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May. 28th, 2011 06:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
unikorentoI love returning from trips. The un-packing is not so much fun, but nothing says "welcome home" like an inbox full of random messages. I feel loved.
The trip was amazing. It was informative, educational, and on occasion deeply moving. And lots of fun.
I listened, I learned, and I took pictures. I saw reindeer, elk, bear and wolf, and the kind of environmental destruction that they used to warn us about on Captain Planet. I got a little bit of practice on my feeble, feeble russian and read lots of cyrillic. I'm brushed up on the Lapland War and learned entirely new things about Operation Barbarossa that had never occurred to me before. I saw a ghost town - or a very good imitation of a post-apocalyptic wasteland - and I saw the Arctic Ocean, and I spent lots of time on a bus and didn't see the sun set for five days.
If there's any interest, I could do a more detailed travel post with pictures and such. My notebook turned into something of a travel journal, so I do have quite a lot I'd like to type up.
The thing I wanted to write about here and now, though, is .
So, yes. I arrived at my sister's place in Tampere the night before we were due to take the train to Rovaniemi, to start the trip to Murmansk. Since the train wasn't going to be leaving until around ten in the evening, we had that whole day to spend together.
Sister thought that I would make for interesting show-and-tell material, so she decided to take me with her that morning to where she works at the kindergarten. I was nervous about this, but quite willing to go along, because the last time I'd been to a kindergarten was when I actually went to one myself. I really had no idea what to expect.
Now, you know that scene in Lord of the Rings, where Gandalf enters the king's hall at Edoras? Well, the tension in the air there was nothing compared to the stunned silence that descended over my sister's 3-year-olds, as I entered the classroom. (I suspect sister was going for some form of shock-and-awe pedagogy :P)
Sister gave me a jug of milk, and told me to pour while she handed out breakfast porridge. I felt 17 little pairs of eyes follow my every move as I walked around the tables and did my little task. I don't think I've been so completely out of my element in decades. It was a very exciting breakfast.
Afterward, the children were excused to go play, but I stayed by one of the (minuscule!) tables to drink my morning coffee - and lo and behold! I was approached by the blondest, smallest, cutest creature imaginable. I couldn't make out a word she was saying, but she was absolutely radiant. She petted my hair, and I told her "hello", which turned out to be a faux-pas, because she gasped and ran off.
I looked to sister for help, but she just grinned and continued with her tasks. (I suspect I was being treated to some sort of sink-or-swim pedagogy here.)
The little girl returned a moment later, to point at the picture on her shirt and tell me in garbled swedish that "it's a flower". I told her that yes, yes it was. And then added that it was a very nice flower. This, it seems, was the right thing to do. Not five minutes later I was surrounded by several little girls, all pointing at pictures on their shirts, and telling me what they were. (Hello kitties, mostly, with some flowers and generally colourful patterns thrown in.) I complimented them all, and before I knew it, I was friends with everyone.
My two best qualities, it seems, were that I had long hair, and that my hoodie had the picture of a Hello Kitty with an eyebrow piercing. The first little girl (who, I swear, looked for all intents and purposes like a mini-elf) spent most of the morning in my lap, twisting and petting my hair and telling me over and over again that it was a "braid". I'm fairly sure this is what it must feel like to be the prettiest pony at the petting zoo. I don't think I've ever been that popular in my entire life.
Sister took us all on a short visit to the local library, which was fun partially because I got to hold hands and lead the little Jawas through the park, and partially because it was a chance to pose questions about the language development of the monolingual kids. And, of course, because sister read us a story about a cow.
On the way back we hopped in some puddles. And were impressed by a Norway maple (is that the right translation? Blodlönn på svenska). And had a brief scuffle about who is supposed to hold hands with whom.
Originally I'd told sister that I wouldn't stick around for more than a few hours, but in the end the adorable absurdity of the place was just too enticing to walk away from. I made friends with an overactive little boy who needed to be distracted while lunch was served, and I got to take apart and put together the same two moomin- and animal-puzzles at least a dozen times. (I suspect this was mostly because they were stored within easy reach, but they never seemed to tire of them.) At the end of the day sister practically had to drag me out of the building.
I've never really considered myself much of a kid person. Even when I was a kid, I didn't play with dolls or play house, or any of that. I was always all about the doggies and horsies (and cows!) and kitties and superheroes. It was interesting to notice that my own view of my own views had become outdated at some point over the years. Not to say that I would make any kind of kindergarten teacher myself - I'm pretty sure I'd get worn down in a week - but the next time someone asks "do you like kids" I can honestly answer that "I think 3-year-olds are excellent company."
