Iris Falkensteiner works as an English teacher in Finland.

It was Monday 2 November when our ferry reached Helsinki harbour. The full moon welcomed us in the North, while the sun was rising in the East. We had arrived in Finland. Silently we drove through the toll and towards the city centre.

In Kallio we parked our car by the side of the road and took an investigative stroll round the quarter that would be our home for t he coming months. At the market square gigantic seagulls screeched with greed searching the ground for bits of fish bones and thrown-out bread. In the distance, a gang of drunks bellowed words that drove a rush of blood to my head. Not out of excitement. We decided to climb an ascending side road only to find ourselves in an assembly of sex shops and Thai-massage parlours. A pair of worn-out leather shoes hanging from a lamppost caught my eye. Was this the sort of place where you take off your shoes to continue walking barefoot? The naked apartment complexes peered at me in a rather oppressive way. The plain greyness of the asphalt made me shiver. Not with anticipation.

On the way to the supermarket I failed to find smiles on the faces of the people passing by. At the shop entrance a woman in her mid-forties and me found our paths blocked by a couple of elderly women and their shopping-cars. Finally she collapsed with frustration, “Bloody grannies with their shopping carts!,” and stamped her leather shoed foot onto the ground. The shoe was worn-out.

A few days of ongoing greyish weather later, I found myself walking once again over the market square, mentally prepared for the never-to-be-underestimated sudden attacks of those miniature-dinosaur-like creatures. When, suddenly, the sun broke through the clouds and bashed its entire splendour onto me and other unsuspecting passengers. And it was incredible. Incredibly warm! For Helsinki. People waiting at traffic lights let green be green and bathed their faces, eyes closed in the blistering heat. Me too, I wallowed in the light while sending an exultant prayer to heaven. Oh, how I savoured this pleasure so very profusely. Quite rightly so. A short minute later, the spectacle was over.

Still high on such rare and precious gift around these lines of latitude, clearly a gift sent from above, I sat down in an orphaned tram, when a man behind me started chanting softly in Finnish: “Am I disturbing? … No, you are not disturbing …” And I am not sure whether it was the concentrated dosage of sun, the steady sound of the accelerating tram or the soothing voice of the singing man, but suddenly I sighed with relief and realised that – maybe not anytime soon, but certainly at some point – I would be able to take off my worn-out leather shoes and continue walking barefoot.