Finland Travels.

20090710. Best Hostel, Old Town Stockholm. 2210.

Previously...beads of sweat run down the glass, running through the reflected view from the window opposite. Dreamlike. Images flash up and are gone instantly. A long bag strap swings seductively, straining to touch the girl's hair just out of reach. Farmhouse. Projected onto my window, promises growing old with the land, letting seasons gently swell and contract like a sleeper's breath. Barely noticeable. Like an apple bud, swells and drops to rot if left unpicked, melts back into the ground. Like the blue-eyed baby's giggle bouncing down the carriage, unnoticed by the woman listening to music, dissolves in a sunbeam.

Currently...beads from a glass chandelier seem to hang in the street but they suddenly disappear when someone opens the window. Slender, modern, brushed-steel lamps hang impotently at the head of each bed. Their melancholy fills the room brighter than their narrow energy-saver beams. This pen is almost the loudest noise in the dorm except for the occasional bag rustle or bed squeak. Exposed bricks are the colour of raw meat. Darkness. The chandelier has been turned off. Its beads sparkle in the orange street light. I write by the light of another man's depressed lamp. He turns it off...

20090711. Silja Line 'Europa'. Finnish coast. 1519.

Tax free bottles sound like new-age music as they vibrate and tinkle against each other. Designer plates rattle on their shelf which is bouncing worryingly. Women's elbows become dangerous weapons as the shutters to the perfume/clothing shop are flung open. Hyenas have a hierarchy. Alpha dog. Here, all are equal. Discounts rule the pack. As tester bottles run empty the tills ring full. 80s faux gold infects the ship. I want it quarantined for six months so the tackiness rots, show the plastic truth, why hide? Some things deserve to be hidden away. From ceiling to floor, gold prevails. Older Finnish easy-listening music is applauded by one, two, three people at most. Options: beer, gamble, eat, shop, sleep. Only sleeping is free. The band only noticeable when they stop. Litter thrown from the top deck catches my eye as it floats down to land on the slug trail we leave on the water. The hypnotic and strangely flat trail weaves away between the endless small islands. Everyone looks bored. I'm no different. 210 minutes left from 720.

Christian Study Camp/Hostel Linnesmäki, Turku. Late.

Silhouetted pine trees framed by lilac curtains, just as this trip's memory will be framed by long train journeys, mimic the lightning that welcomed us. They strain for the fading light as passionately as the electrons had yearned for the Earth. Some things want to be grounded. Others ache to fly.

Whitewashed and shadowless room. Just like the minds that study here?

20090716. Intercity train 856. Early.

Within minutes of sitting we have decorated our immediate vicinity with our belongings. Jacket and food bags hang, newspapers and drinks stored in the pocket in front and shoes and bags under our chairs. Large bags overhead. We are cocooned in 'usness'. We advertise that this is our space but it also serves to make us comfortable. Items of familiarity maintain a friendly environment. The dorm-living student who takes the same posters from room to room has effectively not moved and feels at home. Anything can become 'home' if decorated correctly.

20090722. Silja line 'Galaxy'. Circa 0900.

Gold trim reflects the attention grabbing lights from ubiquitous gambling machines as their blings and tings blend with the 80s music and teen-girl laughter that turns heads and quickens hearts and deepens the depression of a crew member triggering images of her youth swimming in slow-moving warm rivers as lazy cows watch on unblinking swatting flies that never surrender unless killed or satiated.

A sugar crash pulls at my gums stretching them tight over my teeth that grind from dated melodies and second-hand smoke wafting down from the balcony where blonde, tanned and skimpily dressed girls flirt with smoking boys with loud coloured sweaters, gelled hair and designer shoes that are whiter than virgin snow two feet deep.

Shell-suits so flammable they would burst into flame if too near a heated argument flash in the corner of my eye craving attention like the boy ignored by his father in favour of a newspaper he shows to his wife as the boy peers unnoticed from the side while all the younger children are led away to be face-painted or thrown overboard no-one is sure and no-one asks parents just basking in the bliss of any down-time like cats in sunbeams lazily licking cream and stretching long little claws catch a thread one paw held fast at maximum stretch but this is of no concern simply retract the claw and the leg is released roll over belly rub rough tongue sharp teeth the hunter lies dreaming in a mist of superiority 'if it bothers me I shall kill it'.

Oh little kitty, you hand-fed slave of convenience.

