

Perhaps thirty-five listeners were in attendance and as an audience, they were simply lovely. After the show, Juha ordered sandwiches and a small party began to unfold. Having slept only about ninety minutes apiece since leaving Chicago, we four were exhausted yet jubilant. We played and sang well, remembered all of our parts and weaved together a musically interactive and varied program. We enjoyed each other and were thankful for the gracious hospitality of our hosts and audience.

Before long our gear was loaded into a taxi cab and we piled in. We sped into the damp summer dusk out of Helsinki, towards the village where the main event of our visit is to take place, the Rootsinpyhyaa Bluegrass and Old-Time Music Festival and Rendezvous. A little more than an hour later, the van pulled up a gravel road and stopped in front of an old country house where Wasal Arar waited to welcome us in. Wasal is one of the main movers and shakers who made our visit to Finland possible. He showed us our rooms and showed us how the showers work. Bottles of beer were opened for Wasal, Paul and I, and Colby and John each poured a small glass of a black liquor drink called Salmiakki.

Wasal speaks English well. He is intelligent and articulate and thoughtful. And he knows a whole hell of a lot about American bluegrass music. We are looking forward to jamming with him later tonight, and looking forward to hearing his band perform at the festival tomorrow.

So far on our adventure, we’ve encountered only people who are friendly and generous, eager to make us welcome and comfortable. For a million dollars though, I couldn’t tell you how to find us. The only clue I can offer is we are in Finland, somewhere in the world east of Helsinki. There are trees all around and we are near a river. All is wet and quiet and beautiful.

My cell phone doesn’t work out here, so you can’t call me and I can’t call you. And it will be hours before I can get to a place to make an internet connection. If you do happen to be looking for us, please take your time. We like it here a great deal.

I looked it up on line and learned the more literal translation is “down the hatch,” which I haven’t heard in any language in a long time. The last time may have been on a Three Stooges episode I saw when I was a kid.

I am honored then, to represent the Old Town School of Folk Music along with my colleagues Colby Maddox and Dr. Paul Tyler for a whirlwind tour of Finland as part of Bau Graves’ international faculty exchange program. We three are being billed as DMT (pronounced Moe, Larry, Curly). Bassist John Abbey will also be joining us for the shows, and we are mighty glad of it. Everybody knows there were really four Stooges.

Here’s what I know about Finland so far: In June, it is daylight almost the whole time. In Finland, it is unmannerly to wear your BVD’s in the sauna. In Finland, they eat a lot of fish. And reindeer. Helsinki is the largest city and is only 437 miles from the Arctic Circle. That’s roughly the distance between Chicago and Dover, Tennessee, where I met a retired tobacco farmer at a music festival last week. Though he acknowledged having been north of Paducah, Kentucky only twice in his entire lifetime (Chicago both times), he cautioned me to be careful around the women in Finland. He also said it’s cold there.

I am looking forward to meeting our hosts Juha and Wasel. I am excited about the chance to play and sing with Colby, Paul and John, all of whom are excellent musicians and dedicated instructors. We’ve rehearsed well over the last six weeks or so and have found some musically exciting common ground. We’re a little bluegrass, a little old-timey and somewhat folky. “Just good” is what I would say. That’s vain hyva in Finland.

WEARY PRODIGAL COME
God is calling the prodigal “Come without delay”
Hear oh hear him calling, calling now for thee
Patient, loving and tender lie still the Father’s plea
Hear His loving voice calling still

Calling out for thee
Weary prodigal come, weary prodigal come
Calling out for thee
Oh weary prodigal come, weary prodigal come

Come there’s bread in the house of the Father and to spare
Hear oh hear him calling, calling now for thee
Lo and the table is spread and the feast is waiting there
Hear His loving voice calling still

Calling out for thee
Weary prodigal come, weary prodigal come
Calling out for thee
Oh weary prodigal come, weary prodigal come

- from The Carter Family