”Everything likes to live where it will age the most slowly, and gravity pulls it there.”

Kip S. Thorne

My flight was cancelled, and I had a one-way ticket to Paris, a hotel in Lisbon and final accommodation in Sintra. At the same time, I should be working and leading the project week to its final show for parents. Well then, I acted as usual, according to the plan.

• Substitute teacher 
• Flights Stockholm – Paris – Porto 
• Train Porto – Lisbon
• Train Lisbon – Sintra – Lisbon 
• Flight to Madrid
• Flight to Stockholm – Helsinki 

All the red flags were waving on the news:” Helsinki Airport is encouraging travellers to arrive two hours before their departing flight this Autumn school holiday in what’s expected to be the busiest period for air travel.” I answered the call and arrived at the airport three hours before my flight departed. Smart. It took 10 minutes from security to the gate, and it was 3 a.m.

I tasted a hobo life and curled in a roll somewhere out of sight, feeling remorse for taking one or two glasses of red wine too much and not sleeping at all. I didn’t have a hangover; I was tipsy.

The next problem was getting closer. I bought a ticket that allowed only one small bag. Sure. I had a backpack full of trekking gear. When calculating how much I needed to pay extra, a suede-shoe Swedish male with a fluffy sweater created problems. His YSL bag was on wheels, and he was part of our cattle group without wheels. But he felt unique and had special rights, and thanks to his behaviour, I was a person not to be noticed. Now, I am calculating my budget to reach its new level. I felt like I won the lottery.

I had only one night in Paris, and the plan was clear. Gipsy jazz gig in the evening, and before that, see all. It was raining without a break, but I didn’t let it trouble me because my shoes gave me trouble. They sucked all the water, but I just kept on walking. When reaching the sights to see the area, I was dragging my right leg like the monster Quasimo with bloody Converses on. I had enough.

I went underground to hide my appearance and noticed that the Paris metro system wasn’t just hop on, hop off. I was lost. I’ve been using the metro in Tokyo, but this wasn’t very clear. Japanese engineers did not make this; French engineers made this. They have also designed a ticket that is the size of a nail. This ticket was lost somewhere, and I was inside the area.

I was again doing my maths and pondering my abilities to jump over the ticket control fence or put a crying tourist act in action. No need. Someone else had lost the ticket or didn’t feel like it to pay for the mini ticket for hobbits. I witnessed a scene from the Pink Panther movie where many Inspector Clouseaus were hassling around with machine guns. I guess he didn’t just lose the ticket.

I didn’t stay to get a look; I just used the moment again to go through the gates. At that moment, I thought this talent of mine might be my saviour when I am shown the gates of heaven and hell.

My budget demanded one bed in a hostel. I bet I was the oldest in the house, definitely in the room. Four lovely young ladies had made their home in our room. When I was dragging my bloody shoe, it was ploughing all the glitter from the floor, leaving a trail. All the aerosols in the air gave me a dry shower for the evening—no need to have a real one after the rain.

My only dry set was a trekking set—just the right outfit for the evening in Paris. I knew I wasn’t getting lucky tonight with the look, so I dragged myself to the nearest pharmacy, bought bandits for my leaking toes and drank a glass of wine for the pain. Then, the offer came. ”If you buy two, you get it for the price of one.” That was settled then.

I had a charming inner warmth when I began my journey to find the jazz club. Yes, it was still raining, but I had my swishing outdoor suit and jumped on every puddle to accumulate envy around the wet victim de la mode.

I noticed a lot of Inspector Clouseaus with guns, but I didn’t think the area might be the reason. Everyone looked as dark as the night, and I was shining like a star, but I walked in the middle of the night in St. Petersburg to find a pack of cigarettes. This wasn’t threatening, but I admit I had inner confidence, the wine.

• Madamoiselle, are you lost?
• No, I just came here to listen to the music. 
• Oui, you from? 
• Finland. 
• Finlande! Our guitar player is from Finlande, Monsieur Olli. Know Olli? 
• Olli? Soikkeli? 
• I don’t know Soikkeli but Olli. Red wine for free madamoiselle, come from Finlande? 
• Yes, oui! 

The guitar player was Olli Soikkeli, a famous gipsy jazz player living in New York. And I knew him because we played together when he was studying at the same jazz conservatory. I said Hi to him, and he laughed to see me, offered a glass of red wine and a good talk—such a small world, at least in jazz.

I was in a good mood. Music was excellent, and my trekking suit was appealing only to an Austrian violin player who wanted to offer me, guess what, a glass of red wine. I had a night out to remember, but it was time to find my way back to the hostel. But how? My phone was off. In my excitement, I didn’t notice this at all. There I was, somewhere in Paris, again, with too many glasses of red wine.

I remembered two things. River and Gare Nord. It was Friday midnight, and I was following the river Seine to find a train station. I didn’t feel anything to be worried about, only pure joy in having this moment without planning. I haven’t felt this willingness to live for a long time. I thought I was travelling back in time to the spot where I was at my best, curious, happy adventurer. The sun was again rising in nothingness, and it felt good.

I found my way. I was at the hostel for only three hours before I needed to go to the airport. Then I had the best idea ever. I could close my eyes just for a moment…

It was 4:50 a.m. My flight would depart from the gate at 6:10 a.m. I had 80 minutes to get to the gate and was in the middle of Paris. Shoes on, my set ready because I slept in it—backpack and just out—I was running around in a panic to find a driver. I felt the wine slowing me down, but I found, with pure luck, a taxi driver.

• How much is it to the airport? 
• Oooo, 53€
• Can you drive fast? I’m late! 
• Oui!

Dear god, he drow fast!

At the same time, I tried to find which terminal it was. My stepdad has tried calling, texting, signalling, and emailing me many times, but I have no time to answer. I was cursing EasyJet’s app; how unfunctional it was.

• Terminal 2! 
• Oui! 
• How long? 
• Not long, 10 minutes. 

If the driver is right, I’ll be there at 5.30, and maybe I can go fast lane if I try to appeal the security. I felt I had a chance, but I checked my credit card balance, just in case.

I got out of the taxi and ran like a maniac. I still felt that the wine made my run more difficult than usual, but then I noticed my bloody shoes were on the wrong foot! No wonder, not to blame the wine, but I had no time to make the chance.

Again, the gate to heaven was waiting, and the fast lane was for my use after an embarrassing one-woman theatre show. I was at the gate at 5.45, and it was time to eat a quick breakfast and answer my stepdad, who was panicking.

I woke up when landing, my head pumped on the seat before me. Now, my appearance blended nicely with other Easy Jet passengers. A little red mark reminded me of quite an exciting 24 hours. So, what have I learned? I can’t resist gravity. It’s pulling me there where I will age more slowly. I have to live according to the plan and keep the young soul.

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