The trip was amazing. It was informative, educational, and on occasion deeply moving. And lots of fun.
I listened, I learned, and I took pictures. I saw reindeer, elk, bear and wolf, and the kind of environmental destruction that they used to warn us about on Captain Planet. I got a little bit of practice on my feeble, feeble russian and read lots of cyrillic. I'm brushed up on the Lapland War and learned entirely new things about Operation Barbarossa that had never occurred to me before. I saw a ghost town - or a very good imitation of a post-apocalyptic wasteland - and I saw the Arctic Ocean, and I spent lots of time on a bus and didn't see the sun set for five days.
If there's any interest, I could do a more detailed travel post with pictures and such. My notebook turned into something of a travel journal, so I do have quite a lot I'd like to type up.
The thing I wanted to write about here and now, though, is .
So, yes. I arrived at my sister's place in Tampere the night before we were due to take the train to Rovaniemi, to start the trip to Murmansk. Since the train wasn't going to be leaving until around ten in the evening, we had that whole day to spend together.
Sister thought that I would make for interesting show-and-tell material, so she decided to take me with her that morning to where she works at the kindergarten. I was nervous about this, but quite willing to go along, because the last time I'd been to a kindergarten was when I actually went to one myself. I really had no idea what to expect.
Now, you know that scene in Lord of the Rings, where Gandalf enters the king's hall at Edoras? Well, the tension in the air there was nothing compared to the stunned silence that descended over my sister's 3-year-olds, as I entered the classroom. (I suspect sister was going for some form of shock-and-awe pedagogy :P)
Sister gave me a jug of milk, and told me to pour while she handed out breakfast porridge. I felt 17 little pairs of eyes follow my every move as I walked around the tables and did my little task. I don't think I've been so completely out of my element in decades. It was a very exciting breakfast.
Afterward, the children were excused to go play, but I stayed by one of the (minuscule!) tables to drink my morning coffee - and lo and behold! I was approached by the blondest, smallest, cutest creature imaginable. I couldn't make out a word she was saying, but she was absolutely radiant. She petted my hair, and I told her "hello", which turned out to be a faux-pas, because she gasped and ran off.
I looked to sister for help, but she just grinned and continued with her tasks. (I suspect I was being treated to some sort of sink-or-swim pedagogy here.)
The little girl returned a moment later, to point at the picture on her shirt and tell me in garbled swedish that "it's a flower". I told her that yes, yes it was. And then added that it was a very nice flower. This, it seems, was the right thing to do. Not five minutes later I was surrounded by several little girls, all pointing at pictures on their shirts, and telling me what they were. (Hello kitties, mostly, with some flowers and generally colourful patterns thrown in.) I complimented them all, and before I knew it, I was friends with everyone.
My two best qualities, it seems, were that I had long hair, and that my hoodie had the picture of a Hello Kitty with an eyebrow piercing. The first little girl (who, I swear, looked for all intents and purposes like a mini-elf) spent most of the morning in my lap, twisting and petting my hair and telling me over and over again that it was a "braid". I'm fairly sure this is what it must feel like to be the prettiest pony at the petting zoo. I don't think I've ever been that popular in my entire life.
Sister took us all on a short visit to the local library, which was fun partially because I got to hold hands and lead the little Jawas through the park, and partially because it was a chance to pose questions about the language development of the monolingual kids. And, of course, because sister read us a story about a cow.
On the way back we hopped in some puddles. And were impressed by a Norway maple (is that the right translation? Blodlönn på svenska). And had a brief scuffle about who is supposed to hold hands with whom.
Originally I'd told sister that I wouldn't stick around for more than a few hours, but in the end the adorable absurdity of the place was just too enticing to walk away from. I made friends with an overactive little boy who needed to be distracted while lunch was served, and I got to take apart and put together the same two moomin- and animal-puzzles at least a dozen times. (I suspect this was mostly because they were stored within easy reach, but they never seemed to tire of them.) At the end of the day sister practically had to drag me out of the building.
I've never really considered myself much of a kid person. Even when I was a kid, I didn't play with dolls or play house, or any of that. I was always all about the doggies and horsies (and cows!) and kitties and superheroes. It was interesting to notice that my own view of my own views had become outdated at some point over the years. Not to say that I would make any kind of kindergarten teacher myself - I'm pretty sure I'd get worn down in a week - but the next time someone asks "do you like kids" I can honestly answer that "I think 3-year-olds are excellent company."