20090724. Göteborg. 0245.

A blade carrying pre-teen sweetened by the promise of treasure looks up wide-eyed in anticipation, briefly forgetting the loyalty sworn to others by a spit-shake. Money is useless here. They wouldn't know what to do with it. Only goods have value. Or shiny things. My watch shines. Its worn edges reflect in his tear filled eyes, loosening the white-knuckled grip on his weapon momentarily. I, too, almost become emotional that my cheap 20+ year old watch can inspire such awe. Ignoring my fake tale of dying grandfathers on death beds he greedily grabs the watch and almost drools on it. The glory is short lived. There's a problem. 'Where's the time on it?' An innocent question by one who is used to the digital age. I become teacher, kneeling down to his level, pointing out the hour and minute hand. He pretends to understand but I know he doesn't. Hoping to exploit his favour I ask for the safest way out of the area. I'm hoping he will guide me. Don't want to lose any more stuff. Or any blood. He's still fighting with new knowledge, cogs are turning, cells are reaching out to long ignored neighbours. The alien of learning is slowly running out from his heart, flowing into his bloodstream, releasing strange feelings that contradict his usual way of life. I pity him. I vow to become a youth worker if I ever make it out of here. A whistle brings him out of his reverie. We are being watched always. Each member has his own little area of street or corner. You only ever meet one at a time but the threat of others, descending like pigeons from roof-tops to thrown rice, is more than enough to encourage compliance. He makes a hand gesture to the whistle. 'How much money you got?' I have one single coin in my otherwise empty pockets. It's a foreign coin. It's not worth a lot. I give it to him explaining that I've just returned from abroad and don't have any money left, that's why I'm forced to walk home and that's how I became lost and ended up here. My watch has disappeared under his clothes. The coin stays in his hand. I think he's going to keep the watch for himself and now he needs something to share with the others. The single coin is clearly not enough. Showing my empty pockets to prove I have no wallet I again ask how to leave the area. The watch has helped me, I can tell. But he needs something more or the others will punish him. The bag on my back seems to go unnoticed in the darkness, it's only full of dirty clothes anyway, mostly. And the other thing I would not give up so easily. A movement catches my eye between buildings. A dark red, dirty old bus, just visible in the distance, drifts away. Can I run? Would I make it out of the street? Before I even realise what I am doing I've pushed the boy over and am sprinting towards the fading bus. Every time I turn a corner it silently rolls out of sight behind another boarded up, depressed block of flats. Footsteps are gathering. I caught them off-guard and have some lead on them. But not for long. Every bush or dark doorway I expect to deliver a small grinning warrior but amazingly does not. Can I be this lucky? Are they playing with me? A bottle smashes next to me, I run on stars. They are not playing. Don't fall down, if you fall down you are finished. I've seen what happens when a person falls down. Things get stamped on. Heads mostly. Don't fall down. It's the only thing in my mind as a shadow steps out five feet in front of me. Something reflects a little spark of light. For some reason I wonder where the light came from as it's insanely dark here. But knives need that little reflection. Otherwise they could not send out fear. I jump and turn around, throwing my full weight onto him, rucksack first. I roll, regain my feet and continue without looking back. Something thuds off my pack then shatters on the ground. I bolt round a corner. At the end of the street, under a pathetically weak green light, sits the bus, shuddering visibly, coughing out grey smoke. This cancerous lung is my saviour. If only I can reach it. Another shadow steps out and I prepare to repeat my last move. At the last second the shadow sidesteps leaving only the blade in my way. They are learning. Adapting. My pack is wounded but I am not. This time I glance back. He is not following. Perhaps the bus scares them? Perhaps this is the edge of their turf? My knee screams and I buckle over, landing on the bottle, thankfully it doesn't break. Don't fall down. Instantly I try to stand but my leg refuses and sends a white shot of pain shrieking up my spine and out my mouth. There is laughter nearby. Don't fall. Forcing myself up I clamp my mouth to contain the agony. Not having an escape, the flash of pain shoots back down my spine and burns into my toes. But I'm standing, just. The bus is ten feet away. It's raining bottles but I'm curiously dry. At every forced step my eyes roll back and I nearly faint. Don't fall. True to his training the driver moves off as I'm two feet from the door. I bang on the side. The bus stops. So has the glass rain. The door opens. I throw myself inside. The door closes. I look up, crying with relief. The strangely young driver asks 'Where to?' then turns off the ignition.