Tania Nathan is a writer who lives and works in Finland.

Eavesdropping might just be one of Finland’s unofficial national pastimes. Right now, as I type this people are busily listening in on complete strangers conversations whether on buses, trains, trams, planes or at gym lockers – no location is out of bounds. Shamelessly following another person’s conversation really is one of life’s guilty pleasures. Sure, most people in other countries make small talk, but this is Finland after all. Talking to a stranger usually signifies insanity, inebriation or that you are a foreigner. To avoid any grandiose schemes, you and me might have to engage the good people in Finland in some chitchat, but most people will usually bury themselves in those free newspapers available in the Greater Helsinki area. Failing that, stony silence with a demeanor that would break a drill sergeant’s heart is the preferred way to go. Of course this is unless someone else is having a conversation. Then, all ears are suddenly trained in on the source of entertainment. One conversation I had the delight of listening in to recently went something like this: ”Noh... noh... ohhoh..... KAUHEA.”

This, of course, is standard conversational stuff if you are female and around the age group that favours certain plaid-check. Younger ones will embellish the conversation with a couple more colourful words from the Finnish language plus some choice phrases in English, spat out slathered in a thick accent. But the most awful of conversations are those where every second word is a heavily accented English word. That sort of conversation is best had behind locked doors with a towel stuffed under the gap, thank you very much. Before you protest that eavesdropping is rude, admit it – you’ve done it more times than you would admit to, and have had it done to you. In fact, I’ve had strangers wander over just to listen in on my conversations, with a sort of nonchalant look of their faces that most people make after passing gas in public. Once, during a heated discussion with my other half about buying a new something or other, I actually had a middle-aged lady shadow me up the train stop hanging on my every word. Finally, I turned around and asked her whether she’d like a mint. She scuttled off at warp speed having been caught in the act. Oh the shame.

Think of listening in as something not as awful as rifling through someone’s mail, but instead as a quaint way of getting to know someone without actually having to ask them. That must be why people always check out the contents of each other’s groceries. What does ten litres of milk, cheese-flavoured sausage, three gossip magazines and one solitary pickled cucumber say about somebody? Or, what about somebody with five cucumbers, eight packets of prunes and one whole, frozen pike? The mind boggles. A more efficient way to get all of the juicy tidbits about a total stranger is to just lean in and be bathed with all kinds of salacious details about what Stranger #1 in a funny, melon coloured turtleneck is planning to make for dinner; or Stranger #2’s argument with his neighbour about the late karaoke sessions; or Stranger #3’s lack of funds because the school holidays ate into her savings. Someone on the train actually gave the last sad case a ten euro note. True story. I know, because I was busy listening in.